Tag Archives: Granddad

Listen to Granddad

My grandad by everyone’s standards is a legend. He has seen and done so much in his lifetime and he continues to do so today at the age of 85. Look him up. Ahmed Joda is his name. I won’t bother to write about his many achievements because so many have done so over his many years of service. I want to write about the man beneath it all. My grandad who I call Baba. We all do, his children and grandchildren alike. Because before I realised what other people thought of him, through my young eyes, all I saw was an ‘old’ man who was my mama’s dear father. My only grandfather. The patriarch of the family who was also the main father figure in my life.

The first thing we all know about Baba is that he is a stickler for punctuality. Now this might not sound significant to you but coming from Nigeria, it so is. Have you ever heard of the concept ‘African time’? Did you know ‘Nigerian time’ constitutes even worse ‘lateness’? So a Nigerian who is always on time is as rare as hen’s teeth. His most precious possession is his watch. He looks at it every few minutes even when he has absolutely nothing to do. It’s like a nervous tick. And God forbid he forgets his watch at home, he will drive us all mad asking for the time every 5 minutes.

When Baba asks you to meet at 5pm, at 5:01pm he will be on the phone asking where you are if you are not there. If you make plans to go somewhere with him, be sure to get there on time because I kid you not, if you are more than a couple of minutes late, he will go without you. Whoever you are and wherever you were meant to go with him. I think I wrote a blog about how he invited his friend from Abuja to come to Yola (9 hour road trip) to join us all on a trip to Gembu (6 hour road trip). We waited for 20 minutes and despite the fact that it was 6am and we would get there by lunchtime, he declined to wait and left without them. Lord knows what they went through to find Gembu because Nigerian roads outside of Abuja and Lagos are poorly signposted especially places like Gembu and they didn’t turn up until the next morning! We in the immediate family are no strangers to his bark of ‘come on!’ which when I was little used to make me cry because it sounded so scary. Over time, I have learnt not to react so emotionally to it but still, when that bark comes because we are more than a minute late to leave for some engagement, my heart skips a beat.

I once asked Baba why being punctual was so important even when no one else (Nigerian) cared and why we had to be the first ones at every event. He explained and although I cannot remember exactly how he phrased it, the message is reflected in the following quote:

‘Know the true value of time; snatch, seize, and enjoy every moment of it. No idleness, no delay, no procrastination; never put off till tomorrow what you can do today.’

Lord Chesterfield

He certainly lives by that rule and as I have said before, he has achieved more than most people would in 3 or 4 lifetimes. Perhaps he is still going so strong at 85 because he is mindful of seizing every moment he has been blessed with. I certainly want to emulate that when I grow up.

So many things I love about Baba but one of them is easily how much he has empowered us all to speak our minds. He has never been of the school that children should be seen and not heard. From a very early age, he would ask our opinions on topics most adults would never broach with children and he would give your answer his undivided attention and take it on board. Many years later, he would repeat your words to you especially if you had learnt from experience that things were not black and white and he would invite you to explain why the change in opinion. This means that in the Joda household, we are all prolific debaters and will put across our arguments without fair of censure as long as we were being honest. Active debate is encourage actively and even the youngest gets heard as long as they want to contribute. I think what keeps Baba so young at heart and full of zest is that he surrounds himself with the young and he sees life through our eyes. That way, his ideas are always in date and he can converse about whatever you choose to discuss.

Somehow, Baba never asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up until I was 13 years old. I brought the topic up because when I was choosing my optional subjects for SS1, my mother expressed surprise that I didn’t want to do Economics. My response was one of surprise too because although I was good with figures and mathematics, I was always more into my science than finance. Turns out Baba thought I would make a great economist. Next time we sat around the dining table, I asked him why he thought I would make a great economist. I can’t remember his reasons but I promptly told him I was going to be a doctor and that there was no way economics would even feature in any options I would take for a career path. He expressed his disappointment that that was the path I had chosen but of course it was up to me. I was going to be the first doctor in the Joda lineage and thought he would appreciate my individuality.

It wasn’t until I was qualified and he sought my opinion on some of his medications that I felt he was proud of the career path I have chosen. So was I right not to listen to Baba? I thought so until the recent NHS upheaval which might mean me changing career tracks this late in the game. He is almost always right my grandad after all. Maybe what he foresaw was that being an economist would be a better quality of life for the grand-daughter who was feisty and named after his beloved wife. Perhaps he knew that my hard work and talents would not shine the brightest as a doctor. Perhaps he even predicted that I would end up working in the NHS whose main shortcoming is its poor economics. Who knows? As of now, I think I chose the right profession. I knew I wanted to be a doctor before I even know what a doctor really does. I love the job itself now, more than I ever thought I would. However, the politics of the NHS now means I am questioning whether my love for the job justifies my continuing on in the career when it means me risking my health, my social wellbeing and happiness and giving up so many of my dreams. Watch this space!

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Moo!

The cow is an amazing animal. For some (Indian Hindus) it symbolises God. For some, it is a tool for agriculture, for ploughing the fields and for fertilising the soil. For some, it is a means of transport. For others, it is a source of nourishment – providing beef, milk, cheese, butter and leather. I think most people would see a cow as wealth.

As a Fulani girl, I certainly have much love for the cow. As you may have read from my earlier blogs, my infancy/toddlerhood was spent on my granddad’s farm (Benue Valley Farm, Fufore). Although the horses are up there with all the great things in life, I always had a special soft spot for the nursing cows and their calves. The bulls to be honest just scared the hell out of me so I always stayed well away from them but not so the calves. We Nigerians believe that when bulls see red, they charge (I am not sure if this is a wider belief) – because of that whenever I forgot to check my clothes before heading to the farm, I would sit in the car in fear of being gored to death. So the bulls get a bit less love from me although I do admire their huge humps from a safe distance.

I remember the joy when we got to the farm after some time away to find a fresh crop of calves all soft and wobbly on their legs, sticking as close to their mums as they physically can. It was fascinating watching them breastfeed and I remember feeling sorry for the poor mums as the calves violently suckled on their udders. If we went early enough, we would catch the milking and the milkers (they were men!) would squirt warm milk straight into our mouths as we danced around in joy. I loved watching as over the days the calves grew in confidence and started to stray away from their mums in little groups. And it was one of those magic moments to see them run for the first time, venturing out into the big bad world without their mum by their side. I must confess I am not sure if calves run but I don’t think they gallop or do they?

There was one particular cow in the herd that was people-friendly and liked to be petted. Now most fully-grown cows are quite aloof and stately so being petted is not something you would do. The calves are usually quite skittish too so cow-love must normally be from a distance. Not this heifer. The herdsmen would call to her using a strange sound that was neither word nor whistling but a cross between. We would scan the herd excitedly, hundreds of cows milling about soon after coming back from grazing into the pen. Then eventually a dark brown cow would emerge from the group and head straight for us. She would poke her head down and through the wooden slats of the fence to the little people waiting expectantly and we would stroke her warm hide and feel the way her skin vibrated and rippled. That is what stays with me; the warm leathery feel and her large eyes looking at us as if with fondness. She was so patient too. She stayed for as long as our attention was fixed on her and we would stay with her for as long as our mama or granddad would let us.

My other main interaction with cows came around slaughter times. My mum, being from a farm and daughter of a Fulani man, preferred to slaughter a cow when we needed meat and then freeze carefully packaged parcels of meat to use daily over time until we went through it all. Just before we ran out of beef, we would get delivery of a bull and he would be tethered to the tree in the back garden and fed some grass. I am not sure why he was kept for days before he was slaughtered but I would hang about the back door, half afraid and half wanting to make friends. I would take a pace back when he mooed and stared at me. Eventually, I would make my way to within a metre of him and talk to him. I would bring fresh water and grass and watch him eat and drink. I would inevitably ask my mama if I could name him but I was forbidden to do so. My mama explained that if I named him, I would start seeing him as a pet and then it would be haram (i.e. forbidden Islamically) for me to eat his meat. So I would refrain from naming him but nevertheless, I would be his friend for the rest  of his life.

I watched the slaughter every time despite the sadness it caused me. I would stand inside the parlour (sitting room) and stare out the window as the men tussled with the cow to get him to lie down. They would tie his legs together and dig a hole beside his neck. Next would come the sound of metal on metal as the knife was sharpened as per halal slaughter tradition. I would whisper prayers for a swift death at this point. Then his neck would be extended and with a prayer, the cut in one swift motion. The smell of fresh hot blood spurting into the waiting hole is an ingrained memory. The bit that followed was the worst bit for me…it was chaotic with blood on hands and the volume of the work to do to clean, parcel and tuck it all away into the meat freezer. My main job was to help braid the intestines which we would cook with liver and kidneys to make the most delicious sauces. Much as I had mixed feelings about those days, I learnt much from them. Not least where my meat comes from and facing the fact that an animal has to die for me to enjoy some meat. So I have the utmost respect for meat.

From a Fulani point of view, a cow is more than just a source of meat, dairy products or manure. To us, the cow is the symbol of wealth and I suspect respectability to some extent. Every Fulani person that can afford it has a cow or 2 somewhere back home. I used to have a herd that started from a heifer bought for me when I was a baby (this herd has been lost in time). A couple years ago, my mama felt guilty about my loss so she got me another heifer and I am proud to say I also have a calf that is about 6 months old today. Beautiful calf too – light brown with intelligent eyes. I feel an inordinate amount of pride for my cows and I know many a Fulani woman (or man) feels the same. Of course cows are a source of security because they do fetch a mint in the market so should you need a lump sum, you have it banked. Also we love our milk, yoghurt and man-shanu (which is like ghee) and in the old days, we controlled the supply of those. Around our parts, there is no better treasure to give to your wife when you marry her than the gift of a young heifer. It warmed my cockles when Roger Federer (the greatest tennis player ever!) was rewarded with a cow when he won the Wimbledon trophy for the first time. Now those Swiss know how to appreciate talent!

It is widely known in Nigeria that the Fulanis have a love affair with their cows. We are proud cow people. The saying goes that a Fulani man would let you steal his wife but touch his cows and you are a dead man. You may have heard of the skirmishes in North-central Nigeria around the Jos area which lead to a lot of deaths (of Fulanis and Josites alike) peaking about 4 years ago. Rumours are that at the centre of this bloodshed was the killing of herds of Fulani’s cows in protest of the Fulani herdsmen letting their cows graze on private lands. Suffice it to say, in a place like Yola which is Fulani central, no one dares steal or harm a cow because we all know how true the fears are. Heads will certainly roll should you mess with this Fulani woman’s cow (in a non-violent way of course because yours truly does not sanction violence). Also cows have free reign to roam in many Northern towns and cities and when they cross roads, we all have to sit patiently in our cars and wait until they stroll off the road before the journey can continue. That is major in Nigeria because as most people know, we are not big on patience.

My husband and I on the face of it have not got that much in common and when people ask me I struggle to come up with more than a couple of reasons. However, last year I realised probably the biggest unifier between us is the cow. He is Zulu you see and they too are cow people. So when I comment on how gorgeous cows are and take pictures as they stroll past my car or graze in fields, he totally gets it. I found an art gallery (Whitewall Galleries on Colmore Row, Birmingham) when in town with my husband last summer and although we disagreed about many paintings on display, we totally fell in love with one. A picture of a smiling cow by a fabulously talented local artist. I still have my eye on it and now that we have bought the house, it is next on the shopping list.

Girly Man

I listen to Ed & Rachel on Heart FM on my daily drive in to work (as I always do because it is the best programme on radio!). Yesterday’s morning’s phone-in was about celebrating the ‘girly’ things that our men do that we think are great. So that got me thinking and this blog was born. Before I do that, let me just say I do not actually think these things are girly. I think the things I will praise below are just nice, lovely, sensitive traits that are brilliant regardless of gender. It is just that because men have the wrong idea about what it is to be a man, these nice things are now feminised. So to the men in my life whose traits I will be praising, I want to reassure you that I am in no way questioning your manhood or masculinity. I am celebrating you in all you glory!

My granddad, he of the military ways, is the only man I know who always has lip balm with him and applies liberally. Also, he moisturises daily and I know this is still true because last time I went home, I decided not to take any moisturiser with me and the only place I could find some was in my granddad’s bathroom. He had several bottles of lovely stuff and my skin was happy throughout the holiday. More importantly, he has lovely moisturised skin, his diabetic feet are the most beautiful I have ever seen and he has none of the skin complications associated with diabetes and hypertension. Well done Baba!

My teenage cousin (Baby A if you have read my blog) is a very creative boy and one of his ‘hobbies’ is cooking. He can cook a 3 course meal and seems to enjoy it but what I was most impressed by is that he can cook the loveliest crepes (thin pancakes). Impressed not only that he can make them delicious, thin, round and unbroken but also that he uses reconstituted powdered milk and if I hadn’t know, I would never have guessed. He also gives lovely hugs and likes to sit and talk about the important things in his life. And when I am not in the same town as he is (which is most of the time these days), he will often say hi or good night or send me emoticon hugs randomly. Warms my heart I tell you.

My brother-in-law’s best ‘girly’ trait is that he celebrates his love for his family. When he and my sister moved into their home, he spent a considerable amount of time and money choosing and framing pictures of their close family members. And by their family, I mean his family and my family. Imagine my surprise when I found the loveliest framed photo of my mama’s in their bedroom and one of me with the pictures of his sisters in his study. Awwwh! The other thing is his ability to turn the volume up when his favourite music is on and dance around the kitchen without any inhibitions or when in the car, do a perfect imitation particularly when it’s a girl singer lol. Before he lived with my sister, I thought that was a girl thing. But apparently not, thank goodness!

There are lots of girl things that I have come across that I have loved and still love in the uncles and cousins, patients and friends too. I know a man who loves black nail polish and getting his nails done who has to hide his love for fear of people’s acid tongues. I know of a younger brother who buys the best hand bags for his sister who is my friend. I know of a cousin who when he was younger loved nothing better than to brush his mum’s gorgeous hair. I know several who love to be hugged just like I do.

Special mention to my dear husband though. I love so much about him but foremost are the girly traits that were like girl-magnet when it came to me. I think the seed of love was planted when he was honest about his feelings and that he let me see how vulnerable falling head over heels had made him. He loves my pink fluffy socks which even I find too girly to wear out and he is not shy to admit it either…he took them all the way to Nigeria when he went to ask for my hand in marriage. My poor sister got a shock when she spotted my socks peeking out beneath his trouser leg. George also has a onesie (I am not sure how to spell it but you know what it is when I say it is like a large baby grow/jumpsuit/overall). He insists that it absolutely is not girly but I beg to differ. On babies is where it should be. On girls, it is cute and could even be a sexy slouchy playsuit-type affair on a young lady. On a boy up to primary school level I could persuaded to see its merits but on a man old enough to shave and father children, I am in the ‘please no’ group. Dearest old George pretended that I could have the onesie when I shared my concerns but did I ever get to wear it? You know the answer to that. The onesie is a bit of a uniform these days and I have to actively order him not to wear it to restaurants or the cinema. He even turned up at the hospital I am currently working in wearing the onesie and asking for me. Oh the embarrassment! If I had known, I would not have owned up to being his wife.

So to my granddad (Baba), Baby A, George and all the unmentioned cousins/friends/little ones that have made my days with their ‘girly’ ways, I love you all and please embrace the girl in you. One love.

Sofia

She was a beautiful chestnut mare. I am aware I met her when I was only 3 years old so my perspective is bound to have been skewed BUT I did learn to ride before I could walk and I was around horses from infancy so I think I am accurate in my thoughts on Sofia. She was twice the size of the other Arabian and Argentinian polo stallions in my granddad’s farm stables. Maybe she wasn’t twice as tall but she definitely had the widest back of all. I remember meeting her for the first time and I was frightened enough to take a huge step back as she turned her eye on me. I think it probably took a 2nd or 3rd meeting for me to come close enough to touch her and then maybe another meeting to ride her that first time. The memory is hazy (I was really quite young) but I remember I rode bare back, possibly because she was not a ‘riding’ horse and there were no saddles to fit her broad back. She was there to breed. I was placed onto her back and I felt a little dizzy from the height. My little legs are splayed wide and still my feet could barely grip her flanks. It was like sitting on a firm sofa that was moving and felt warm underneath me with the lovely smell of horse coming from it. I remember some stable hand leading me around the stables on her back and I was on there for maybe 10-15 minutes. I remember leaning forward and placing both hands on her neck, stroking her and feeling her neck ripple in response.

I fell in love with Sofia after that day and hers was always the first stall I visited when I went to the stable. I brought her sugar lumps and fed them to her every chance I got. I rode on her back whenever someone was free to lead the horse. I stood by her stall door and talked to her on many occasion. I am not entirely sure what happened to Sofia over the years. I think whatever happened, happened in the 2 years I boycotted the farm because of my granddad’s unreasonable behaviour (lol, yes I was like that as a child!). She is long gone now but the last time I went to the depleted stable, her name was still faintly there, written over her stall in charcoal. These days, I am a little obsessed with riding large animals like camels and elephants. I think it is because I love to replicate the sensation of being on Sofia. And of course every time I see the image of a child on a large horse, I think of her. Gorgeous animal she was!

My Legendary Granddad

We all call him Baba. He is 84½ years old and still going strong. He was born in Girei, a small town not far from Yola. He went to the famous Barewa College back in the day and he has lived in many many places over the years. Many Nigerians know him or of him because he was around when Nigeria got Independence from the UK and back then he was a Permanent Secretary for Education to the Federal Government of Nigeria and was involved in a lot of the well done legislative processes related with forming a new Government structure. Unfortunately, a lot of the good work done then has been unravelled by our unscrupulous Governments but enough said on that one!

Nowadays, he is just a farmer. I say just because all my life, he has been a farmer but he was also working full-time in Civil Service and an active board member of several companies and institutions. His farm is massive. It’s many hectares of prime land in Fufore…I used to think it was as big as Yola but maybe not. It stretches from the main road to Fufore from Yola to the mountains in the horizon. Within it are a lake and a large pond. There is the round house, the abattoir, the horse stables, the building that houses the tractors and other large machinery, the barns for the cows, the clusters of huts and bungalows housing all the farm staff. As a Fulani man, his main focus is the cattle. Of course. He has cows for beef but his love is dairy cows and he cross-breeds cows from all over the globe to make them better milk-producers. He is also big on his fish farming these days so has 3 other farms with fish ponds etc. Over the years, he has kept horses, rabbits, chicken for eggs, sheep, goats and more. To feed his large herds, grass is obviously a necessity so a lot of the land is given to planting of grass and making hay. He also routinely plants rice, maize and beans. The beauty of it is that a lot of our food at home is fresh from the farm. We have fresh milk which we make into yoghurt every evening at home. We have fresh meat and fish whenever my granddad decides we are due some. We get large sacks of maize, rice and beans every year so we never have to buy some things.

One thing that stands out about Baba is his discipline and strong will. I found out that he used to be a heavy smoker until he was in his 40s. I was stunned to find that out because as far as I knew he was too strong to be addicted to anything. I am told that he woke up one day and decided he did not want to be a smoker anymore. He went into his room, got his stash of duty-free cigarettes and gave it to one of the house staff and told them to take it away. He never, to our knowledge, smoked another cigarette. Now that is how you go cold turkey. He also used to drink strong black coffee every afternoon at 4pm on the dot. I would have sworn then that he was addicted to his coffee but apparently not so because nowadays, he can do without any coffee for days.

Back in the day, his Yola daily timetable was almost military. He would wake up and leave for the farm at 6am every morning. He would come home for 8am in time for breakfast which he expected to have on the table at 08:00. After breakfast, he was a little flexible and would go out to visit people, have meeting, work in his home office etc. Lunch was at 1pm followed by a siesta which ended around 3:30pm. He would wake up and play solitaire on his bed (back then using real cards) until about 3:45 to 3:50pm when he would get dressed and go into the living room to await his 4pm coffee. He was in the car for the farm at 4:15pm and then back at 6:00pm. So basically, it was a strict timetable from 6am to 6pm daily.

His military tendencies also extend to punctuality. If you say to Baba I will see you at 7pm, he will call at 07:05pm to check why you haven’t yet turned up. If he asks when to expect you and you say between 7pm and 7:30pm, he is a little better but again, he will be on the phone or go out at 7:35pm because he will get impatient at your ‘lateness’. Travelling by road with him can be a hard trial too. Even if the journey is for a holiday somewhere 4 hours away, he will insist that you set off at 6am in the morning and woe on you if you are more than 5 minutes late getting to the car. He once invited a young woman friend of his to join him on a trip to Gembu in the Mambilla which is one of his favourite places to go in Nigeria. He asked her to meet us at home at 6am to set off. He never mentioned to us that he was expecting a guest so no one knew anything about her. Off we went to Gembu that morning and we were there at around 1pm. He decided he wanted to go check out his farm and see the cows in an hour. Now, my sister and foster sister were there too and we were sharing our room and bathroom. We also had to use a kettle to boil some hot water for our baths because there was no working heater. Suffice it to say, Charo (my sister) and Bilky (my foster sister) managed to have their baths and I was last so at 2pm, I was just about to step into the bath when my granddad gave the order for the troops to assemble for departure. Knowing my granddad, I said to the girls ‘you go without me’ and took my time freshening up. I was mooching in the kitchen trying to find some food when there was a knock on the door. I hesitated for a second and then went to investigate. There was a strange woman at the door with a guy. Apparently, they had driven down from Abuja to join us on the Mambilla trip and they had turned up at the house in Yola 30 minutes late and found we were gone. It took them 2 extra hours because they kept getting lost (no sign-posting and no satnav then) but here they were. I shook my head and took them out with me to find lunch. LOL.

Baba decided when I was in Primary school that because I had an aptitude for mathematics, I should be an Economist. He didn’t share his brilliant ‘plan’ though until I got to midway through secondary school when I had to make choices on subjects. One of the many choices was Economics which I opted not to do because I was into my sciences, biology and agriculture in particular. When he found out over dinner one evening that I was not going to be studying Economics, he wasn’t impressed. I was like ‘why do you care?’ Then I found out he thought I would make a brilliant economist. Sadly for him, I am a girl who knows what I want and I knew from the age of 4 that I was going to be a doctor. He is still somewhat sad that I chose to become a doctor and not an economist.

Baba is a type 2 diabetic and has been since he was in his 40s. He was so good with his lifestyle modification regime that he did not need any medication for decades and he has only in the last 3 years or so started using insulin. However, about 2 years ago, he became naughty with his diet. I went to Yola for 6 months in 2012 and one day, I came to the kitchen and found bottle of diet coke in the fridge. Now there are never pop/fizzy drinks in our home unless there is a dinner party or a wedding or something so this was highly unusual. I questioned the cook and found out that Baba had taken to sending the boys out for bottle of coke after I had gone to work when I was on-call or after I had retired to Mammie’s side of the house for the night after work. I was shocked. Why would he after 40 years of being good suddenly opt to start drinking probably the unhealthiest drink on earth? Of course, I took all the coke bottles out of the fridge and gave it away and I never allowed him to store any in the fridge. I am not sure whether he snuck some past me into his bedroom and drank it hot but I know there was no way I was going to let him kill himself slowly through high blood sugars and the attendant miserable complications. Oh dear!

Another stand-out thing about Baba is his vigour. By that I mean his physical stamina and strength. As I have described, he would spend hours every day on the farm and still does when he is Yola (he is not in Yola most of the time these day). He used to walk at such a speed that we had to trot alongside him to keep up with him when we were younger. My grandmother Mammie had tiny size 3.5 feet and walked quiet slowly (don’t know whether it was because of her baby sized feet or just that she was such a dignified lady that she never rushed). We found it quite comical this contrast between Mammie and Baba. I remember once bumping to them on Oxford Street in London. Well, I say bumping into them loosely. We bumped into Baba as he hurried down the street and asked where he had left Mammie. ‘Oh she is back there somewhere’ he said, pointing vaguely in the direction he was coming from. So we had a brief chat and he moved on whilst we went searching for Mammie. We found her about 300m away, calmly walking and window-shopping as though she wasn’t supposed to be with her husband. When we teased her, she shrugged and said ‘you know what he was like’. Yes we do.

He was on his way out in his home in Abuja about 4 years ago when he slipped and fell down the marble staircase. My mother found him unable to put his weight on his leg and when examined, they found he had an open fracture of both his tibia and fibula (the 2 lower leg bones). He was flown to London for surgical repair and then had to learn how to walk again. He went stir-crazy and sent my poor mother up the wall by refusing to do anything. He must have been depressed and scared because he refused to co-operate with physiotherapy for many days and just wanted to be left alone despite claiming he had never felt any pain except at the moment he broke the leg. When he finally made it out of bed and was confident enough on crutches, he was sent home with the plan to use the crutches for 6 weeks until the wound was fully healed. He called me 2 weeks later to ask permission as a doctor to ditch the crutches. I asked what the Consultant Orthopaedic Surgeon had instructed and he brushed off my question and insisted he was fine to walk. I refused to give him the go ahead to go crutch-free so soon. It didn’t make the slightest difference. To my mama’s misery, he threw out his crutches and was back to walking in no time. He is now almost back to pre-fracture vigour and only if you look closely will you notice that when he has to step down when walking, he hesitates ever so briefly as the memory of his accident comes back to him.

As I already mentioned in another blog, I inherited my facial features mostly from my grandmother Mammie. I did however inherit some things from my grandfather. His toes which my mum has and I have too with the funny 4th toe. Also the vein-iness of our hands and feet. All of us (my mum, sister and I) have a funny patch 2/3rd of the way of one of our eyebrows which has coarser longer haywire hairs that like to stick out rather comically. Mama studiously ignores her eyebrows and bats our hands away when we try to smooth the funny patch down. My sister gave in to the eyebrow shaping. I am resisting shaping my eyebrows and usually brush them into order but these days, there are usually 1 or 2 really stubborn long pointing hairs that I have to pluck out. A big thing I have inherited from Baba is my stubbornness. I prefer to call it tenacity, determination, decisiveness or ‘knowing what I want’. Most of the Joda grandchildren exhibit the same characteristic to one degree or the other. I have been called hard-headed a few times in my life. I never back down from an argument if I know I am right. I will do things the right way even if it will make my life awkward as long as it is right to do it that way. I would face the scariest person down if they lie about me rather than be quiet for an easy life. I will plan and work hard for years to achieve a goal or dream.

The last thing I have inherited from Baba is his principled ways. As you probably know, for anything to work in Nigeria, you need money and the more money, the better. That is why corruption is so rife. People want to get things done for personal gain and the more they want, the more money they need to accumulate to pay for it all. Sadly, many of these people are the people governing Nigeria so a vast chunk of all of our wealth (and it is vast being one of the largest oil-producing countries) is diverted into personal accounts and safes in homes and spirited away to offshore accounts in Switzerland, the Caribbean Islands and Asia where it can be kept private from inquisitive eyes. Baba is often accused of being a ‘bature’ because he will not make a penny more from a job than the contracted amount. A ‘bature’ means a white person which in the Nigerian context means the colonising Brits. So when you are accused of being a bature, they are suggesting that you follow the white man’s laws and are transparent in a way that is not natural in the Nigerian tradition. 3 out of 4 of his children are just as principled when it comes to earning their way the honest way and I strive to be like them. To me, money is nice to have and necessary to provide the basics of life but my ambition has never been to be rich. I just want to be comfortable. Baba is also straight-talking. If you want to know something, you ask him a direct question and you get a direct answer. Unless he doesn’t know, in which case he will say so. I too am a straight-talker…although people have called me precocious, abrupt and even rude because of it on occasion. To be honest I don’t really care what people say about me unless they misconstrue what I say and get mad. And fair enough, rarely I am intentionally rude because someone is being mean, unhelpful, unfair or verbally abusive at work.

Anyway, I digress again! I will finish by saying that I know Baba is lonely these days because at nearly 85 years, his friends and all of his friends have died. Most of his brothers and sisters are gone too so he feels alone a lot of the time as his children and grandchildren are busy leaving their lives and many of us are not even in the same town as he is. He had diabetes and hypertension and several other organs are beginning to show signs of old age. He keeps losing interest in all of his old interests and every day, he has a new project that gets abandoned when he dreams up something else. Despite all that, I pray that he stays with us until we can have an even bigger party on his 90th birthday compared to his 80th. Because I want to have children and for him to meet them and look at them with the wonder with which he looks at my nephew, his first great-grandchild.