On This Day June 1978, My Father Lied & Died ~ By Anayo Nwosu

It was exactly on the 8th of June 1978 when my dad did the unexpected. The event of that morning is still living in my memory and shall remain alive up till I die.

Usually in the morning, my father would wake up about 4am, brush his teeth with a long stem of abọsị plant commonly used as a chewing stick in Nnewi.

This was preceded by his washing his face with a cup of water to wake up his vision and senses to face the new day.’

This morning ritual he did within 10 minutes before mounting his Honda C75 motorcycle for morning Mass at St. Peter Clavers’ Catholic Church Akwunweke, Otolo Nnewi.

But the morning of June 8, 1978 was different.

My father woke up as early as he normally did, washed his face, chewed his abọsị stick but could not mount his motorcycle to go for morning mass.

Papa Obiora, my father had another plan. I guess he planned to die.

A thunderous sneeze followed by reverberating coughs woke up my alarmed mother.

She rushed out to behold her husband, now sitting on the Obolo or raised paved portion at the veranda of our three-bedroom bungalow my father built just before the civil war broke out; after my father had to abandon his houses and property in Kano and Zaria and escaped to Nnewi with his head.

“Nna Obiora (i.e Papa Obiora), what are you doing? What’s wrong with you? Please don’t do this to me and the children? Who will train these children you have begotten with me? Biko arụpụtakwa na m!” my mum was quibbling in confused tones that woke up the children.

“Call Anayo for me”, my father managed to say.

And my mum fetched me from the mat I shared with Tochukwu, my junior brother.

Obiora, my eldest brother, was serving his master in Lagos as at that time. I was the second son while Tochukwu was the third. Uzochukwu, the last son died two years before this incident. Three surviving sisters came in between Obiora and me.

Traditionally in Nnewi, parents are called father or mother of their first child hence my father was called Nna Obiora and my mum, Nne Obiora. Nna means “Papa” while “Nne” means “Mama”

“My son, Anayo, it shall be well with you. Nne Obiora (as he called my mum), take care of the kids”, were the last words my father uttered before his voice was muted.

My mum shouted “Nna Obiora, you are lying! You can’t just say this!” as she cried louder, a cry that caused my father’s relations to gather immediately. It was an unusual cry. Something must have happened.

My father, Prince Francis Obiukwu Nwosu died on the way to the hospital. Seeing his blue eyes steadied and his heart still, he was then driven to the mortuary by his cousin.

That was how my father died leaving nothing for my mum to take care of the children. And the poor woman had to raise the children in poverty.

But my mother would readily defend my father. She told me how rich my father was before Nigeria-Biafran civil war.

After schooling at St. Patrick’s College Asaba, my father enrolled into British Army and was deployed to Burma (now known as Myanmar) during World War II.

When the war ended, he returned to Nigeria in 1945 and settled down in Kano and later Zaria becoming a big distributor to John Holts.

As a believer in Nigeria, my father built houses and warehouses in the Northern Nigeria and all were reduced to rubbles once it was discovered that my father, an Igbo leader, had escaped the massacre.

My dad was tipped off by a close Fulani friend who was at the meeting where the timing and the scope of the Igbo massacre was agreed.

Like most Igbo men of means in 1966, my dad had to donate two out of his three trucks to Biafra war efforts. The revenues from the remaining truck ensured that no member of the extended family suffered from kwasiokor disease while the war lasted.

After the war, my dad found out that he could only get 20 pounds out of his millions in Nigerian banks.

Every Biafran who had money in any Nigerian bank before the war could only get 20 pounds after the war. The was the Nigerian federal government policy aimed at debilitating the dangerous Igbos.

My poor father picked the reminder of his life and set up a spare parts shop at Nnewi. He was so afraid to venture out of Igbo land as he did want to be bitten on the same buttuck by a particular bug.

The day my father’s spare parts shop and sales proceeds got burnt in 1976, something left him.

My mum said that he had never seen him cry like that.

Unlike the older soldier he was, he resigned to fate and became very religious.

Prior to that day he died, my dad would pray that God would never allow him to fall sick for long and suffer before his death. He prayed for a painless death and got his prayers answered on the 8th of June 1978 at the age of 64.

And I saw hell growing up, just like most former Biafran children in early 1970s.

That was not what my father told me the day he was dying. He told me that “it shall be well with me”. But here I was with my head being shaven by blunt penury. I had to do menial jobs to support my education.

But things are getting better as my father told me but, I had expected that much earlier.

May the soul of my dear father, Prince Francis Nwosu and the souls of all the faithful departed rest in peace. Amen