My grandpa, my hero.

I was meant to be writing a different article. Robin Williams' death this morning led to a flurry of tributes on Facebook and Twitter. RIP messages to someone who would never see them. I was going to comment on my refusal to be part of the herd that did that. I'm writing a different post.

When I was 8 years old or thereabouts, my grandpa came to visit. This was not a frequent occurrence and contrasted sharply with a recent visit from my paternal grandma. My only memory from this visit stems from his reaction to our stomping around and playing noisily, as kids do, in the room directly above his. He called me down and I was surprised that instead of yelling at me like said grandma would, he said "lying downstairs, upstairs sounds like a drunken menagerie". This statement elicited a wondrous reaction. Having never heard the word 'menagerie' before I had to ask him what it meant and he explained it to me. He was always willing to share his knowledge with us.

My fondest memories of time spent with my grandpa involve his telling me stories of his time in England studying at Lincoln's inn or about his memories of the Nigerian civil war or his time as Chief Justice of Nigeria. Last time I was home, for the first time in my memory, I spent an entire day with just my grandparents. He was 93 and she was 87. I knew that I couldn't have them forever and between living in London and their deteriorating health, I have had fewer opportunities to see them the last few years. I was therefore extremely pleased to have spent that time with them.

My fondest memories of my extended family revolve around his house in Ohafia. My cousins and I operated out of there whenever we were in the village during our teenage years. Evenings spent singing popular songs in the “bar”, nights spent trying to sneak in quietly having been to parties and then trying to stifle laughter when 6 or 7 of us were 'forced' to sleep in one room with humorous consequences, mornings and afternoons on the verandah chatting with several generations of Anyahs and calling out to passers-by, holding our breaths every time we drove into the compound - the narrow gate and steep incline making us wonder whether whomever was driving would be able to squeeze through without scratching the car.

Even my most awful memory of attending my uncle, his son's funeral is from that house. I have been saddened since we all grew up because I knew that we might never get another chance to congregate as we did for our grandparents' 50th anniversary at that house. Now I am desolate because I know it is true. There were three men against whom all men I have ever encountered have been measured. One of them is no more. I join the legions of people who write tributes to someone who will not read it. Grandpa adieu. Life will never be the same but I write this knowing that you achieved all that you ever could and were the best grandfather that anyone could ever hope for. Rest in peace papa.

NB: Written yesterday evening once I heard of his death but waited till I was sure everyone would have heard before posting.