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It was a cold
clear Ontario morning. That special kind of Canadian morning I look
forward to because I can go jogging and breathe in the crisp and
oh-so-fresh air while drinking in the vivid colours of the trees in
late autumn. Although it was October 1st and I was born Nigerian,
independence day was the furthest thing on my mind in the tranquillity
of suburban Canada.

Then the phone
rang at about 7.30am, and a Nigerian phone number flashed on the
display. “Trouble” I thought, but decided to pick it up anyway, bracing
myself for the usual garbage from 419 fraudsters in search of “someone
to cooperate with for the transfer and sharing of millions of dollars”.
This time I was wrong.

I heard a voice
say “hold on please!” and then my mother’s voice, shaky and exhausted
from weeping, informing me that my father had died that morning. It was
a strange conversation, because she kept on saying she was sorry, and I
kept on saying it was OK and everything would be fine, not really
knowing what else to say to someone who had just lost her lifetime
partner. It would be many months after, following lots of activities
around his burial in Nigeria, that it would finally hit me that I had
also lost my father and dear friend that cold October morning.

When I think of my
father, the images that flash past are a kaleidoscope of Nigeria’s rich
history since independence from the British Empire in 1960. Our
affluent life in the early 1960s in Port Harcourt where I was born; the
rude shock of the civil war through which we lived in the East as
Biafrans in the villages and in the bush; the family’s return to “One
Nigeria“ in the slums of Lawanson in Lagos; the brash promise of the
oil boom years when I was at Kings College; the flip flop between
civilian and military rule; the several successive military coups, and
finally pseudo-democracy in the form of civilian rule. He always
commented on these times, reflecting on the role his generation had
played in the evolution of Nigeria as an independent state.

Before illness
robbed him of the ability to speak, we had many conversations on the
subject of Nigeria, with me asking tough and sometimes unfair questions
of him and his generation. Why did you let the civil war happen so soon
after fighting for independence together? What was your generation’s
intellect expended on while the military coups were happening in quick
succession? How could your generation not detribalise Nigeria, given
that neither of your two closest friends (or mine for that matter) is
from the Igbo tribe?

In the end, he
conceded that his generation had indeed failed the nation through
passivity and that Nigeria’s future generations would pay a heavy price
for that failure. I eventually responded to this prediction by moving
to live in Canada as it steadily transformed from prophecy to reality.

Oh Canada! Sane,
serene, civilized Canada, a country much more in line with my education
and upbringing! My father, who was responsible for most of my education
and upbringing, however completely disapproved of my move. He came
around eventually as he saw his grandchildren grow healthy in mind and
spirit, reflecting the goodness of the society in which they were being
raised. Then as his illness progressed he withdrew from the world into
a long silence and eventually succumbed to death. I have felt that his
death was a release for him, not just from the battle with terminal
illness but also from the shackles of the guilt of feeling powerless to
stop his beloved country from sliding into moral, spiritual and
physical decay. Irrationally, I think it is significant that he “broke
free” on Nigeria’s Independence Day.

Generations of
Nigerians are still paying a price today in different forms, and I will
confess to inheriting my father’s guilt as my own generation also
stands by, seemingly powerless to step away from the past and change
Nigeria’s future.

I hope that such guilt will not be the inheritance I pass on to my children.

So Nigeria’s
Independence Day has much more sombre meaning for me. No joyous
celebrations please. Like the proximity of cold death, it is a shrill
wake up call, to jerk me out of my physical and intellectual comfort
zone and remind me of Nigeria’s reality- a deeply troubled nation,
often times appearing to be on the brink of sudden violent death.

For my sake and
hopefully the sake of my children, I am in the process of seriously
re-engaging with Nigeria, going back to the battlefront much wiser
after beating a tactical retreat, as all good fighters must be able to
do in battle.

While I have not
and will not surrender, more tactical retreats are possible in future.
I do not subscribe to the “NO RETREAT! “ doctrine, especially if
faced with formidable odds.

Somehow I think if he were alive today my father would smile at that.