For Nnenna
By Amma Ogan
Saturday April 14, 2018
Charlotte NC
This exercise of looking back on a life is something we must simply acknowledge as part of the business of living. We come and we go and there is no choosing as to how or when we go. What matters is what we make of our stay.
My grandmother put it most succinctly 38 years ago, when her son died at age 61: “Each person must answer their own call. No one can answer another person’s,” she said stoically.
My memories of Nnenna are marked by 3 stages and looking back at her now is akin to watching through three windows, each one superimposed on the other, building up into the full multilayered image of the whole person.
When you break it down, the word that we in Igbo use for love, is just that: seeing a person fully, recognizing the essence of their humanity and loving that. Nnenna made it easy to do.
She was born 1965 at the start of the crisis in Nigeria, so Nnenna was not really what we used to call a Win-the-War baby, but the joy she spread and the happiness she exuded, was enough to make one think that. To the five families clustered in Amukabi, Amaokwe, Item, driven to our ancestral home by the Civil War, she was a ray of sunshine: A lovely, lively, chattering bird, filling the house with her voice, ignoring all admonitions not to run in case she fell. She was in love with just being alive. And she had the classic response to every question, ‘’now, now, (“Tonwa Tonwa!”) I ‘m on my way!” She was nicknamed Nnenna Ocho To Ocho. She was always talking!
The Ogan family house at Amukabi was big with two storeys. Rooms had been added on to accommodate as many branches of the clan that sought refuge under its roof. With his own hands Nnanna’m Oga had laid the foundation for this homestead. In those days Item was almost pristine in its natural beauty. A river ran alongside Amukabi. Under the bridge that marked the beginning of our home its waters were sparkling and clear. You could hear it gurgle as it did so. The air was fresh and clean, the evenings quiet and sultry. The town crier delivered the itinerary of the day from the heights of Elunta and this lovely little girl made us laugh and smile as her voice rang through the compound.
In my mind she was Nnenna De’Kalu just as her mother was Auntie Ori De’ Kalu. That was a quality she inherited from her mother and her father: a constancy, the assurance of a quality of excellence in her person which she applied to everything she did.
I did not believe Auntie Ori De’ Kalu would ever die or even grow old and. She always seemed the same, year after year, ageless and unfailingly good. That was the second stage of my memory of Nnenna when I attended Auntie Ori’s funeral. Here was a mother, wife and ada, (first daughter), completely dedicated to the care of her father in the face of the sudden and devastating loss of his wife and companion.
Last September my sister Chima and I were here in Charlotte to visit Nnenna, hoping all the time as we made our flight bookings and sorted out hotels that we would arrive to find that all would not be as we feared.
In the years that I had lived away from Nigeria, Nnenna had followed my father’s profession, that of caring for the sick. She had made maternal and child mortality her specialty and chosen the path of working to improve the public good. My mother had kept me updated with accounts of her graduation, her wedding, her growing family, and her outstanding professional achievements. Until today I had forgotten she was also named Nkeiruka, what is before us is greater. She has lived up to both her names.
At that visit, I saw all those qualities in a Nnenna who was battling an aggressive and puzzling lung cancer, (she had never smoked) but doing so with hope and grace and faith and with the spirit of that little girl who exuded love in a time of war and devastation.
We must cherish knowing her and enjoying her, even though there is no way to assuage the pain of her loss. She was very special.
She passed through our life and made it better. She is out of pain and suffering and at peace.
May she so rest.