April 2023: his message seen on Facebook got me thinking about Gabi. It said, “The best moment of a Christian’s life is his last one.”
Hmmm…
I’m dealing with loss. Or rather, impending loss. In a few hours, in faraway Australia, I’ll likely lose someone. This person became part of my life when I was just four years old.
She was a teacher at St. Monica’s, Ondo. She was a great family friend. She came to Nigeria during the Civil War to take up a teaching post.
Think about that for a moment.
That’s Gabi and I in March 2023, standing in front of the very house we’d lived in back in 1968 — a quarter of a century earlier.
“It’s the same colour,” she quipped. “I very much doubt it was ever repainted.”
Superstar
Three days ago, I sent her a text — just one word:
“Superstar”, followed by two black fists bumping 🤜🏾🤛🏾.
She'd read it almost immediately but said nothing in reply.
Two days later, responding to something I sent, she wrote back:
“If you don’t send that manuscript by tomorrow, it will be too late.”
It was hard to tell what that tomorrow was in Australia.
It’s tomorrow already there...what was it she meant -
Yesterday’s tomorrow or today’s tomorrow?
The Original Flower Child
Gabi is — was — and will always be the original flower child to me.
Whenever I see a Kombi van, I remember her instantly.
If she’d played the guitar, she’d have been Janis Joplin.
Two weeks ago, Gabi sent me a text.
Summary:
“In two weeks, I’m gone. Fell in love with you when you were a feisty four-year-old. Not sure about the feisty man you became.”
The Nigerian Christian in me kicked in instantly —
we don’t accept death so casually.
Gabi was suffering from a terminal illness and resolutely refused sympathy.
Milan. Paris. Silence.
At some point during her illness — perhaps around August 2021 — she told me she’d be visiting Milan from Sydney.
Coincidentally, I was to be in Paris at the same time.
She wouldn’t take my call. Just one iMessage:
“Let’s communicate by email.”
I didn’t understand it then, but I realize now —
she didn’t want us coming to Milan to see her.
And that’s exactly what we had planned to do.
So when she said,
“In two weeks, I’m gone. Fell in love with you when you were a feisty four-year-old. Not sure about the feisty man you became,”
I replied,
“You said you were getting better! What’s the rush?”
By then, I knew she had signed up for euthanasia. That was why I asked the question:
If you’re getting better, what’s the rush to leave life?
Then I made the mistake of adding,
“Maybe change your caregivers — perhaps they’re depressing you!”
Big mistake.
Gabi was feisty too.
She shot back sharply:
“Stop giving me spurious advice — just send the manuscript.”
Purple Prose and Teutonic Fortitude
I’d told her I was writing Chronicles of the OldManInTheMolue.
She was an English professor — sharp, brilliant, unsparing.
She once called my writing “purple.”
It deflated me then, but I valued her honesty.
It meant the world that she wanted to read #OldManInTheMolue.
Sadly, that won’t happen now.
Maybe I was afraid of her acidic precision,
and so I sabotaged myself — rushing, doubting, second-guessing.
She had no “empathetic moments,” just Teutonic fortitude.
Born in Berlin
Gabi was born in Hitler’s Berlin, in the 1940s.
She once said, wryly:
“My Jewish parents decided to have a baby in Nazi Germany — how smart was that?”
ABut he manuscript, perhaps I didn’t want her final moments divided between my manuscript and her loved ones. Though clearly, she did want to read it.
Yes, I did put in the work. Still, I always felt it wasn’t good enough. It was not enough for someone with eyes that sharp and a mind that exacting.
The Atheist with the ‘No-God Zone’
Gabi wasn’t Christian.
Not Jewish either.
Many claim atheism to align themselves with the great thinkers of the Renaissance —
not Gabi. She was profoundly atheist.
Any mention of God or Jesus drew a caustic response.
It was as if she carried an invisible sign:
“No God Zone.”
And if you dared walk past it, she’d let you know.
Yet when I read that line —
“The best moment of a Christian’s life is his last one” —
all I could think of was her.
Her Best Moments
After she was in Milan and I in France, and we couldn’t meet. Each time I texted, she was either in a restaurant or at a concert hall. She was clearly having her best moments.
Two days ago, she was with family
Grace and Hypocrisy
I spoke with my sister, Nneka Peace, about it.
She said something profound:
“Many Christians will be surprised to see Gabi in heaven — and themselves locked out.”
I agreed.
Grace and Hypocrisy
I’ve often wondered about the true nature of hypocrisy — and how easily we misuse that word.
If people acting like believers are adjudged to be hypocrites — and therefore unworthy of God’s grace —
shouldn’t people acting like unbelievers be judged the same —
to be hypocrites too, and therefore unworthy of God’s condemnation?
If God’s displeasure rests upon those who fake devotion,
might His mercy not extend toward those who, though distant,
never stopped aching for truth — even when too wounded to kneel?
Because some walked away from faith not out of rebellion,
but from heartbreak… disappointment… exhaustion.
They waited for a shepherd to come looking for them —
someone to speak the one word that would soothe their fractured hearts —
but none came.
Couldn’t the good Lord take all that hurt into account?
Couldn’t that be grace?
“I see you.
You’re not as filthy as you think.
Yes, you ate with hogs…
But deep inside, you kept a little room for Me.
I wish I had the whole house —
Still, welcome home, thou prodigal.”
Farewell, My Second Mum
In a few hours, in faraway Australia, I’ll likely lose someone who became part of my life when I was four years old.
Say a prayer 🙏 for Gabi Duigu — my favorite Australian.
More than that — my foster mum during rheumatoid arthritis Nigerian civil war
Here’s a picture of Gabi with my parents.
Also in the photo is her husband, Mr. Duigu, who predeceased her.
May their souls rest in peace.
Amen.
#DonKenobi | #OldManInTheMolue | #FaithAndGrace
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