In the Punchwise column before Christmas, I expressed dread of the possible explosion of COVID-19 pandemic my hometown, Bonny. From all indications then, the island city’s usual Christmas/New Year festivities seemed set to unfold without regard for the virus. So far, what I dreaded has not materialised there. But it did elsewhere in the form of the death of a long-time friend in Abuja.
If you watch the public affairs programmes on NTA, AIT and Channels, you have most likely seen and heard Professor Ebere Onwudiwe. Same goes if you have lately been reading Premium Times. He was one of Nigeria’s most active public intellectuals — until his sudden death on January 9 from a rapidly escalating coronavirus infection.
Professor Onwudiwe was the kind of friend everyone craves: the antithesis of a fair-weather friend. Not surprisingly, there are quite a few in Nigeria and elsewhere who rightly claimed him as a good friend. I was privileged to have been one of them. It was a friendship that lasted from the 1980s until his death.
The Christmas season was to be a most glorious time for Professor Onwudiwe. His Isunjaba people in Imo State had selected him to install as their chief. Yet, as the occasion neared, he expressed unease about it — to my surprise. He was a gregarious fellow, someone for whom the honour and the occasion seemed so fitting. So, I pressed him for explanation. Specifically, I asked whether it was the financial burden, and he said no. It was just that a lot of people would be coming to attend, he said. That response muddled things even further, but I left the matter. In retrospect, I should have sensed his concern.
Then came the occasion. “I am in the village. It’s 1:21 a.m. and the night music in my compound had just arrived,” he texted the night of December 26, referring to the ceremonial musicians and dancers. “This is the group that will escort me to the Eze’s palace tomorrow.”
“Savour the moment, my friend,” I texted back, alluding to his expressed unease. That was the last exchange we had on the event. Usually, he would follow up with photos and at least a quick take on the experience. Nothing was forthcoming. To prod him, I texted: “Happy New Year to the newly minted chief. I hope all went well.” There was no response. Rather, he forwarded me articles on the attacks on Rev. Matthew Kukah for his Christmas sermon.
It was puzzling. Something had to be wrong. After a few more days of silence on his chieftaincy installation, I decided to elicit comments on something else. After the assault on the U.S. Capitol by pro-Trump activists, I sent him this text: “Ebere, I assume you stayed up all night watching Congress.” That elicited a telegram-like response: “No, I didn’t. Had worse news. Covid 19 +ve! In isolation now.”
That was the last I heard from him. The next day, I got a midnight call that he has died. I was shocked. I know, of course, that COVID-19 kills, but I never thought it could be that quickly. I certainly didn’t think it would happen to someone with whom I exchanged WhatsApp messages just the day before. Over the years, we had collaborated on research and publications. We had co-written newspaper columns. We had shared in each other’s career successes and failures and personal relational joys and heartaches. Accordingly, I was expecting to partake vicariously in the joys of his chieftaincy. Instead, just like that, he was gone.
One mutual acquaintance I informed of Professor Onwudiwe’s death said of him, “He lived a full life.” And that couldn’t be truer. He took pleasure in everything around him: his family, his friends, his work. He was especially passionate about his children: Memme, Chinwe and Awo. I cannot count how many times our conversations included something like, “Have I told you that Memme and his friends at Harvard University developed a software they’re commercialising?” Or “Remember when Chinwe was a featured speaker at the students’ anti-gun rally in Dayton (Ohio)?” Or, “You know that …?” Yes, I had heard them all before. What I always heard, above all, was a father’s passion for his children, and that bears hearing again and again.
Professor Onwudiwe extended that passion for his family to his friends. In fact, it seemed that friends to him were an extended family. Just as his children’s accomplishments made him euphoric so did the accomplishments of friends. He was always prodding and applauding.
Beyond family and friends, Professor Onwudiwe’s third passion was his work. And this is where our paths first crossed. It was in the mid-1980s, and we were both on the faculty of Central State University in Ohio, USA. He was an assistant professor in the Department of Political Science and I held the same position in the hybrid Department of English, Theatre and Communication. Both departments were housed in the same building, and that made friendship between us almost inevitable.
Given our disparate disciplines, I never thought there was much ground for professional collaboration. But it didn’t take long before Dr. Onwudiwe’s fertile mind generated quite a few ideas. He was the kind of person who focused on possibilities rather than impediments. If he had an idea and you itemised five reasons why it couldn’t be done, he would counter with 10 reasons why it could be — or needed to be at least tried. As a mutual acquaintance said, he had no fear of failing.
One example was his idea that we syndicate our newspaper articles. But that’s something beyond the reach of even noted American journalists, I said. He wasn’t fazed, so we tried it. We pitched the idea of offering a non-American perspective on international affairs. We called the column “On the Other Hand.” Lo and behold, there was some interest, mostly by small city newspapers. Alas, it was not enough to offset the cost, not to talk of the labour. So, we reluctantly gave it up.
Undeterred, Professor Onwudiwe moved on to even grander things. With a grant from the U.S. government, he established a Center for African Studies and the Center for International Studies. One of the conferences he organised under their auspices gave rise to a book we co-edited and published as Afro-Optimism: Perspectives on Africa’s Advances (Praeger, 2003). Among the contributors were the internationally acclaimed scholars Professors Ali A. Mazrui, F. Abiola Irele and Peter P. Ekeh. We coined the term Afro-optimism as a counterpoint to the prevailing Afro-pessimism.
Not one to rest on his laurels, Professor Onwudiwe went on to establish the International Journal of African Studies. By then I had left Central State, but he still had me serve as the book review editor. These were improbable accomplishments at a university the size and scope of Central State.
Always in the quest to do more, Professor Onwudiwe took a leave of absence from Central State to become a visiting consultant at the United Nations Economic Commission for Africa in Addis Ababa. He spoke highly of his time in Ethiopia. In fact, it was the experience that induced him to retire and return to Nigeria and settle in Abuja. Unlike most returnees, he waxed positive about his life there. In fact, he repeatedly urged me to do what he did and return home. With his death, I have lost the one person most apt to facilitate that.
There’s a certain paradox in losing a friend or family member. On one hand, it reminds us to cherish our lives every day. On the other hand, it makes us ever more disposed to come to terms with death. As Shakespeare had Julius Caesar say, “Death, a necessary end, will come when it will come.” If only it could come without the sorrow, without creating a void.
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