Earthly greetings, dear cousin,

Most people would want me to start this tribute by saying, “I cannot believe it has been ten years since you left this sinful world.”

I know you would be shocked to read such a “sinful world” cliché from me.

Going by the conversations and debates we had over so many nights during our more than twenty years of living in America, you know where my doubts are and where my heart resides.

I miss those midnight conversations when everyone had gone to bed, and I could look out at the night sky, gazing at the stars as we chatted about our family, life, politics, religion, and science. I especially recall my enchanted musings about the universe, long before the Webb telescope peered through the blinds of God’s bedroom in the heavens.

There were two phases in our relationship. There was the first phase when you were just my cousin, an engineer at the Wisconsin Department of Transportation, and a former lecturer at the University of Jos and later at the University of Benin. Then came the second phase when you were ordained a priest in the Anglican Church.

In the church, you rose quickly to become a canon, and eventually an archdeacon.

I remember that our conversations did not change as much as your positions in the church changed. The higher you climbed, the more insight you gave me into what was happening behind the scenes. You always told me the truth behind the whole façade. You never sugar-coated anything.

Even when you joined the church, we continued to chat late into the night. You hung out with bishops during the day and debriefed me at night. I often forgot that you had become a man of God. I still felt free to share my insecurities and my scepticism about the church. You never made me feel that anything was out of bounds.

I remember you reading my writings and expressing your feelings about them. You liked what Dr Njakiri Damages was trying to do to hold people in authority to account, but you wanted me to change the name to something less destructive.

I remember asking you if Dr Good Samaritan would be better.

We laughed.

Anyway, let me start this letter properly.

Dan, how is life on the other side of the divide?

I believe you and my dad have reunited. I want to believe you are back to hanging out with him, chatting on the veranda, the way I grew up seeing you do whenever you visited after your studies in London.

I started admiring you from a distance.

You were the first person in our wider family to go abroad to study and then return to live at home. As a schoolboy, I wanted to be like you. I wanted to go abroad to study. I wasn’t sure I wanted to come back home to work.

How are your brothers, Beco and Gilbert?

I want to believe that all of you are back in communion with my dad, for that was how I remembered life as a child.

You and your siblings were the next world beyond my father. Whenever any of you stopped by, it brought great joy to him. You were his nephews in whom he was well pleased. And he wanted us, his children, to emulate you all.

I remember starting by washing glasses so that you could all be served your drinks. I don’t remember what you used to drink, Guinness or Premier. I hope I’m not confusing your choice with Gilbert’s. Anyway, years later, I was sharing my educational pursuits with you when I got into the Federal University of Technology, Akure (FUTA), and you were a lecturer at the University of Benin (UNIBEN).

I remember your efforts to have me transferred to UNIBEN to study Electrical and Electronic Engineering instead of Agricultural Engineering, which I was studying at FUTA.

I don’t even remember why the transfer didn’t happen.

But I am glad I finished at FUTA, for my path would have been different if I had switched to UNIBEN.

With the Nigerian educational system floundering, you left for the United States. It was not a surprise to my dad or any of us. You had always shown us the light and the way.

When I left Nigeria for London, I was somehow, even unintentionally, following your path. And when I left London for the United States, my father was sure that once I connected with you, all would be well.

And that was how it happened.

From the moment we connected, you followed up on all my trials and tribulations in a new land. You guided, you advised, and you cheered me on.

During my wedding, you drove all the way from Wisconsin to New York. You even served as our emergency master of ceremonies when our designated MC was unavoidably absent.

More importantly, you brought your niece, Chinwe Nduka, with you, who is now one of our cherished family friends.

I always remind her that her roots sprout from my family through her father, Gilbert. She smiles each time I say that. I’m not sure she understands it well.

But I must report her to you.

She has not been fulfilling the sacred obligation of fetching firewood for me. I always have my akara ready, but I can only offer it to her when I receive the firewood. I even made it easier for her to monetise the firewood, all to no avail.

I’m complaining, although other first cousins once removed, like Ochiri Nnobi, Okey Eruchalu, and his brother, Ben Eruchalu, have no idea what we are talking about.

Still, on Chinwe, I’d appreciate your spiritual intervention from where you are. Dọọlụ m ya aka na ntị.

Dan, the last ten years have been challenging.

Without you nudging me, reminding me of who I am and where I came from, and challenging my impulses, I have sometimes been lost and at other times floating.

I deeply, deeply miss that.

I miss how we spent time grumbling about the decadence in our society, the inordinate quest for wealth, and how low our people were on Maslow’s hierarchy of needs. It has gotten worse in the last ten years.

I miss your insights into what was going on in the church. You always told it as it was, without protecting anyone.

I miss the freedom to say anything to you without worrying about how you would receive it. I miss having someone who knew where I came from, understood where I was going, and was not afraid to tell me when I was getting things wrong.

I miss you.

At this point, I must report myself.

I haven’t been in close contact with your wife, Beatrice, and children as I had hoped. Life has dragged me along in so many different directions.

I am sorry about that.

I remember that at your funeral in Wisconsin, ten years ago, I told your son, Allan, that I would be calling him and chatting with him the way we used to.

But it has not worked out that way.

I miss you.

As we mark this tenth anniversary, I plan to do better. I need to do better.

I cannot let life’s pressure break the family tree. As Ezeobidi, the incarnate, I cannot afford to let the descendants of my sister, Mgbafor Aniukwu, wife of your grandfather, Okpala Aniukwu, a branch of the family tree, break off.

Your service to humanity has been the template I struggle to emulate. I may never live up to it, but at least it has remained a guide.

Thank you for all you did for me and my siblings and our extended family.

I took it for granted that you would always be there.

But since that day I saw you in the hospital in Houston, Texas, where our conversation could only take place in silence, I have struggled to navigate this life without you.

It hasn’t been easy.

I miss you.

You have this thing you often say in Nnobi dialect, “Onye rụnye, ọ rụgharịba.”

He who puts a pear or palm kernel in the fire must stand by to turn it.

That is what I have been busy doing since you left.

Sometimes I wonder whether I have turned the pear or the palm kernel too early or allowed it to burn on one side. Those are the moments when I wish I could pick up the phone and call you to seek counsel.

But I know that is no longer possible.

So, I continue to do what I can, with the lessons you left behind and the memories of those long conversations that never seemed to end.

I hope life is much better where you are.

My greetings to my dad, Beco, Gilbert, Joel, Alexander, Festus, Ee-ee, and all our people at that end of the universe.

And Dan, if there is one thing I hope you know, it is that ten years have not ended our conversations.

I am still talking to you. I will tell you all about it when we meet again.

Ka ọ dịgodị

• Rudolf Ogoo Okonkwo teaches Post-colonial African History, Diasporic African Literature, and African Folktales at the School of Visual Arts in New York City. He is the author of “This American Life Sef.” His latest book is “A Kiss That Never Was.”