Ngozi Obiyor: An Unfinished Story

Death be not proud!

I suffered a mutual emotional trouncing with a buddy recently. The character in question was the whole script not just a part of it. We had lost a generation, so to say. You can’t miss her get-up-and-go attitude neither will you her passion for the theatre in a few minutes chat with her while she was on this side. Kaduna Boy had the privilege to watch her from a close distance and can testify to Aunty Ngozi’s strength. Kaduna’s theatre stage would sorely miss her. Read Ihidero Victor on her below.

Candle burning at both ends, reaches the thin point of abyssal solid state. Light dims. The thread is cut as the winds from Pandora’s Box hushed out the voice of an emerging falcon. Indeed. There are deaths and there are deaths. It is not turning into lioness that is difficult; it is getting to the tail. Her disappearance from this terra firma came as a gale to me. Her life was a candle to many who dared to be despite the harshness of this dark night, called Nigeria. Lighting candles in the lives of children was her preoccupation. Whether the child was ready to learn or not was none of her business. She was bent on forcing education into the marrows of children and youths in the society even when that would cause her her life. It did ‘nyways. Her memory perfectly seethes on my head like the bowler hat of Mr. President radiating all its grace and dignity that is womanhood. Anytime my phone rings in early hours of the morning, I would guess the Caller was Aunty. Anytime I received SMS in late hours of the day, I correctly deciphered who the sender was. She was humanely human. A reminder to humanity that womanhood has not lost touch with reality despite the craze of a postmodernist state. 

As she mutter to me on our last two meetings before she joined the extraterrestrial: an eagle has no business pecking with ducks on a dustbin, was a message she drove into my being. I have since imagined a picture of ducks and eagles competing for food. As hard as I try, her face resurfaces in subconscious. We saw two days before. She had gained admission for a PhD research course in Theatre and Performing Arts at the Ahmadu Bello University in Zaria. She was laid up for the registration. It was natural for me to help with the registration. I did. At a point of the final submission of her papers for documentation. It occurred to me call. I did. The Phone rang. A voice came from the other hand. “She’s dead”, the raspy voice of a stranger bit my ears. I ended the call. I had called a wrong number. I gave another dial to the other phone, this time I heard a Joy’s passionate voice rubbing ears. I hailed her but she managed to mutter “Your aunty is no more.” My phone dropped! I called again. And my fear was confirmed. 

Like Moth to flame ...

Tear dropped from my eyes without my command and my heart raced to catch her spirit before it hovers to the abyss. But the legs of my heart failed me. She’s survived by progenies of intellectual heavyweight, academic storm-troopers and the creative intelligentsia of the theatres.