RESILIENCE THROUGH THE CRUCIBLE OF ADVERSITY

Okechukwu Uwaezuoke pays tribute to his father Daniel Uwaezuoke

Like the susurration of a slowly receding, surging ocean’s tide, our last conversation still echoes in my mind.  At the time, I had not grasped its significance. But now, in the cold, unforgiving light of hindsight, I see it for what it was—a haunting prelude to the final, mournful chime of his life’s clock.

In the caverns of my thoughts, the old nursery rhyme “My Grandfather’s Clock” keeps repeating itself like a cracked and worn vinyl record: “His life’s seconds numbering (tick, tock, tick, tock)”. And with it, I slowly realised that I had cowardly ignored the ominous signs and missed the unmistakable, albeit unspoken, farewell…

That Tuesday, June 18, morning, the news of his serene passing, broken to me on a WhatsApp platform I shared with my brothers, shattered my existential bubble. In an instant, the kaleidoscope of my world’s vibrant hues dissolved into a surreal greyscale. As I struggled to come to terms with the finality of his passing, the hackneyed adage—“age is but a number”—transmogrified before my eyes into a profound and haunting verity.

Soon after a shockwave coursed through my spine, the realisation dawned upon me, like the slow creep of dawn over a gloomy landscape, that even if he had lived a century and a half, rather than 99 years and three months, it would have been but a fleeting moment, a mere whisper in the eternal gale. And then, like a procession of phantoms, the memories of our time together stirred—memories of the man I called my father, now gone into the great beyond.

Like faded sepia prints, my earliest childhood memories have surrendered to the ravages of time, their edges worn, reality subtly distorted. Yet, amidst the haze, one figure remains indelibly etched: Papa, the unsung hero of my juvenile world. His voice, though oftentimes a thunderclap of sternness, could also conjure gentle showers of solace. Living by the Igbo wisdom, “Beat a child with one hand, draw it closer with the other,” he balanced stern rectitude with tender solicitude.

As I delve deeper into this misty realm of childhood remembrances, a push-and-pull dynamic with Papa looms in my subconscious—a lifelong dialectic that continues to shape me in ways I am still struggling to comprehend. I recall, when I was just three years old, how his stern reproach awakened me to life’s harsh realities, like a sudden splash of icy water on a somnolent soul. Yet his warmth offered a comforting counterpoint, a gentle bulwark against the world’s jagged edges.

It was in the living room of our then home in Enugu, now shrouded in the mists of time, that I remember wandering, a tiny toddling  lost voyager amidst a sea of unfamiliar faces. The steady hum of conversation had drawn me thither, until a firm hand interrupted my aimless perambulation, proffering a mysterious, dark, frothy liquid that contorted my face in distaste. Papa’s thunderous protest echoed through the room—like a sudden tempest on a sun-drenched day.

These memories, like watercolours exposed to the relentless rain, begin to fade, only to be supplanted by another scene. A delicate pink paper—Papa’s gift, or so I recall—captivated my impressionable heart, which was shattered when a careless playmate’s hand rent it asunder. I wailed, mourning the loss of something so beautiful. Papa’s gentle repair of the damage with a strip of sellotape temporarily soothed my distress.

As the seasons of my childhood dissolved into years and years into decades, the fragments of my recollection coalesced, like the pieces of a puzzle falling into place, revealing a richer, more nuanced portrait of Papa. I soon began to discern the depth of his commitment to our education, a passion that flared like a blazing torch even in my earliest years. A fervent desire to provide my siblings and me with the opportunities that fate had denied him seemed to drive him, his own unfulfilled aspirations egging him on.

Partially orphaned at 19, Papa shouldered the weight of responsibility with stoic resolve, becoming the sole breadwinner for his siblings, step-siblings, and his late father’s two wives. With no patron to fund his secondary education, he embarked upon a teaching career, a pragmatic first step after graduating from Teachers Training College in Obosi. Yet his ambitions stretched far beyond the classroom. As a teacher in Warri, he nurtured a burning dream: to join the Royal West African Frontier Force, either as a policeman or a soldier, a goal he pursued with unyielding determination.

His steps towards realising this dream led him through the Southern Police Training College in Enugu in 1945. After his graduation, he was posted to Warri, then to Forcados, before proceeding to the CID headquarters in Lagos. At the Central Criminal Registry, where he spent two decades, he underwent a series of courses, some of which took him to the UK. The first, a beginner’s course in fingerprint study, was at the West Riding Police Constabulary Headquarters in Wakefield, Yorkshire, England, in 1955. The second, at the Scotland Yard Fingerprint School in Chelsea, London, in 1963. Thus, well-prepared, he rose through the ranks to the position of Central Criminal Registrar.

The Nigerian Civil War, a cataclysmic conflict that ravaged the nation for 30 months, shattered the trajectory of his illustrious career. As the drums of secession beat louder, he was compelled to flee to eastern Nigeria, a region on the verge of declaring itself a republic.

Amidst the chaos and devastation, his selflessness shone like a beacon in the darkness, illuminating the path to survival. Though we were only children during that tumultuous period, the memories of his tireless efforts to nourish our bodies and shield us from harm remain indelibly etched in our minds. As starvation stalked the land like a spectre, he prioritised our survival with a ferocity that defied the horrors of war; his devotion was a bulwark against the lurking dangers.

The embers of the Nigerian Civil War had hardly flickered out when the chapter in his life was abruptly closed. This was no thanks to a controversial decree of 1971, which ended his law-enforcement career alongside those of others of Eastern Nigerian origin. Though this injustice was redressed decades later in the twilight of his earthly life, thanks to the thoughtful and benevolent intervention of former President Olusegun Obasanjo, this unexpected turn of events forced him to initially navigate hitherto uncharted waters. With a young family to cater for, he embarked on a brief venture into business, fuelled by necessity rather than passion. However, the East Central Broadcasting Service in Enugu, a refuge where he could utilise his security officer skills, became his sanctuary. Little did he know that this new path would lead him to a rewarding career, culminating in his retirement as a principal executive officer in 1984.

Yet, amidst the labyrinthine twists and turns of his life’s journey, the creative spark within him refused to be extinguished. With a passion for writing that was second only to his devotion to duty, he committed his thoughts to paper, penning numerous articles under the veil of the pseudonym “Nwoye Umeadi,” edited the Nigeria Police Bulletin from 1966 to 1967 and authoring two books that would serve as tributes to his extraordinary life. “Destined to Triumph,” his autobiography, published in 2013, stands as a paean to his indomitable spirit, while “The Missing Main Course of a Delicious Dinner” offers an introspective account of his experiences within the Nigeria Police.

Meanwhile, the memories of their 60th wedding anniversary in Enugu in October 2015 linger like a warm ember, a celebration of the unyielding bond between two souls, a union forged in the crucible of love and adversity. Now, our mother, a self-effacing 91-year-old, reigns as the matriarch of a sprawling family, consisting of children and grandchildren scattered across Nigeria and the UK.

 Uwaezuoke  is an Editor with THISDAY