By Donu Kogbara
IN August 2015, exactly eight years ago, I was dragged out of my parents’ residence in Port Harcourt by gun-toting kidnappers. For two long and terrifying weeks, I was held hostage in a creek hut by nine men. When I was released, I noticed that Mummy, by then a widow, was not herself. She was forgetful, slow and subdued. She couldn’t do things she had easily done before.
My sister Lela and I consulted a psychiatrist. He expressed the view that she was going through the early stages of trauma-induced dementia. He turned out to be right.
Her mental state steadily deteriorated to the point where she couldn’t recognise anyone or talk or look after herself and needed a full-time nurse. In 2019, I moved her from Port Harcourt to my Abuja home, so I could keep an eye on her and supervise her care regime.
On Friday July 2l, 2023, she was struggling to breathe, so I arranged for a doctor to visit and for an oxygen tank to be installed by her bed. But I knew instinctively that oxygen wouldn’t save her; and I started, with an exceedingly heavy heart, to prepare for her demise.
I alerted my siblings and son. I called Father Louis, our parish priest, and asked him to administer Last Rites. I summoned my domestic and office staff, who called her grandma, so that they, Father Louis, her nurse, Juliana, and I could take one final photograph with her. She quietly slipped away to meet her Maker the next morning. She was 87.
So who was Anne Chizomam Kogbara?
My siblings and I affectionately nicknamed her “Rabbit”. And she was many things to many people and complex as well as contradictory. A fun mum who took my brothers to Arsenal and Chelsea football matches on Saturdays while we were growing up in London. A strict matriarch who disapproved of hedonism and tried to prevent us from staying out after 7.00 pm because she was convinced that terrible immoral things happened at nocturnal social gatherings. An accomplished, cosmopolitan intellectual who won essay-writing competitions as a schoolgirl, loved to read books about global history and had a Masters degree from Manchester University in the UK.
A devout Catholic traditionalist and philanthropist who served her Church with pride and constantly harassed her children to take religion more seriously but was willing to respectfully engage in stimulating debates with people (including her adored rebellious grandson, Oliver) who questioned the existence of God. The most unmaterialistic Nigerian woman of her class I have ever encountered. A feminist and independent-minded radical of sorts.
When she formed a company, she insisted on calling it CHIZOMAM & DAUGHTERS & SONS. And she was supportive when I got married and decided not to change my surname to my husband’s. A Europhile who had many white friends and frequently said that Africans should actively strive to be more like Europeans if they wanted their continent to progress to the highest possible level.
A great fan of African freedom fighters like Nelson and Winnie Mandela, she flatly refused to apply for the British passport she was entitled to because she didn’t want to be a foreign national.
A Biafran. A Nigerian. An African. A citizen of the World. A teacher. A learner. Sharp-tongued.
Compassionate sometimes.
Her husband, Ignatius Suage, was a well-known VIP who was quite wealthy at intervals. And she was a world-class beauty who dressed stylishly and was very keen on nice accommodation; but she couldn’t be bothered with “vanities” like expensive jewellery or flashy cars.
She thought that first- and business-class airline tickets were a waste of money that should be spent on more important things. She did not own a single designer handbag and accused me of “following the crowd” when I occasionally indulged in this extravagance.
She thought it wrong for Nigerians who come from impoverished villages and have poor relatives to be flamboyant. And the only time I ever saw her in ashoebi was when she wore the same simple blue cotton wrapper as other Catholic Women’s Organisation members.
So she’s gone o, to the Greater Beyond; and the space she occupied in my house is now eerily empty; and I am absolutely devastated.
Watching a once-vibrant and immensely dignified lady of substance inexorably descend into the depths of humiliating dementia-driven cognitive decline and physical dependency was almost unbearable. Her impressive eloquence gave way to impenetrable silence. Bright eyes that used to eagerly focus on the glorious flowers she grew in her garden and BBC Television current programmes gradually dimmed and became unseeing.
Joyful brisk walks were replaced by depressing, labourious wheelchair journeys. When she was in her early 70s, she hurt her leg and was so embarrassed about needing a walking stick that she avoided all avoidable public outings and social gatherings till her leg healed.
The last coherent conversation I had with my mother was in 2016, so I can’t claim to know exactly what she thought about anything during those years of illness. But I think we can all imagine what she felt about needing someone to take a whole Mrs. Kogbara to the toilet!
Transferring her corpse from my home to the mortuary at Abuja’s National Hospital was the hardest duty I have ever performed. When it was time, a few days later, to complete the circle by returning her to Rivers State, I could barely function. She came to me on her feet four years ago, in a plane. She left me nearly four weeks ago, in a body bag and ambulance. I am still reeling from the shock.
Next Wednesday, August 16, we will bury her next to my late father in Bodo City in Gokana Local Government Area in Ogoniland. The pre-internment requiem mass will commence at 10am.
She was a native of Imo State and her Igbo relatives will be there in full force. Rest in peace in the bosom of the Almighty, darling Rabbit; and please say Hi to Badger (Daddy’s nickname!) for us. Adieu until we meet again.
Kogbara is an International Journalist and renowned Columnist
