Helga Mbakwe-Nosiri: A Friend I Never Met

By Olusegun Adeniyi

Sometimes in November 2014, I received a mail from someone who introduced herself as Mrs Helga Mbakwe-Nosiri, a senior official at NAFDAC and daughter of the Second Republic Governor of the old Imo State. After the usual patronising words about how she had long admired my writings, the request was made: She had just completed a book on her late dad titled, “My Father and I: A Daughter’s Intimate Account of Dr Sam Mbakwe’s Life” and she would appreciate if I could be the reviewer. As an admirer of the late Mbakwe, I couldn’t say No to her request and after an exchange of mails and phone calls, we finally agreed on 20th December, 2014 for the public presentation of the book in Owerri. But on D-Day, the Aero flight I was to take from Abuja disappointed. It was from the airport that I emailed my text to her to get someone to read at the event. Despite my inability to make Owerri for the ceremony, she appreciated my efforts and we became friends. We have in the past six years spoken several times and also exchanged a lot of messages. But whenever we made efforts to meet, something would come up and we would postpone the idea. It was therefore with shock and sadness that I learnt during the week that Mrs Helga Mbakwe-Nosiri, a friend I never met, passed away last Sunday. In her memory, I am recalling the review I did on her book in December 2014. May God comfort the family she left behind.

A curious young girl went to her father one day and asked: “How did we come about all people in the world?” and the man replied: “Adam and Eve made babies, then their babies became adults and also made babies and when those babies became adults, they also made babies and on and on it goes until we arrived at the current population.”

The little girl then went to her mother and asked the same question. And she told her: “We were monkeys then we evolved to become like we are now.”

The girl ran back to her father and said, “You lied to me!” explaining what her mother told her. But the father replied: “No, my darling I did not lie to you. Your mother was only talking about her own side of the family.”

Distinguished ladies and gentlemen, considering that I have two daughters and a son, I am in a position to attest to the special relationship between a girl and her father. Therefore, when I got an email from the author some few weeks back asking whether I could be the reviewer of the book being presented today, I did not hesitate to say Yes once we could agree on a date acceptable to both of us. However, my acceptance was not only because of that special bond between father and daughter but also because the subject of the book for which we are gathered here today was a man for whom I had tremendous admiration as a young boy even though I never met him in person.

By whatever yardstick, the late Chief Sam Onanunaka Mbakwe remains one of the icons of the Second Republic. For that reason, I am very much delighted to be here today as we present the book, “My Father and I: A Daughter’s Intimate Account of Dr Sam Mbakwe’s Life”. Broken into parts, rather than chapters, it is a fascinating account of the life and times of one of Nigeria’s most respected politicians of the last century, written by his daughter, Mrs. Helga Mbakwe-Nosiri, whom I am meeting for the first time today.

Part one is particularly very revealing as the author traces the story of her father from birth through his education (both at home and abroad) to his marriage and the beginning of family and professional life as a young lawyer in Port Harcourt. While the narrative is compelling, the notion by the author that her father’s journey into polygamy was accidental is not supported by any empirical fact because Mbakwe, though the only child of his mother, was himself a product of a polygamous family.

However, what would interest not a few people is that Mbakwe actually had a twin-sibling he never got to know because they ended up in the evil forest at a time twins were endangered species. It is indeed a most revealing opening to the book which would no doubt interest Helga’s American friends though as an aside, I am not sure that former Anambra State Governor, Chief Jim Nwobodo would be happy to be reminded of anything to do with him and his first wife (as the author unwittingly did) especially given a recent family feud over the burial of his late son.

Part two begins with the birth of the author and the hospital drama that speaks to the obsession with the male child. By dramatizing the story in the manner, she did, Helga has brought out a very important gender issue that should generate serious debate. For diverse reasons, from the cultural to the ridiculous, male child preference has become a common feature of life in many corners of our country today and especially, from what I hear, in Igboland. But if we will be honest, it is really a universal phenomenon. For instance, Chinese tradition says most parents want their first child to be a male.

Research in United States also reveals that male preference biases the grieving process. An American study of 236 parents who had experienced the death of a child concluded that parental grief was greater for the male than the female child. The situation is worse in India where at a hospital documented by Ramanamma and Bambawale, in a sample of 700 women, only four per cent of those expecting daughters chose to carry their pregnancies to term. The remaining 96 per cent had abortions. By contrast, 100 per cent of those expecting sons carried their pregnancies to term, even when a genetic disorder was considered likely.

What I find rather interesting is that while most men care less about the sex of their child, and we see that very clearly in Helga’s account, every woman would want to have a male child either for security of her home or for status. If many had a choice they would prefer all their children being male! If you have ever encountered a woman with all male-children and you asked for the number of her children, the response would most likely be ‘I have four boys’ and not four children as it would have been if they were girls. This is not to suggest that boys are important but just to show the societal prejudice.

The quest for the male child has therefore become rather important in our society, indeed for many, an obsession beyond their control. By a simple recollection, Helga brings out the dilemma and has raised an issue worthy of further interrogation, especially in Igboland where I understand it is still a big deal for a woman to bear a male child.

However, what most readers would find fascinating in that section of the book is the salacious account of how the author came about her name. Helga is neither an Igbo nor a Christian name and those who may, like me, be curious about it don’t have to wait anymore. In the book, Helga tells her interesting story: “…Shortly before my christening, however, Papa returned from Dusseldorf and immediately switched my name to Helga, an imposition that could only be possible because he was the father of the home. Helga in German means piety. When I was much older, I asked Papa why he chose that name for me. He told me sincerely that it was the name of his German girlfriend in Dusseldorf but asked me not to tell my mother. But being talkative, I could not keep the secret. But when I told my mother, she only laughed it away, much to my surprise.”

Beyond the evident closeness between a curious daughter and a humourous and loving father, there is something about that account that arouses curiosity. My suspicion is that it’s either the story was made up by Mbakwe (in which case Helga’s mother already knew the real reason behind the name) or the late Mrs. Mbakwe had been told the tale before by her husband so the element of surprise was no longer there.

Reading Helga’s next chapter has set me thinking. There must be something about Aba that is nostalgic for those who were brought up in the rustic town. I remember an interview THISDAY once conducted with the former Nigerian Brewery Supremo, Chief Festus Odimegwu where he said rather proudly, “I am an ABU”. Since he didn’t say he attended ABU, we felt he could not possibly be referring to Ahmadu Bello University, Zaria; so we asked for what he meant and he interpreted it to mean: I am an Aba Brought Up! In the narrative in part three, Helga also romanticized about the city renowned for the enterprising spirit of the people. Of course there are also details about the death of her grandmother, the German experience of her father and his dexterity in managing his polygamous family.

Part four begins the story of the political journey of Mbakwe who was thrown into national limelight after the war when he challenged in court the Abandoned Property Edict enacted by the Rivers State military government headed by Mr. Alfred Diete-Spiff. The law was evidently targeted at the returning Igbo people. Mbakwe took the case to both the high court and the court of appeal before the federal military government eventually intervened with a committee headed by the current Senate President, David Mark. From that litigation, Mbakwe never looked back as he became the prime mover for the creation of Imo State. Then he went to the Constituent Assembly in 1977 before he contested and won the Imo State Governorship election in 1979 under the platform of the defunct Nigeria Peoples Party (NPP).

Although I have heard the name of Mbakwe mentioned in several discussions about the abandoned property saga after the civil war, I never knew he played such a prominent role until I read Helga’s book. Being a landmark development that speaks to our past as a nation, I believe it is an issue that should be properly documented by historians and I would imagine that there must be some records and documents that Helga and other family members would have that should help in such enterprise.

In part five we see Helga do a portrait of her mother in the way anybody would do of their own mother; after all, mothers can do no wrong. The story here also contains Helga’s education at a time her father was governor and the eventual death of her mother. While there is nothing dramatic about the account, it is still a worthwhile read in that it reminds us all of the roles our mothers played in shaping our lives.

Part six of the book is an account of the stewardship of Mbakwe as governor; the political battles he fought; highlights of his achievements and how he earned the moniker of “weeping governor” to which he is easily remembered till today. But while Helga sees nothing wrong in her father taking the laws unto his own hands by announcing himself as winner of the 1993 gubernatorial election in Imo State, there are people who would frown at such desperation no matter the justification for it.

However, it is not for nothing that the era of Mbakwe is easily remembered today as a golden one. Not only did his administration construct most of the major access roads across several communities in Imo State, Mbakwe also built the state university which has produced prominent citizens. What made the university unique at the time was that it adopted a multi-campus concept to cater for the increasing number of Imo State indigenes who could not secure admission in federal universities and more remarkable is the fact that he pioneered the idea of state-owned university. Mbakwe also built several industries, including the Aluminum Smelter Plant in Inyishi; the Amaraku Power plant that would later be sold; the Avutu Poultry Farm and several others.

Part seven begins with the story of the December 1983 military coup that toppled the Second Republic civilian administration and how the duo of Buhari and Idiagbon sent many politicians, including Helga’s beloved daddy, to jail. As it would happen, Mbakwe bagged a prison term along with his wife, Victoria, the step mother of the author. But by accident or design, both the wife and husband were domiciled in the same prison and the author recounts what reads like a story of life in the valley.

However, what I find interesting in this section is an aside which reveals a lot about our country. Helga wrote and I quote: “Mrs. Ladi Netimah, who was the secretary to Melford Okilo, the former Governor of Rivers State would have been the First Lady of the subsequent military administrator of Rivers State after the coup. But her husband was replaced with Fidelis Oyakhilome when the Buhari led Supreme Military Council realized who his wife was.”

Part eight takes readers to Helga’s school days but not without some snippets into the little role the author played, or perhaps refused to play in what would be one of the most interesting romance story of the last century: that between a certain beauty queen by name Bianca Onoh and the late Emeka Odumegwu-Ojukwu.

Part nine concludes with the illness and eventual death of Mbakwe, an only son whose life and times were tempered by a strong resolve to influence his environment in a positive way. But the message here is the abandonment of Mbakwe in his hour of need by the same people who would later venerate him after he was dead. This is also a familiar story which speaks to the fickle nature of our society and that perhaps also explains why the governors of today do not want to make the kind of sacrifices made by the Mbakwes of this world.

In all, while “My Father and I” tells a compelling story of the man Sam Onanuka Mbakwe and the family he left behind, Helga and her father are at the centre of the narrative. In the book, we see a man who was protective of his family yet also pragmatic enough to know that in making his choices as a politician, there would be personal sacrifices along the way. But while Helga’s book brings to light several issues, it is a remarkable work of extreme caution: as to be expected, she presents her father in a rather flattering light, she tried to be nice to all his acquaintances, she has nothing but kind words for all the extended family members, including, if not especially, her half-siblings. In Helga’s book, everybody comes out nice.

However, beyond the family tales, what Helga’s book does is to remind us about where we are coming from as a nation and it is easy to conclude that the past was a much better Nigeria. At the end, what the author, who remains optimistic, says most eloquently in “My Father and I” is that notwithstanding the challenges we face as a nation, Nigeria is not a lost cause.

To the extent that I am only seeing a copy of the book for the first time today (what she sent me is the manuscript), I am not in a position to judge the quality of production but the narrative is interesting. ‘My Father and I’ is a tender story of the relationship between a politician-father and his children in the typical Igbo setting. What is evident is that as Helga delves into her father’s story, she embarks on a journey of discovery: of memories lost and found, of some of the unpleasant history of the Igbos in a multi-ethnic Nigeria and how some of those issues have echoed down the years.

‘My Father and I’ is therefore a fascinating book I will gladly recommend for those who may want to know more about Imo State and the man who made it all possible; a man who is now in the land where he would weep no more.