By Donu Kogbara
My wonderful father, Ignatius Suage Kogbara, OON, died exactly l0 years ago, on January l3, 2002. And we who knew and loved him have never quite recovered from the emotional trauma we experienced when he left us behind.

Daddy was an extraordinary man: Extraordinarily clever, extraordinarily kind, extraordinarily amusing, extraordinarily honourable and extraordinarily exposed.

He was a better husband than most and made several sacrifices to provide his children and various protegees with golden opportunities. He encouraged us to regard ourselves not only as Africans but as citizens of the world at large.

An idealist who despised crude materialism, hated injustice and strove to improve his ancestral landscape, he taught me so much about intellectual rigour, moral rectitude and human rights. He also cracked the funniest jokes and was always trying to persuade me to be as compassionate as he was.

Daddy, who was Ojukwu’s Special Representative – or Ambassador – in London during the Biafran Civil War, never ever forgot the less fortunate. And I’d like to share an excerpt from a letter he wrote me when the conflict ended:

“…Always remember that those of us who lived had no special right to live…There are thousands of children like yourself who will be permanently retarded because of starvation…Let them never leave your consciousness…”

Sometimes when I am feeling particularly depressed and enraged about the shabby, corrupt, badly-run mess that is Nigeria, I remember Daddy urging me to resist the temptation to run back to Europe and stay there permanently.

Whenever we chatted about Nigeria’s problems, we would bemoan the dominance of enemies of progress whose cruelty, primitive acquisitiveness, criminal tendencies and chronic incompetence had severely undermined a country that would have been a global success story if it had had more impressive leaders.

But he never lost hope. He firmly believed that true patriots would win the battle for Nigeria’s soul within my lifetime. Sadly, I cannot share his optimism.

But I’m going to try to maintain strong ties to my homeland for his sake.

I miss him so much. We all do. May Daddy’s gentle and noble soul continue to rest in peace. Please be kind enough to say a little prayer on this sad remembrance day – for him and me and my mother, Mrs Anne Kogbara, and my sister (see below) and my brothers (Poage and Dumle) and my extended family.

‘Badger’ by Lela Kogbara (my kid sister)

I can’t believe it is 10 years since my father died. We used to call him “Badger” because my younger brother, Dumle, informed us, when he was small, that Daddy reminded him of a badger. This may seem an odd nickname for an unanimalistic gentleman who was quite tall and had long legs and bore no physical resemblance to a badger. But, looking back, he had some badger-like behaviour patterns.

He was the most reflective person I’ve ever met and often liked to be solitary. But he could also be very friendly and he strongly identified with the inhabitants of our village, Bodo (in Ogoniland), whether they were related to him or not. He undertook struggles on their behalf – struggles that were often too weighty for one person to reasonably expect to win. He won some and lost some.

For someone who loved the trappings of the West, he was sceptical about White Power but also angry about the plight of black people. Towards the end of his life when we begged him to go to Europe to get medical treatment, he refused to get on a plane and simply said: “Don’t white people die?”

A few months later, Princess Margaret, the Queen of England’s sister, also died from a stroke, as he had done; and his point was made.

What I loved most about him was his liberalism and optimism, which he mixed with conservatism, Catholicism and a passion for philosophy and classical music, to form a cocktail that was unique. He loved to laugh and had an incredible capacity for forgiveness.

I remember our visits to Bodo with Chopin or Mozart playing as we drove along the Kpopie road (which he built) through impoverished villages with gas flares burning in the near distance.

He would point out where different families lived, how they were related to us and the current state of the relationship. There were frequently quarrels to do with land, church or politics. Frankly, I couldn’t keep up with all that, which was probably no bad thing since harmonious relations would often have been restored by the next visit.

Whenever we arrived in Bodo, we were warmly embraced by “old aunties” who were my grandfather’s sisters and cousins. They made a myth of the claim that African women are submissive and untouched by feminism. They were totally unintimidated by my father’s “poshness” and nobody could tell them what to do. My father’s unconditional love and admiration for them taught me humility.

He had dreams of transforming Bodo (and Ogoni more generally) so that his people would be lifted from poverty.

Since his death marauding gangs and oil spills have been added to the lack of physical or economic infrastructure and the place has actually gone backwards.

Ten years on from his death it is his unfulfilled dreams that haunt me most. Reconciliation and forgiveness are essential. I hope that I or someone else one day will have the courage to make his dreams come true.

That is the one legacy that would make him smile.