By Chuks Iloegbunam
“From all indications,” said Jika Attöh. He was dark, and dapper. He spoke English with an uncommon fluency. We also communicated in Igbo, which made me wonder if he was of the ethnic group. It was in answer to my question that he said, “From all indications.” I failed to see the indications, for neither Jika nor Attöh was Igbo. The year was 1976. We were standing in line inside a hall at the Faculty of Arts building of the University of Ife (Obafemi Awolowo University), all freshmen, waiting to register for our courses in the English Department. Jika told me he was from Onitsha, which was about 15 kilometres from my hometown of Abatete. His full name was Ifejika Michael Elvis Attöh. Of the Attöh surname, he explained that the origin was Ghanaian. He warned that it wasn’t spelt correctly unless two dots hung over the ö in it! Our friendship started on that day.
When on October 25, 2023, Ikeddy Isiguzo called for my confirmation of the terrible news, I instantly told him to perish the thought. “I tagged Jika to a WhatsApp message I posted this morning,” I said. Then I spoke more sensibly: “Who told you?” The story had appeared on a WhatsApp forum. I advised that he played no part in spreading it without confirmation. I dialled Jika’s number, expecting to hear the usual Babandidi or Misti Shooks, but it rang out. The prospect of calling his wife carpeted me. I tried a mutual friend’s number in Enugu without connecting. Less than ten minutes later, Oseloka Zikora called. “Terrible news,” he said in a subdued voice. He was in Namibia. Jika’s wife had got him by WhatsApp and, could he please pass the message on to Babandidi? Suddenly, calls started pouring in from all over, to ask if it was true, or to express condolences.
