Scroll to the bottom of the page to see all the tributes by Maco's children.
WATCH A SUMMARIZED EDIT OF THE CEREMONIAL POLICE INTERMENT BELOW
WATCH A SUMMARIZED EDIT OF THE SERVICE OF SONGS BELOW
WATCH A SUMMARIZED EDIT OF THE VILLAGE PROCESSION BELOW
WATCH THE RECORDED LIVE STREAM OF THE SERVICE OF SONGS BELOW
About MACOBarrister (Chief) Macaulay MACO Ojeata Ohikhuare (ACP Rtd) 'THE AIGBOKHAEVBORO' of Iuleha clan was born on the 16th of March, 1945 into the family of Late High Chief Gabriel Aigbomobe Ohikhuare of Ule-Eromon Quarters, Ivbiodohen - Okpuje, Owan West L.G.A of the Western Region (previously Mid-Western Region (1963) / Bendel State (1976) now Edo State(1991), Nigeria.
He was the fourth of eight siblings, birthed by Late Omohiehe Atose - Ohikhuare. Read More |
Maco's LegacyMACO's journey in the Nigeria Police Force started with him attending the Nigeria Police Training College, Ibadan in 1963 - the same year the Mid-Western region was created from the Benin and Delta provinces. His training kicked off on the 1st of October, 1963. He was moved swiftly to the Southern Police College, Ikeja - Lagos for intense, in-depth training and passing out from the Police College of the Nigeria Police Force in April, 1964 as a recruit constable. Read More |
OBITUARY
MACO'S BIOGRAPHY
UNFORGETTABLE
Tribute by Stanlee Ohikhuare
I believe the one thing I would never get used to is not being able to speak to my father when I call his phone. Forever, I would not have the pleasure of hearing those first remarks in his characteristic firm voice “Hello, Stanlee…”
Over the past months, I have searched through several hard drives, looking for automatically recorded conversations with my dad, which were carefully archived when I backed up my phones. I am still searching. That’s how much I miss hearing his authoritative voice.
Every conversation with my father was a feat. Sometimes it would be him asking about my wife and kids, at other times it was him trying to find out how my business was doing, and of course, there are countless times when the first thing I would hear is “How can you stay one whole week without calling your father?!!!” Yes, I got upset severally, and made excuses centered around my busy schedule. Things would get over-heated on some occasions, and he would hang up. I would be furious, but the passage of time would remind me of my father’s unique way of showing that he cared, and I would call him back to apologize. On one occasion, I wanted to prove something to him by not calling back, and it haunts me till this day.
As a child, the sound of my father's horn could immediately change my mood from playful to cautious. He had several cars, and we knew the sound of each car’s horn, and engine distinctively from any other car in the whole wide world! My father was dutiful and hard-working. He was a great role model for me and my siblings, and I am still thankful for some of my characteristics that I gained by observing him, and his irrevocably perfectionist-disciplinarian approach to life.
He had his fair share of imperfections - that cannot be disputed. But his ruggedness simply shielded his innate desire for his children to mature into independent beings who could hold their ground wherever they found themselves. It was a taboo, and still is, for any child of MACO to be intimidated by anyone.
Being around my father always put me on the edge - even after fourteen years of marriage, and four kids of my own. His disapproval of laxity and recklessness was not just visible through his numerous outward expressions, but almost audible even when he didn't say a word.
My father's approach to showing how much he cared was not embodied in gentle hugs, pats on the back, kisses, and outright praises. He would never have opted for an approach that could make his children ‘weak’.
But he showed approval and appreciation in his own ways; short-lived smiles, seemingly aggressive encouragement and a constant reminder that his wealth, success and accolades were not ours. We had to condition our minds from early childhood, to fight for, and keep whatever we reap from the diligent work of our hands.
He was responsible for the family and he took it very seriously. In retrospect, he never felt that he had done enough for us to relax and rest on his laurels, and he made it a point of duty to indoctrinate us likewise.
He was blunt, straight to the point, a no-nonsense person. A self-made man, a bit rough at the edges but deep down sensitive. As a child I wasn’t mature enough to see his sensitive, loving side all the time. I only saw that when he smiled at my accomplishments, patted me on the shoulder or introduced me, and whatever noble or creative feat I had just attained, to his attentive friends and colleagues.
Our father was nothing short of a warrior, a fighter who was unafraid of any foe. So, permit us, when we would scamper and reassess every little detail when the sound of his engine pierces the silence at the porch. It became increasingly pertinent each new day, for us to play out the very best of our well-rehearsed ‘good child’ deportment.
When I think about the past, I often wish I could have a second go at my childhood. I would see my father in a different light and I would spend more time with him – even when he comes home tired and exhausted from the frustrating nature of his work, that mandated him to interface daily with the worst people in society - criminals.
Though I remember him as a disciplinarian father, he never punished me out of hate or despise. It hurts when I think of the many missed opportunities we missed to ‘click’ perfectly well when I was a teenager.
There were times when he wanted to get close to his young children, share experiences with them, and all. Most often, it didn’t last for long. Someone would soon do something worthy of reprimanding, and he would oblige the much-needed correction.
But there are ever-green moments I shared with my dad; void of any recollection of rebuke. The recurrent visits to Bar Beach, the Amusement Park in Apapa, and the Federal Palace Hotel in V.I. Also, the night rides around Ikoyi when I would sleep off on the back seat of his Volkswagen or Volvo, and wake up the next morning on my bed.
I also remember the long trips to the village every Christmas, the local gyrations with clans-men in the village, the frequent massage for his recurring back-ache, the time spent playing a unique game he invented (service & Pay), which he taught us, and played with us at the lawn of our house on Imoke street in Enugu, the evenings of ‘Skeet Shooting’ where he would shoot down birds flying in the sky in an amazing display of his mastery of ‘leading and timing’ on a flying target – Yes, my father was a marksman! Thereafter, we would trail the birds and bring it back home, no matter where they eventually fall.
As a child, my father brought a piano home, and I quickly taught myself how to play it hence, finding a new way to enjoy unique moments with my father, who would invite me to play for his guests whenever they visited our home.
I recall sneaking to the sitting room at night, and hiding behind the chairs to peek while my father watched his horror movies in the dark, with a bottle of Gulder by his side. He eventually caught me one day, and I was welcome to keep him company thereafter. Well, now you know why I like horror movies.
As rigid as my father appeared, he never imposed himself on his children’s chosen pursuits. He allowed us to explore, fail, unlearn, learn again, and go ahead to do exploits.
As a young child in Primary school, I would come back home with a report card with my teacher’s bold remark “Always drawing in class… Fair result, but could do much better if he stops drawing in class”. My father would ask “Did you fail Maths or English or any other subject?” I would tell him no. Then he would smile and say, “don’t mind them, come and draw me”. He constantly promised to buy me a bicycle if I came first, but he never pushed it beyond that. Let’s just say I was comfortable with my usual 3rd – 7th position in my class of averagely 29 pupils.
My earliest recollection of my innate gift as an artist still remains memories of me drawing my parents while they got dressed in their police uniforms, on their way to work every day. This was before I got into nursery school.
Thankfully, in my father’s latter years, the intersections of our collective experiences came into a befitting alignment. We became adults, and could talk to our father about anything. We started having conversations with him like adults.
Surprisingly, for a disciplinarian such as him, he started scolding us when we came visiting with the kids, and tried to ‘straighten’ them up for misbehaving in his presence. Ironic right? Yes, I found out after having my own kids that my approach to raising them, mirrors my father’s disciplinarian model. I am more accommodating to my kids though, but they know better than to act out of place, irreverently or recklessly.
My kids got to know my father better with each time they spent with him. My son was shocked to see his Police memorabilia and guns at home when we last visited in August of 2019. It was then that I realized I desperately needed my father to share his stories, and legacy with his grandchildren, by himself.
On the occasion of my final physical interaction with my father, I had wanted to interview him. I traveled to Benin with the cameras, lights and microphones. I desperately needed to document him, to have him tell me all those little things that made him the man he was. I pushed severally, but in his characteristic manner, he kept evading my advances.
I knew he expected me to try harder. After all, as MACO’s son, I knew I wasn’t entitled to getting anything on a platter of gold. Eventually, on my way to the Airport for my Lagos-bound trip with my wife and kids, I compelled him (with help from my first son) to act as one of the characters in my upcoming movie, who was written with a back-story that’s similar to my father’s.
It was surreal giving my father direction. “Three, two, one… action! He would act, and I would review his acting and then go for a second take. At some point, he complained about the repetitive nature of the process and I reminded him of his own mantra “PERFECTION”. He cooperated fully afterwards, and asked how he fared. I promised him that I would be sending him the clip once it’s edited. Sadly, I never got the chance to.
I miss all those calls. I miss the arguments, I miss the unsurprising similarities in our joint analysis of politics and the state of the nation, which often brought back the ‘fire’ in him. I miss the egocentric quarrels too - it was a unique language in my family, and we all acknowledge it. Sadly, my last phone call to my father was ‘heated’. I refrained from calling back, and planned to surprise him at Christmas, when I had arranged with my wife to surprise him by traveling to Benin with the kids, with the possibility of getting my pending interview when he is elated. That would never happen, as daddy had other plans.
Today, reflecting on my disciplinarian father has brought me to the realization that it is sometimes difficult to see beyond a strict father’s starkness. I am thankful to God that he lived long enough to avail me the opportunity of comprehending him better, and sharing precious moments with him; not just as a father, but also as a friend and confidant.
I never entertained the thought of him dying, even when things looked so critical. In hindsight, it is clear that he was done with postponing the day of relief from Earth’s pain and uncertainty. MACO was unafraid of anything - even death.
Charge on Daddy, roar in that ‘timeless space’, and let them know on the other side, that a warrior has arrived!
Your son,
Stanlee Aideloje Ohikhuare.
TRIBUTE TO MACO
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TRIBUTES BY MACO'S CHILDREN
MY HEART
My Dad passed away suddenly. Even though I knew it was looming, I didn’t know it would come so soon. I still struggle to get acquainted with the idea of death, and what it means for those of us left behind.
Now I am beginning to understand just how naïve my existence was before I was forced to confront death’s discourteous blow.
While we all shrug at the thought of experiencing such a life-altering loss, the truth is, we all will eventually. Death is a part of life, and once it strikes someone you so dearly love, your existence will never be the same.
I know the pain of losing my Dad will perhaps never leave me. I imagine it will ease with time as I process and get through it, but I don’t suspect I will get over it. How can I? How do you get over a person who was there long before you were even aware of yourself? A person who aided you through the crucial process of self-awareness.
My father is nothing short of a legend. His life, his influence, and his energy are inextricably linked to mine. Today, I take solace in the fact that my Dad is no longer in pain.
My Dad, will forever be in my heart until the day it stops beating. Because of him, I am becoming a more wholesome, more caring, more compassionate, and empathetic. Still, I would forfeit any wisdom for the sake of having him back.
Farewell my hero! MACO!
Rex Ehimiaghe Ohikhuare
THE BEST
Hmmmmmmm Daddy my love, may your precious soul RIP. You were the best dad ever, I can never forget our “every Sunday” outings to Bar Beach, Apapa park, Federal Palace Hotel, Ikoyi hotel etc, when we were kids. Also, our weekly ice cream and suya can't be forgotten too. You specially loved Christmas celebrations, but unfortunately, you died at the same period when you should have been happy and celebrating.
Can't forget our dressing like English royals during the festive period, wooooooow you were truly the best dad ever. Haaaaaaaaa how can I forget the debate society you formed inside your house with the boys contesting with the girls every night at Otuocha, pushed every child of yours to be outspoken, bold and fearless.
Thank you so much daddy, I knew your worth before, but much more now, I so much cherish, adore and appreciate everything you did for us, because you're the best. Our very own Maco Polooo.
The day you died, so many natural things left me, I'm still struggling to get myself back from the shock of your death. Goodbye daddy, the family of Solomon Abode loves you dearly, and our twins - Duval and Daphne miss you daily.
Winifred Arojeume Abode (nee Ohikhuare)
A FATHER, A BROTHER AND A FRIEND.
First you were and always was a father to me, then you added the brother figure to our relationship as I grew older and understood more things. As a full-grown adult, you became an invaluable friend.
At all of these times, our relationship differed, yet you were my Father. No one can ever replace you as a father to me. In many ways your life was defined by the many influences and people you encountered, and that in no small way, is evident in anyone who calls himself your child today.
You succeeded in raising world builders, who never fail to leave a mark everywhere they go. We have sworn to continue to do our best to make you proud.
You have played your part, and departed honourably but you will always be alive in our hearts. We shall tell our coming generations of your valiant stories, and pass them down to make sure that no one ever forgets MACO.M.O. OHIKHUARE!
I am in awe when I look at the queue of communities standing behind you; all of whom were never accounted to you the day you were born. You lived an unforgettable life dad!
Sleep well Dad, till we meet again.
Patrick Ewanle Ohikhuare.
OUR DAD & HIS MANY SIDES
I will always remember my dad recounting with a smile how i would run on wobbly legs as a frail toddler with what seemed like my last strength to welcome him home, or with a squeezed brow narrate how I was saved as a baby from a nurse’s overdosed injection, or when innocently I became a pawn used to ask him for things as he seemed to always say yes to me, or with his legendary stern look while giving me extra pocket money in university with the word ’so you don’t ask boys for money’ or his phone calls in the middle of work with the words ’I just want to hear your voice’.
As an older adult, when I troubled him just a fraction of how he troubled us while we were growing up, he would say to me with his ’I don’t want to smile expression’, ’Rita, your mouth is too sharp’.
In his hard knock approach to parenting, he educated us, taught us to be strong, resilient, confident, respectful, lovers of sports, learn to adapt, love for music and musical instruments, appreciate photography and to be creative with our hands and minds because he was all these things and more. Boys chores were also for Girls.
He was a self-acclaimed inventor and mechanic, designing creations and intricate electrical works that still marvels us till date. He would partly bring apart a car engine and put it back together. He was also a hunter of sorts, bringing home fresh game to grace his pot of soup.
He loved it when all his boisterous children are gathered around him on rare occasion as the house would be akin to a party venue with us reminiscing and confessing some of our epic James Bond moves to outdo his detective ways.
He was an unapologetic disciplinarian, which we frankly concluded as tiresome growing up but unknowingly moulding each child to be strong, independent and enterprising adults today. Thank you, Daddy aka, our ’Polooo’. As an agile and resilient man, you were unhappy with the weakness of old age, so you are now at peace. Miss you always but I am glad I was able to also take care of you in return. You still owe me a promise though, but I will be okay.
Rita Okanimamen Ohikhuare
UNFORGETTABLE
I believe the one thing I would never get used to is not being able to speak to my father when I call his phone. Forever, I would not have the pleasure of hearing those first remarks in his characteristic firm voice “Hello, Stanlee…”
Over the past months, I have searched through several hard drives, looking for automatically recorded conversations with my dad, which were carefully archived when I backed up my mobile phones. I am still searching. That’s how much I miss hearing his authoritative voice.
Every conversation with my father was a feat. Sometimes it would be him asking about my wife and kids, at other times it was him trying to find out how my business was doing, and of course, there are countless times when the first thing I would hear is “How can you stay one whole week without calling your father?!!!” Yes, I got upset severally, and made excuses cantered around my busy schedule. Things would get over-heated on some occasions, and he would hang up. I would be furious, but the passage of time would remind me of my father’s unique way of showing that he cared, and I would call him back to apologize. On one occasion, I wanted to prove something to him by not calling back, and it haunts me till this day.
As a child, the sound of my father's horn could immediately change my mood from playful to cautious. He had several cars, and we knew the sound of each car’s horn, and engine distinctively from any other car in the whole wide world! My father was dutiful and hard-working. He was a great role model for me and my siblings, and I am still thankful for some of my characteristics that I gained by observing him, and his irrevocably perfectionist-disciplinarian approach to life.
He had his fair share of imperfections - that cannot be disputed. But his ruggedness simply shielded his innate desire for his children to mature into independent beings who could hold their ground wherever they found themselves. It was a taboo, and still is, for any child of MACO to be intimidated by anyone.
Being around my father always put me on the edge - even after fourteen years of marriage, and four kids of my own. His disapproval of laxity and recklessness was not just visible through his numerous outward expressions, but almost audible even when he didn't say a word.
My father's approach to showing how much he cared was not embodied in gentle hugs, pats on the back, kisses, and outright praises. He would never have opted for an approach that could make his children turn out “weak”.
But he showed approval and appreciation in his own ways; short-lived smiles, seemingly aggressive encouragement and a constant reminder that his wealth, success and accolades were not ours. We had to condition our minds from early childhood, to fight for, and keep whatever we reap from the diligent work of our hands.
He was responsible for the family and he took it very seriously. In retrospect, he never felt that he had done enough for us to relax and rest on his laurels, and he made it a point of duty to indoctrinate us likewise.
He was blunt, straight to the point, a no-nonsense person. A self-made man, a bit rough at the edges but deep down sensitive. As a child I wasn’t mature enough to see his sensitive, loving side all the time. I only saw that when he smiled at my accomplishments, patted me on the shoulder or introduced me, and whatever noble or creative feat I had just attained, to his attentive friends and colleagues.
Our father was nothing short of a warrior, a fighter who was unafraid of any foe. So, permit us, when we would scamper and reassess every little detail when the sound of his engine pierces the silence at the porch. It became increasingly pertinent each new day, for us to play out the very best of our well-rehearsed ‘good child’ deportment.
When I think about the past, I often wish I could have a second go at my childhood. I would see my father in a different light and I would spend more time with him – even when he comes home tired and exhausted from the frustrating nature of his work, that mandated him to interface daily with the worst people in society - criminals.
Though I remember him as a disciplinarian father, he never punished me out of hate or despise. It hurts when I think of the many missed opportunities we missed to ‘click’ perfectly well when I was a teenager.
There were times when he wanted to get close to his young children, share experiences with them, and all. Most often, it didn’t last for long. Someone would soon do something worthy of reprimanding, and he would oblige the much-needed correction.
But there are ever-green moments I shared with my dad; void of any recollection of rebuke. The recurrent visits to Bar Beach, the Amusement Park in Apapa, and the Federal Palace Hotel in V.I. Also, the night rides around Ikoyi when I would sleep off on the back seat of his Volkswagen or Volvo, and wake up the next morning on my bed.
I also remember the long trips to the village every Christmas, the local gyrations with clans-men in the village, the frequent massage my siblings and I offered for his recurring back-ache, the time spent playing a unique game he invented (service & Pay), which he taught us, and played with us at the lawn of our house on Imoke street in Enugu, the evenings of ‘Skeet Shooting’ where he would shoot down birds flying in the sky in an amazing display of his mastery of ‘leading and timing’ on a flying target – Yes, my father was a marksman! Thereafter, we would trail the birds and bring it back home, no matter where they eventually fall.
As rigid as my father appeared, he never imposed himself on his children’s chosen pursuits. He allowed us to explore, fail, unlearn, learn again, and go ahead to do exploits.
As a young child in Primary school, I would come back home with a report card with my teacher’s bold remark “Always drawing in class… Fair result, but could do much better if he stops drawing in class”. My father would ask “Did you fail Maths or English or any other subject?” I would tell him no. Then he would smile and say, “don’t mind them, come and draw me”. He constantly promised to buy me a bicycle if I came first, but he never pushed it beyond that. Let’s just say I was comfortable with my usual 3rd – 7th position in my class of averagely 29 pupils.
Thankfully, in my father’s latter years, the intersections of our collective experiences came into a befitting alignment. We became adults, and could talk to our father about anything. We started having conversations with him like adults.
Surprisingly, for a disciplinarian such as him, he started scolding us when we came visiting with the kids, and tried to ‘straighten’ them up for misbehaving in his presence. Ironic right? Yes, I found out after having my own kids that my approach to raising them, mirrors my father’s disciplinarian model. I am more accommodating to my kids though, but they know better than to act out of place, irreverently or recklessly.
My kids got to know my father better with each time they spent with him. My son was shocked to see his Police memorabilia and guns at home when we last visited in August of 2019. It was then that I realized I desperately needed my father to share his stories, and legacy with his grandchildren, by himself.
On the occasion of my final physical interaction with my father, I had wanted to interview him – just like he did with his father; my grandfather. I travelled to Benin with the cameras, lights and microphones. I desperately needed to document him, to produce a sequel to a documentary he made of the Ohikhuare family in 1985… yes, my father was also a filmmaker amongst other things. As though I knew his time was running out, I wanted to have him tell me all those little things that made him the man he was. I pushed severally, but in his characteristic manner, he kept evading my advances.
I knew he expected me to try harder. After all, as MACO’s son, I knew I wasn’t entitled to getting anything on a platter of gold. Eventually, on my way to the Airport for my Lagos-bound trip with my wife and kids, I compelled him (with help from my first son) to act as one of the characters in my upcoming movie, who was written with a back-story that’s similar to my father’s.
It was surreal giving my father direction. “Three, two, one… action! He would act, and I would review his acting and then go for a second take. At some point, he complained about the repetitive nature of the process and I reminded him of his own mantra “PERFECTION”. He cooperated fully afterwards, and asked how he fared. I promised him that I would be sending him the clip once it’s edited. Sadly, I never got the chance to.
I miss all those calls. I miss the arguments, I miss the unsurprising similarities in our joint analysis of politics and the state of the nation, which often brought back the ‘fire’ in him. I miss the egocentric quarrels too - it was a unique language in my family, and we all acknowledge it. Sadly, my last phone call to my father was ‘heated’. I refrained from calling back, and planned to surprise him at Christmas, when I had arranged with my wife to surprise him by traveling to Benin with the kids, with the possibility of getting my pending interview when he is elated. That would never happen, as daddy had other plans.
Today, reflecting on my disciplinarian father has brought me to the realization that it is sometimes difficult to see beyond a strict father’s starkness. I am thankful to God that he lived long enough to avail me the opportunity of comprehending him better, and sharing precious moments with him; not just as a father, but also as a friend and confidant.
I never entertained the thought of him dying, even when things looked so critical. In hindsight, it is clear that he was done with postponing the day of relief from Earth’s pain and uncertainty. MACO was unafraid of anything - even death.
Charge on Daddy, roar in that ‘timeless space’, and let them know on the other side, that a warrior has arrived!
Your son,
Stanlee Aideloje Ohikhuare.
My Father: MACO.
There are so many things to remember you for, Dad. I feel too overwhelmed to place one thing above all else. I never imagined in my lifetime I'd have to write you a funeral's tribute. A part of me never believed you could actually die.
You had survived a lot from a simple middle child in a large family, pushing your ambitions and making your way to Lagos, where you became an excellent police Intelligence officer and a business "multipreneur". Walking in on your warm body after a few minutes of counselling from the post mortem doctor, I could have sworn you were just having a peaceful sleep.
PoloMac. Macopoloo. Speaking in your ears and telling you how much I loved you would not wake you. A kiss on your forehead did not flinch you. This was not a drill, you were gone, this time, for good.
You were a superhero, taking on different roles and pushing for the best life for your family the best ways you knew how. You were highly respected and everyone admitted that what you brought to the table was always matchless. You put your heart into everything you did, and balanced it with such genius that your legacy remains as a man that had no equal. You beat me a lot sha, hahaha. Always saying something about a good name that we must not spoil or bring shame to. To date, I do not joke with a good name and a great work ethic. You taught me how to save: you said, save at least half of what you earn and you will not go broke. How true it still is.
You never bought once what you could not afford at least twice. That is a wisdom that has saved me many times. You were strategic and pioneering. You started things that others copied, and set the bar so high that everyone always knew who had the original idea.
When you made a bad investment, you worked tirelessly to salvage it and when you had cut your losses, you close that shop. You never did anything you could not master and never made an investment into anything you did not fully understand enough to operate personally.
Your mentorship program was brutal. Donald Trump had nothing on you. You criticized me without mercy. I started to realize that it was possible to read between the lines to hear the unspoken nuances within criticism, so I could forge forward more powerfully.
You taught me to confront arguments objectively, get to the heart of the matter, disarm the most intelligent debater, and the skill of choosing not to continue on a path of conflict if I could not see the ethical gains of it.
Every conversation I had with you about God, Jesus and the afterlife left me more considerate and thoughtful. You believed in God enough to ask for prayers and miracles and you witnessed them happen, over and again. Also, you asked very hard questions about God and doctrine, that I had to be certain of my faith to answer you. You were able to tell when a man's word was not based on fact or strong conviction. You could feel a man's heart and weigh it in his words. Thank you for those precious moments of listening to my beliefs about God and Jesus Christ, my saviour and Lord.
Above all things, you taught me to be bold and audacious: following your example, I realized It is only an irresponsible man that has not mastered his super ability through diligence that fears when trouble comes. The diligent man will always rule, whether it is thrust on him or not, everyone knows the diligent man is KING.
You were a dreamer. You drew up the plans of your houses and projects. You fabricated stuff from scratch. You would draw them, paint them and push to achieve them. One memorable idea was the "EDO RED BOYS", a project you proposed to Edo state as a local policing agency. I remember your numerous sketches, red uniforms the color of blood, black berets, batons, tear gas, boots etc. This was way before civil policing like LSNC or Amotekun entered the hearts of men.
Though it was never commissioned on your tab, the powers that be side-lined you and duplicated the entire idea, including uniforms and kits. I see them in Benin City and I remember how superior your ideas were.
One fond memory that stands out was the day we had gone to eat isi-ewu somewhere off 1st east circular road, and later went to see the then commissioner of police. I was already in practice as a new wig and living on my own. As we drove back home, you asked me to promise you one thing: that I would not practice criminal law. You had explained that I had the intelligence for it, but that most likely I would service criminals and make a lot of money, assuring me that usually, it so the man that is guilty that would pay anything to save his life, and you did not want me to make money from such means.
Admittedly, You caught me right in my tracks because though I hadn't thought of the money, I had a thorough understanding of the criminal codes, Police Act and the evidence act to the point that I knew how to make a black board turn white virtually, using all the tabs and loopholes in those acts. It came with a "god" feeling and kick. That conversation defined my practice as a solicitor, and the sole reason I never practiced as an advocate, to avoid the ambitious temptation.
The only thing I'm sure you were not happy about was my decision to be a musician rather than a lawyer. Even when I could prove to you that I was doing better financially in this career than I did running my own law firm, and better than most of my contemporaries were, you still would not let it go.
I remember the random calls that began with "Barrister at law". Usually that introduction meant there were people with you and you needed to brag. You would ask me questions about criminal law, criminal proceedings, jurisprudence or evidence, because you knew I was sound in those areas. It was one conversation that whenever we had it, I could literally feel your swelling pride from the other side of the call, while your voice boomed with excitement no matter how ill or tired or stressed you were.
Someone said my picture beside yours in wig and gown is the only picture that you framed and hung in your houses with pride, asides marriage pictures. It took your leaving us for me to realize that my being a lawyer meant more to you than I imagined or felt. The thing that stood out the most about you, was your sense of justice, of right and wrong. You had a moral compass that you could not shake. It was evident in how you ran our family (home barracks) and how you related with everyone that met you. You were the famed officer that could not be bribed, meaning while you were highly respected for that virtue and its effect on the job, you were sorely hated for it, because no injustice could go past you unnoticed or unchecked.
As we lay you to rest, I am glad you chose it to be at Ivbiodohen, the palace where my happiest childhood memories were formed, every Christmas and Ukpe festivals. We joker often that you would fall sick if you didn't visit the village for just one weekend. Truly, It was your happiest place and everyone who ever spends an hour there would realize why: it was a safe place, a peaceful place, a place where people had no airs and where you could relive all your fondest memories and say to yourself , "look how far we have come from the humble beginnings".
Dad, everyone who meets us and knew you would say, "you are true children of your father". Those who never met you always conclude and say, "your father is a great man", just by looking at how we do stuff and being awestruck by how we shine in a class of our own in this world where people don't value integrity, character, discipline and justice anymore. Your legacy lives on in us.
Till we meet again, I am committed to being the best man I can be, perhaps the greatest image you could imagine when you held me and named me Frank Eguakhide Ohikhuare. Live on Dad. I love you forever.
Your Barrister,
Frank Eguakhide Ohikhuare
THE FLAME
I have thought of an endearing way to start this, I assumed I would have the most brilliant and elegant words to describe you, this is a phase I never assumed would come but we are here, my indestructible father has left me...you are an icon.....my earliest memories of our father-son relationship was with me wearing a tee shirt you handpicked with an inscription on it that read “my love belongs to daddy"..…growing up I encountered the disciplinarian who wasted no time in dealing with excesses, I saw the father who made me understand that I needed no one to succeed....I saw the multi-talented man who would return from work, dismantle his car engine down and reassemble it before eating dinner, a man who would run electrical connections that would confuse many skilled artisans, if my father was stuck on an island, he would need nothing else to survive but his hands and his wits, my father was a business mogul, a music producer, a lawyer, a father and a terror to evil men...tales about your valour in the police force could create a blockbuster movie....you were fearless and charged into fire where other men cowered and took cover, you were a very complex being, no one could understand you, unpredictable yet dependable, smart and funny but you could unleash hell when provoked...you taught me how to be a man, how to depend on my instincts and intuition, you taught me to always raise the bar higher and higher, never retreating, never condescending, as a young teenager, we had regular fallouts, I was resisting you yet you had faith in who I was....and as you grew older our fondness was unique, you only showed me tough love and I grew to understand who you were, we always had very many issues and we would reconcile without external influences, we went through your health challenges hand in hand and every single time you came out I said to myself...my father is indestructible....and the truth is you were indestructible, God just saw this a perfect time to call you into retirement from this wary and stressful life...and when the creator calls, you yield...you gave me a warriors upbringing, and I'm not given to many expressions of affection, I’m just glad I got the opportunity to tell you just once in his life that I loved you and you copied....
Your fire is still burning, you just transcended...as long as I am here....You are here....it's amazing how even strangers have amazing tales to say about you ..I am so proud of you and I love you....it's so hard to let go, so I stare into the mirror and see the fire in my eyes, and I am comforted....you are here....still!
Iron man Maco lives on...
Rest easy father, you lived a good life....
SALUTE TO AN ICON,
SALUTE TO A GENTLEMAN,
SALUTE TO A COMPLEX BEING,
SALUTE TO MY FATHER! YOU ARE HERE.
Henry Ileaboya Maco-Ohikhuare
THE LION
For a son, a father is someone you look up to, someone you admire, a protector, someone to confide in and the first person you learn about becoming a man from. You were all of these things for me and so much more.
The first lesson you ever taught me was about being responsible. You explained “responsibility” in such a way that even as a child I could comprehend, you said, “A responsible man is one who sees things where they are not supposed to be and puts them where they belong without been told to, whether it is his duty or not." In that moment, even though I was only a child I felt like a man, I felt as if you were speaking to me man to man. Your words have stuck with me to this day because to me that was my first lesson in manhood.
My father was a successful man, but what is success? For the longest time I took his success for granted because I failed to recognize that success was based on an individual context. My father was not born into a wealthy family but during his lifetime he was able to evolve and accomplish so much despite his background.
Everyone who knows you, can attest to what a stubborn man you were. Stubborn in the sense that you refused to accept mediocrity, and strived to always fight for what was right. You fought for what you believed in, no matter the consequences. Everything you did was for the betterment and the greater good of those around you. Many lives were changed for the better because of you. You stood for the oppressed, and was certainly not one to shy away from a good fight. You stared at danger right in the face, so much that sometimes I wondered if you thought that you were invincible. You were in every sense a true soldier of the people, a force to be reckoned with.
When I was growing up I always felt like you and I had a very strong connection, an inexplicable connection, a connection so strong that I didn’t necessarily have to see you in order to know that you were in town. I could almost sense your presence. Of course, if you want to rationalize it, some might say I was a naughty child and I just knew when you were going to be around because I was anticipating a correction for some mischief, I had gotten up to while you had been away. Either way our connection was strong.
I am tortured by the fact that you are no longer with us. The fact that you will never be on the other end of the phone giving me advice, or just catching up. I will always cherish the values and lessons you instilled in me. I can only hope to one day pass them onto my own children. You taught me a lot and I am the man I am today because of you. I recognize a lot of you in me, your humility, your love for travelling, your love for people, and the need to always speak up for myself and for others, and again others might say, I also inherited your stubbornness.
Everywhere I go and everything I do will be a representation of you, my FEARLESS dad! I am a representation of the man you made of me. I always say "it is better to be a dead lion than a living dog" and you lived your life like a lion in all its pride, strength and greatness, and even in your passing your greatness lives on. Rest in greatness and eternal peace Dad. I will continue to love you.
Louis Okhaide Ohikhuare
My FADA.
This is how your number is still stored to my Gmail account, Daddy. I just like the way it sounds in my mind and sometimes, I even said it out loud at the sight of your incoming calls; I always made sure to be in a conducive environment before answering your calls so you wouldn't get upset about me being inaudible due to background noise.
Daddy yo! That's how I fondly called you when we were all in a super good mood and you would respond with that blushing smile of yours that wasn't so easy to come by. Daddy... It took a while for me to write this Tribute because honestly, I wasn't sure how to begin. Your passing left me numb - I still feel numb, actually. I just stood there staring at you, hoping you'd suddenly grab my hand, pull me close to you and move your body energetically like you did 2 days earlier when I was about to leave your private ward at the ICU. I stood there for long, my mind wandering wild with "what-ifs" and "if-onlys". But on the bright side, I was glad to have personally led you to Christ few years ago, and that gave me quite some consolation, knowing that your eternity is secured in Christ.
Daddy! I'll forever be grateful to you for instilling your preference for impeccable use of the English Language in me, coupled with your eloquence in written and verbal communication; these skills have helped me a great deal in life and I can't thank you enough for setting me up for excellence early in my life. Who brought a barber home to scrape the last strand of hair on my head because I scored 49, 1 mark less than the pass mark of 50 in English Language at Word of Faith College, G.R.A Benin? My no-nonsense Daddy, of course! I cried then but not anymore because such water-tight disciplinary measures paid off after all.
I will never forget that day when you suddenly broke the thick cloud of silence between us on a road trip by expressing your admiration for the vast combination of talents at work in me. I was both surprised and pleased to hear those words from you because I thought you were too tough to notice such Civilian matters. Speaking of Civilian matters, I remember one time when you were upset that I wanted to go through the NYSC Program. "That's for Civilians!", you said. "Attending the Police College would be a more befitting use of your time", you said. My Fada... You believed so much in me, you even got me my first Contract to write and voice a jingle - for Hon. Julius Ihonvbere's political campaign. Didn't you also pay for studio sessions so I could record some of the numerous songs I had written about nature and other subjects? I was still a Teenager when all these happened, but you didn't think it was too early to sponsor my dreams.
Your intolerance for sluggishness, mediocrity and laziness contributed immensely to how quickly I stand out wherever I go. At first, some people think it's because of my striking physical attributes until they encounter me personally and understand that it's more of a foundational phenomenon - thanks to you, Dad; you played a key role in setting up that foundation. I remember one time in primary 1 when we were asked to make a sentence with "tool box". It was shocking to me that no one in my class had a clue of what a tool box was, talk less of making a sentence with it. I was even more shocked by the teacher's amazement when I said: "My Daddy asked me to bring a tool box from the garage". I thought to myself: is it not this same tool box that Daddy uses every weekend to play with his fleet of cars in our compound, and his collection of electrical appliances? Nothing had to be wrong with those cars or appliances, really. Daddy simply derived joy from uncoupling things and putting them back together. Let's just say it was a hobby.
My Daddy... You didn't think anyone was too young to become resourceful, and I strongly share this vision of yours. You were a problem-solver, and I'm glad to have taken after you by using available resources to fix as many issues as immediately possible. I was still in primary school when I started changing lightbulbs and fixing things around the house using tools from your piles of tool boxes in the garage. Till date, I always have my personal collection of hammers, screwdrivers, pliers and various other tools in case the need for quick fixes arise. What chore did you not give me the opportunity to do until I became perfect at it? Is it to wash cars sparkling clean inside-out? Or to shine shoes until someone's reflection could be seen on them? The list is endless, ojare! Thanks to you, I always believed there was something wrong with the saying: "jack of all trades, master of none".
You drove lots of constructive habits into my subconscious and I would start mentioning them now but I might just keep writing until I grow older than you were - and I know you'd be utterly disappointed in me for spending the rest of my life in that manner. Oh, and by the way, that Corona Virus eventually came to Nigeria sha... it spread round the world - so they said; and things have not been the same since the beginning of 2020. Anyway...
I love you forever Dad, and miss you terribly. Whenever I called you with a strange number, you'd ask: "is this my Queen?" So, I'll conclude by saying: "this is your Queen, bidding you the umpteenth farewell till we meet to part no more".
Your Daughter,
Queen Ikhianovbua Edokpa (nee Ohikhuare)
MY MENTOR
Daddy, thank you for all you did for me as a father. I grew up to fear and worship your footsteps and I am proud to say in my next, I will love to have you as a father. Your ruthless and fearless leadership skills and your Attitude towards life and how you stare at fear in the eye is Immeasurably Outstanding. You taught me many lessons in my life’s Journey. You where my mentor and will forever be. You where my coach till the day you left us, you are forever my Hero. Still can’t believe I call your number sometimes wishing you will pick up and ask that I come over for some serious talk. I miss those times dad and I will forever hold your last words to me dearly. I love you forever and always …#lion #myhero
Abumen Steven Ohikhuare
DEAR DADDY
Dear Daddy, you were one of a kind. I never thought I would lose you so soon, you have prepared a legacy which shall never depart from us, you laboured and worked hard for your family. The last time we saw you, you spoke on how excited you were seeing us in school and how you had so much to tell us when we graduate, little did I know that would be the last time seeing you .I really wish I had spoken to you more and let you know how much I loved you .
You were a man of great vision and hated to see people around you suffer.
Daddy it is obvious that death is inevitable, your sudden departure was a big shock to us. It is more painful that you are no longer available for the words of encouragement, advice and comfort you always give. How I wish I would never have to refer to you as my father in the past tense but God knows best.
I miss you Daddy.
Rest in my peace Daddy.
Vanessa Ohikhuare
MY KNIGHT
Hey Daddy,
I know you are in a better place now. A peaceful place. You were one of a kind. A disciplinarian most of the time, but when need be, a loving father, a friend, and my knight in shining armour. You taught me the ways of men. I am good at a lot of handy skills and I owe it all to you. You raised a survivor and a determined young lady. I never really thought I’d have to write you a tribute this soon, but death is inevitable and I’m slowing beginning to accept the reality that you are gone from me. You left behind great memories, lifelong lessons, and you left in me, a lot of you. If I knew the last time I saw you would be the last time I would ever see you again, I would have stayed longer, a lot longer.
Daddy, my heart aches whenever I have to refer to you in the past tense, because I was not prepared to lose you. I wish you lived longer to see me graduate the university and accomplish so many things, But God knows best. I promise to keep making you proud. I promise to become a great woman, greater than you were. I promise to always put family first and help people in any way I can, just like you did before you passed on.
These are my final words to you,
Thank you for being a unique and dedicated father, I will always love you, you are forever in my heart and even at death, you will always be my one and only daddy. You may be gone, but your legacy lives on.
Rest in Peace Daddy.
Daisy Ohikhuare