Letter to H.E. Chief Patrick Adaba

Dear Uncle,

I am writing you this letter because it is the best way to keep memories alive: pause and smell the coffee.

I remember my first real memory of your presence in our house. My grandmother had just passed, and I was inconsolable. I had locked myself in the bathroom, crying and sorrowful, refusing to come out of the bathroom. My dad had travelled, and my mom had no clue what to do with me. She was also grieving. Her mom had passed, and her own daughter had now sequestered herself in a bathroom drenched with a grandmother’s passing. Unable to reason with me to come out of the bathroom, she sought your help to get me out and speak with me.

When you arrived, I heard your voice discussing with my mum in low tones.

You stood by the door of the bathroom and talked me through my grief. You told me how my grandmother, Mama Mariamo Lani Boyi, had gone to a beautiful place, how she would no longer suffer pain. You explained that she would now be praying for me in a special place. You urged me to come out of the bathroom and help my mom receive her guests, noting that the loss was not mine alone. You reminded me that while Mama was my grandmother, my mom was her daughter, and she was hurting too. I heaved a sigh and, with tears in my eyes, finally came out of the bathroom. You gave me a hug and told me I would be fine. That moment of empathy started my healing, uncle. You were kind and gentle, and I loved you much from then on. I was only 12 years old.

As a young student of Queen of Apostles College Kakuri, Kaduna (later named Queen Amina College), we always returned home to Zaria, where we lived for our holidays. We went every Sunday and some weekdays for masses at the university chapel, A.B. U. chapel. This was where I watched you and Aunty Katherine Hoomkwap deliver the readings of the day as lecterns. You were majorly admired. I considered you and Aunty Katherine superstar lecterns. I was a college student, but you were already in the university administration system. I so wanted to be like you. I wondered where you both found the courage to march up to the altar, face a congregation, and read so confidently to all of us. I stretched wherever I sat so I could see you read. You were so well spoken and delivered the messages week after week with such clarity. I honestly wanted to be like you both.

My memories of those times are still as fresh as yesterday. I so wanted to be like you both and ended up reading in church at my secondary school chapel at Queen Amina College, Kakuri, Kaduna. This activity built my confidence and is one of the pathways to who I have become today. Event anchor, broadcasters, and every other speaking opportunity in between. Uncle, I am sure you remember how many times you have called me to tell me how proud you were of me whenever you thought I had done well either as an event anchor or as a news anchor on television. Those moments are priceless, Uncle. You have always been one of my greatest cheerleaders, and I don’t take it for granted. I am thankful for your numerous acts of kindness.

Of course, I have always felt it in my heart that you would have also made a great broadcaster like your elder brother and our mentor, Uncle Tom Adaba. But your paths were different, both of you being highly successful at your various career paths. You, an excellent administrator and a great politician, are becoming, to our great pride, the Deputy Governor of Kogi State, serving with former Governor Prince Abubakar Audu.

Your memory of every city you served in or worked in sparkled in every conversation, whether it was Zaria, Jos, Lokoja, or Abuja. You spoke of each city with warmth and fondness as if they were each a memory of your own home in Okene. Those with whom you served in each city remember you with great memories of kindness and integrity.

Uncle, do you remember our chats? Your laughter is always infectious, a glint in your eyes, your humour never far away. Memories are made of these. We must hold on to these, uncle lest we lose ourselves. Those memories are what keep humanity going. The many slices of kindness, conversations, and time spent with loved ones. These are what memories are made of.

Permit me Uncle to remind you of your conversation many years ago with my mom. The elegant Mrs Josephine Amodu had only just returned from a trip to the United States where she had gone for a short nursing course. She had returned with a new cultivation. Afternoon tea with biscuits. I was often the waiter carrying a dainty tray to serve her guests’ weekends and once during the working week. I enjoyed the assignment, and you were a favourite guest.

One of those days you turned up for tea , uncle and I came as usual to serve you and other friends and neighbours. I was a fly on the wall. My mom was telling you the tale of a 17 year old neighbour’s daughter who had fallen pregnant and was claiming she did not know how it happened. Remember what you said? Is she serious right now? Is it something she can pick up on the road? If it was not so serious a conversation, it would have been hilarious. Hearing that, I nearly knocked a stool down

“Focus,” my mother thundered. No one is talking to you. My mother could trust that if I stepped out of line, you would immediately call me to order. And long after she had gone, you continued to check on her children, and you always showed up when we called. When we visited, you were always kind and warm.

Uncle, my memories are full of a huge basket, and I wanted to let you know how much you would be missed.

Funny, hard-working, much respected, full of integrity, a true public servant, and a worthy politician—that’s who you are and more, Uncle. Your tribe would miss you.

It is inconceivable that you will be gone two weeks after your elder brother, Dr Tom Adaba, passed. But God’s ways are not ours. May your journey be peaceful… Amen.

Much warmth,

Eugenia