My Father Died on Nkwọ
Ikeoha of Amichi; Okpata Ozuoha of Isu; Mmiri Na Edoro Ora of Amaigbo
On Tuesday April 25, 2023 at around 10pm after a 22-year run as a multiple-stroke survivor, among other challenges, my father Vivi OlisaEmeka Oruche took his last breaths on this realm.
He died in his home in Lagos, Nigeria surrounded by my mother, his home care nurse, and his 12-year home manager and care provider Samuel. Within 90 minutes of my father’s passing, my brother Arinze, and I, and my sister Ginika (via video call) were able to be with him as his spirit continued to leave his body. As he got cold, and more distant.
Vivi Oruche has left on earth, his wife, my mother Teena Oruche, 4 children; Nkeiruka (me), Arinze A.O., OlisaEmeka (jr.), and Ginika, and 2 grandchildren. He also leaves behind his 92-year old mother, and 9 siblings of which he is #3, the 2nd son to his parents. In addition, uncountable family members, and a tribe of people whose lives he greatly impacted.
Nothing ever fully prepares you for death. Yet, as much as I’ve dreaded this ‘day’, when I take stock silently, I realize I am as prepared as I’d ever be. I’m able to meet this surreality, not riddled with guilt and regret, but with a bottomless sadness, and gratitude.
By the time my father, Vivi Oruche, was 47, he had lived a life many could only ever imagine or dream of. He had visited countless cities around the world, made countless friends and acquaintances, seeded endless projects through business ideas, community projects, and investment in people.
Using any yardstick, my Father wasn’t perfect, (no one is). When a person dies, it’s easy to have selective memory, to only glorify the good details. Yet, after being mired in the murky bitterness of our relationship and family dynamics for most of my teenage and adult life, I choose this opportunity to reflect on the ‘wins’.
As a child, he was just my father, but hearing anecdotes about him cement the fact that he was larger-than-life in many ways.
He embodied undiluted confidence, unbiased generosity, and recklessness. An unabashed society man, not afraid to fly to a place in the world he never heard of, but always loved to come home. A village man with cosmopolitan swag. He would eat the finest gourmet cuisine with his hands. And lick his fingers.
If you know a fraction of his story, you’ll know that my Father escaped death too many times to count; from surviving being shot at close range in the right eye by armed robbers in Lagos, in the same moments my mother went into labor with their 3rd child, my brother Emeka. To narrowly escaping a death pit in the road while speeding back in a vehicle from his hometown to Lagos. To police raids. More armed carjackings. To his first stroke 20+ years ago, and subsequent ones later.
What most people may remember about my father is his affluence.
Whether by the show of material wealth (his bespoke clothes & top designer accessories, his amassing of luxury cars, or the epic parties/concerts he and my mother hosted), or the resource he provided to them (putting them through school, giving them a job, buying them gifts from abroad, gifting them a car/land/house, activating an introduction or opportunity that significantly impacted the course of their life).
A proud Anambra man, who grew up in Aba, then made his way to Lagos to blossom in business, and be at the top of the game before he was 32.
From electronics and furniture businesses, and pioneering a culture and aesthetic of beverages that had been unprecedented, and going on to build a beverage empire in Nigeria. Vibon Investment Limited, Yago Wine, Lancers, and Kasfruit. And with my mother, VeeTee.
It could be said that training a ‘nation’ is his greatest accomplishment. My father created a vision and facilitated possibilities for anyone he came across. He did this without bias about what social status you were. He wielded his resources, power, and connections to make shit happen for others. Almost, to a fault.
We can’t count how many people he fully funded through primary, secondary, and university education both in Nigeria and abroad… family, friends and people unknown to him.
“Your Father is responsible for who I am today” is the resounding phrase I’ve heard not just in the past few days but in these past years as an adult when people find out I’m his child.
My siblings and I now have a lot to reckon with in the wake of his departure. In all, I’m grateful for the privilege to not only witness a real life legend, but to be a product of him.
Due to stroke-induced cognition, estrangement, and pent-up resentment and anger, I've had many phases of missing my father. I’ve grieved him for most of my life. But now it hits different.
The missing is permanent. The grief has a new shape.
As messy, confusing, and heartbreaking as our journey with him has been so far, I’m taking with me the lessons, the muted memories, and the energy of his passion for life. I’m continuing the journey with my father with him as a spirit guide. The patron saint of making it happen. A deity of generosity, social aid, and pleasure. A king maker.
The strength of the people!
The wealth that is extended to all!
The Rain that falls for all!