Posthumous 94th Birthday Loading.....!!!
With time, everyone forgets!!!
Memories are kept alive intentionally by those who it meant the most to.
When I am gone, for what will I be remembered?
Thanks Dad and Mom for intentionally creating an atmosphere of peace for us all growing up.
I really can't remember my parents fighting.
I also don't remember being flogged as a way of punishment or out of transferred aggression.
I do remember one "behavior changing slap"!!! Story, story.......
It so happened that we were all engaged in serious play - did I ever tell you all that Mom believed that hard play, as in very creative play, for children, was the same as working hard for adults??!!!
This was in 23, Salawu Street, Surulere, Lagos days.
Anyways, so I had already had my turn but I wanted another. Can't remember what game we were all playing.
When I didn't get my way, I then proceeded to start crying.... the loudest fake cry you can only imagine.
Only God knows the spirit that prompted me to carry myself to the back of our parents bedroom window side o!!!
The plan was that Daddy who was home would shout from inside and say "obunnu unnu ngini"!!! ( sorry if you don't understand item)!
Then so he wouldn't need to say more, they would let me have my way for peace to prevail.
For where, all I saw, or should I say remember, was.......
Dad came out and "sounded" me!
Please understand, there's a difference between slap and sounding. Only Nigerians will understand. Hmmm.
In shock, I just went inside and slept.
I slept for so long.
Only me by myself comforted myself.
The lesson was so effectively learned.
I still marvel at parents who don't understand that children are champions when it comes to manipulation.
Happy 94th Birthday tomorrow my Beloved Father!!!
10 years today!
Daddy made everyone of us feel we were his favorite.
He made you believe in yourself because he believed in you and showed it openly.
Dad was always punctual to events.
It wasn't unusual to find him most times 15 minutes early and already seated sometimes even before the organizers. He and Mom would already have agreed on how long they would be at every program and would leave immediately it was time.
Dad had a loud and very sonorous voice. Many times, I regret that we never got to record him singing!!!
I used to tell people humorously that when it came to shouting, my Dad roared!!! Me, panic? Maka why now? No matter how you shout, you're simply allowed to express your opinion however, I'm under no obligation to accept it.
Dad was tough and caring at the same time.
He made it a habit to remember all our special days and would visit or call if not able to.
We had absolutely no tension in the house. Our friends were welcome and there was always something to nibble on. I think Dad taught us all how to eat groundnuts. There was always a bottle by his bedside.
Dad had a wicked sense of humour and would tease you till you loosened up.
Join me thank God for a great Father.
#GodlyParents
#daddysgirlforever
#Imissmydad
93rd Birthday
By Ike Imo written on fb on 02/11/2016
Five years ago today, my father died.
Osoka Okeudo Imo, was a good man. Even a great man. But he didn't show it. He was unobtrusive and self effacing. He didn't preen himself or throw his weight around. He was gentle and caring.
While growing up, I didn't see this side of him. I saw the disciplined side. The hard side. The side that insisted on punctuality, hard work, honesty, integrity, cleanliness and fairness. He didn't lie, he wouldn't steal and many times he was overlooked for a promotion or an honour that he rightfully deserved.
That annoyed me. I wondered why he wasn't more assertive. More demanding. More ambitious..
I am beginning to know why now. He was a visionary. He knew something that many people do not know. When our time on earth is up, we can take nothing away. Nothing. Except our name.
My father left us a good name.
Remembering Daddy
It is one year already that daddy went to be with the Lord. Apart from the Ephesians 4;22-32 scripture, in Item at breakfast table during our time of devotion, daddy used the scriptures which reminded us to LOVE; This is what mummy and daddy lived out. No wonder daddy’s home was open to all. I remember daddy for his simplicity and pleasant conversations. It was such fun being around daddy and mummy .You never get bored of their company.
The fond memories I have are limitless and I cherish all of them.
Remembering Grandad
A time to laugh and a time to cry,
A time to be sad and a time to be joyful,
A time to seek and time to lose,
A time to keep and a time to throw, from some part of Ecclesiates 3.
A time to cherish old memories of a
loved one.
Grandad was a model figure towards his grandchildren and children beacuse he is the reason that my father and my Aunites and Uncle are succeeding today.
Jemie
Remembrance from Oleka Udeala
Remembering Dede
I will always remember
Daddy and Mummy Imo were like adoptive parents to me. afater all my pet name by them was 'Ochi nwam' i.e. Ochi my child. Whilst in university with my closest friend Ugonma Adiukwu all my successes at the various MB exams were always celebrated by the Imos because for them it also mirrored their 'niece' Nnenna Ogwo's success. Nnenna I later got to meet during my residency program. The Imos were so loving that every time I had a baby they will take time to come and visit and climb the two steep flight of stairs to my house on the 2nd floor of a two storey building. I will forever miss Daddy's uncanny sense of humour. I had made plans to visit Dady in January 2010 on my way back to Windhoek not knowing that he was in Portharcourt at the time so I missed seeing him which i do still regret but I know that because Daddy is home with our Lord Jesus we shall yet meet to part no more
HERE AND THERE: Remembrances by Amma Ogan
September 10, 2011 09:23PMT Next newspaper
A peaceful oasis and a calm full stop to an unassuming street in a quiet corner of Lagos - that was my feeling on returning to Nigeria after an absence of 15 years to visit Auntie Annie and Uncle Osoka. This was an uncle and aunt who had always been a refuge, comfort stop, welcome point and second home on every journey we made as a family to or from or within the city where I grew up as a child. Even on those rushed Saturday exeats from boarding school, their home was a pit stop we had to make. And indeed throughout our lives our families ran parallel, a signal of the enduring bond that linked our parents.
Uncle Osoka and Aunty Annie were there when we first moved to Lagos in the beginning of the 60s; there too in the dark uncertain days of the first coup and counter coup when Oriaku was Baby Nnenna and parents gathered in their Surelere home to confer about the uncertain future.
Through the rushed exodus eastward to a situation where nothing could be predicted beyond the certainty of war, our families shared a refuge in Crowther Street, Umuahia and two sisters, my mother and Auntie Annie were pregnant and Ugonma and Erinma, two ‘win- the- war- babies’ were born.
The stumbling course of the Biafran war took us to Item and when that fell the frontline divided us. Our family escaped just in time ending up as internal refugees in Nkwerre, but Auntie Annie, Uncle Osoka and family remained behind the lines.
Until the day when Uncle Osoka turned up at the house of our friends, the Nwogu’s who had given us shelter, because that was the way it was in those days.
He was thin and exhausted and drawn. He had taken a dangerous journey through the bush travelling at night, hiding in the day with members of BOFF, the Biafran Organisation of Freedom Fighters.
I had never met anyone so brave.
I remember the day sitting, watching him as he talked with my mother, drinking in the fact that this was not a ghost but really Uncle Osoka and he had done this heroic thing, and more, was determined to return to the fear and terror of living behind the enemy lines. He was not going to leave his family alone.
If the test of a man is how he conducts himself in times of great difficulty, Uncle Osoka is up there with the best.
He combined this strong confident manliness with a deep emotional warmth. When he hugged you his grip was sure and heartfelt. Whatever was his to do he did, and left nothing unfinished.
Returning after 15 years to meet him in his later days, what I found was a depth of peace and calm I had not expected, but that is simply as it should have been.
His death last year, following that of his wife by little over 12 months, brought on remembrances of a life well lived and one that carries the legacy of the greatest love story of a generation in our family.
I recall my mother telling me how her younger sister had stood her ground despite threats and physical punishment and quietly insisted to my grandfather that she would marry the man of her choice. Let me add that my mother waited till I was an adult before she breathed a word of it. Duty was a virtue expected of every daughter and I was stirred by this story of self conviction, especially coming from my mother who was relating the story with what I sensed was a quiet pride. I was also struck by the contrast between the two sisters.
My mother was the first child in a polygamous family of 21 children. My paternal grandfather was one of the leading citizens in the community and my maternal father also had a substantial reputation for achievement in similar fields. He insisted on training his first child to the best of his ability despite her gender and I remember both grandparents urging me to see my mother as an example of what a perfect daughter should be.
Once she started working as a nurse my mother set down to financing her sister’s education. Auntie Annie became a teacher of maths and physical education serving her longest stint in a dedicated career at Methodist Girls School Yaba.
In his mischievous moments of which there were plenty my father would often wryly remark that my mother was such an obedient daughter that if her parents had told her not to marry him she would have complied. That comment of course carried the added barb of ‘see what a lucky thing it was for her that they did not!’
It is wonderful is it not, the versatility of the fabric life weaves from the threads of experience and how in every family there is enough for each member to cut a piece and wrap themselves in.