You Will Eventually Become a Memory

In the video below, you can see my grandson, Luca Apoki, on all fours with his younger sister, Sofia, on his back. His mother, Dr. Mirela, was holding Sofia, and you could see how excited Sofia was, trying to ride him like a horse.

In 2024, when I went to Romania to see my grandson for the first time, we used to do video calls. When I would say “bava,” which is his term for football, he would run and bring a ball. When I said “calul,” which is horse, he would bring a toy horse. I thought he knew me as a person, but I never knew he was thinking I was like a cartoon character.

When his father came to pick me up from the airport, I entered their apartment wearing a black jacket with my hood on. When the boy saw me, he ran to his nanny and hid his face. He refused to come near me. I was told he had done the same thing to his uncle, his father’s elder brother, Dr. Mimi. In fact, he wouldn’t even stay in the same elevator with him.

I wanted to intentionally bond with my first grandson. As I’ve realized, we all will eventually become memories. I will eventually be a memory in his mind—a memory of his grandfather. I asked one of my children if they remember my father. He has a very faint memory. Only my eldest daughter and eldest son have some memories of them. I’ve found that when children have good memories of their childhood with their parents—the things you expose them to, the lessons you teach them, the experiences you share—these memories remain in their minds and sometimes link them to their background.

I heard that my paternal grandfather, Apoki, was a trader who had his own waterside in Otokutu, which is still known as Apoki Waterside today. He was known to be a very strict, harsh man. My father used to tell me that in our family, we don’t tolerate nonsense, and I took those words to heart very early on. I also heard my grandfather was a rich man. Seeing my father in a state of poverty, the stories of my paternal grandfather being wealthy became something I needed to pursue.

My maternal grandfather was a king, or “Ovie,” before the current monarchial system in our community. My mother would always tell me, “Your grandfather was a king. You don’t behave badly. You don’t hiss, or put your hand on your jaw, or beg.” I was told these things from a very young age. As far back as when I was seven years old, my mother told me that when we didn’t have food in the house, she’d say, “Go and wash the dishes, the plates, the pots. Food will come.” That’s when I put my hand on my jaw, and she said, “Don’t put your hands on your jaw. Your grandfather was a king.” And food did come, although it was just cooked green bananas.

My wife’s paternal grandfather had a two-story building, making him one of the first Urhobo people to have one. On her maternal side, her grandfather owned buildings and a lot of properties. These things formed a foundation for me.

Today, if I eat fried plantains, which we call “dodo” in Nigeria, I prefer the very soft ones. As I chew it, there’s a taste that reminds me of my father. Around 1965 or ’66, he would give us money to buy dodo and beans. It was that soft one they used to fry. I still remember the place and the name of the woman who used to fry it, even though I was only about three or four years old. Anytime I eat that soft plantain, I remember my father.

Because of this, I decided to have children early. I got married at 26, had my first son at 27, and had more children at 28 and 29. Then I gave an eight-year gap before my last child was born in 1996. I wanted to bond with my children. They still share stories of our adventures together.

When I got to Romania and my grandson ran away from me, I wondered how I could bond with this child so he would know his Nigerian grandfather and want to come to Nigeria. I used to tell people when I was younger that I would have a European grandson, and I’m amazed that it has come to pass. So, to bond with my grandson, I remembered what I used to do with his father, uncles, and aunties. I would get on all fours and they would sit on my back. I would pretend to be a “maloo,” which is the Nigerian word for cow. My granddaughter, who recently won a beauty pageant, still asks me to carry her on my back. I carry her because I carried her mother, her uncles, and her aunties on my back. Sometimes I even carry her on my neck, just like my mother carried me on her back until I was four years old.

One day, I was on my mother’s back, and she slipped and fell. I remember telling her, “Mama, you fell! You weren’t watching where you were going; you didn’t see that this place was slippery?” Later, when we passed the same spot, I told her, “Mama, please be very careful. This is where you fell this morning.” I was still on her back.

I made up my mind to replicate what my mother did for me with my children and grandchildren. So, when I got to Romania, I used the all-fours bonding technique. They put my grandson on my back, and I walked around. “Calul” is the Romanian word for horse. He was on my back, and I was bouncing around, saying, “Calul! Calul!” I was so surprised to see that he remembered it. In the video, you’ll see him on all fours, and his younger sister, Sofia, is on his back, laughing.

We will all eventually end up as a memory. Thank God for these videos I’m doing and for saving them in the cloud. Thank God for social media. Even when it becomes obsolete, my grandson will be able to see me carrying him on my back, and he will also see that he carried his sister on his back. When they see these things, it bonds the family together. I believe in a tightly-knit family. I am a very strict person, but I’m also a very responsible father.

I was recently talking with my granddaughter, and she remembered the day her mother was coming from Aba with her, and their vehicle broke down somewhere at Osubi. I went that night to pick them up and brought them to the house. My wife said, “Daddy is an eagle. He will dive to any length to rescue his children in his wings.” My daughter remembered that. It’s a memory that will be in her mind and will make her want to take care of me in my old age.