Approximately four years ago, I lost an uncle to COVID-19, the virus responsible for infecting and killing a disproportionate number of black and Hispanic people. Uncle Cletus was not a blood relative, though. Nevertheless, Nigerian Igbo custom dictates that I address him as Uncle because he was my senior.
Uncle Cletus, along with his wife, Aunt Paulina, were the first to visit my family at the hospital ten years before now. Arriving without granting prior notice, they’d caught us by surprise. Still, Mom and I expressed our gratitude.
Uncle Cletus was a big man in many respects. His head, hands, and shoulders were heavy. His stomach was distended, the shape of a barrel, and hanging over his belt. His skin was brown and smooth, reminiscent of caramel candy. And although he was seventy-one, he had kept all his hair.
After commiserating with my father, who was suffering from myeloma cancer and kidney disease, Uncle Cletus turned to me. After considering my presence for a few seconds, he began his approach, extending a hand in my direction as he came closer.
“Ezebere,” he said, taking my hand into his. “It has been so long since I have seen you.”
“Yeah,” I said, sounding unsure. “It has been a long time.”
Uncle Cletus tilted his head to the right and smiled, “Do you remember me?”
After sighing, I said, “I think you used to come to the house when I was younger?”
During my formative years Mom and Dad regularly entertained community members, sparking a takeover by my anxiety and shyness, thus prompting an escape my bedroom, where I sought a corner to shrink from my parents’ view. Eventually, Mom would push the door open and summon me.
“Do I have to?” I’d say through a whimper.
“Yes,” my mom would say. “Don’t be rude.”
Upon seeing me, the visitors would smile, whoop, and clap as they coaxed me toward their outstretched hands. They gave me the once-over before complimenting me, saying that I was growing up strong and handsome. Three decades later, I rightly assumed that Uncle Cletus was one of those people.
“You used to drink Heinekens with my dad,” I said.
Uncle laughed and said, “Yes, I did come to your house when you were a young boy. And your father and I did drink beers together. But you don’t remember my name?”
“I don’t. I’m sorry.”
“That is okay.” He placed his free hand on his chest, coming closer. “I am Dee Cletus, your uncle. I am one of your father’s countrymen. We came from the same place, Amaigbo, our home. And it is your home as well.”
“Yes,” I said, nodding my head. I knew that. I knew that Amaigbo was my ancestral home, and it was the extent of my knowledge then.
“When your father recovers from this illness, you and I are going to talk some more about our heritage.”
After my dad passed away, Uncle Cletus became a kind of mentor for me. With his guidance, it became a lot easier for me to learn and grow as a member of the Igbo community. I was grateful and appreciative of his efforts. He was truly a good man.
News of Uncle Cletus’ death quickly circulated through a thread on What’s App, shocking the entire community, and precipitating an outflow of condolences and monetary contributions to Aunt Paulina, suddenly a widow. I was heartbroken by the news, because I’d lost a significant male figure in my life.
We’d referred to Uncle Cletus as Colorado’s Amaigbo Man #1, a distinction bestowed onto him after a formal referendum. Hundreds of Igbos Nigerians relied on Uncle Cletus for guidance on important issues affecting the entire community. Moving on without out him was difficult, but we knew he would want us to keep going.
The remaining Colorado Igbos kept up with the monthly meetings, albeit virtually through Zoom. We talked, shared laughs, and pulled together money for projects in Nigeria. Still, sustaining bonds through Zoom was not the same as coming together in person, because ingredients that enhanced the in-person convergences were missing. We could not see each other in person, embrace each other, bond over food and drink. Conducting a meeting without those very important aspects left everyone wanting. At the height of the pandemic, we did not know when or if we would be able to see each other in person again. Shortly after I arrived at that dour conclusion, Joe Biden took the reigns of the American presidency, a fortuitous event that yielded immediate benefits for me and my community.
The Covid-19 vaccine was not developed in accordance with a Joe Biden administration. Indeed, The Pfizer Corporation released the first iteration of the vaccine during the Trump Administration, which was a miraculous development, because Trump was an incompetent man, a clueless purveyor of ridiculous and pernicious opinions about the prophylactic effect of injecting bleach to kill a deadly respiratory disease. One could say that the vaccine was created despite the presence of Trump, quite possibly the worst president in the history of this country.
Under the Biden administration, the initial production of the Covid-19 vaccine was supercharged, reaching one billion doses during third quarter 2021. Thus, there was plenty of the vaccine available for me, my family, and my community. In response to the effort put forth by the Biden administration, Covid-19 deaths and infections decreased, eventually paving the way for the reopening of our community.
In early 2022, ten Colorado Igbos gathered at Uncle Ken’s house for the first in-person Amaigbo Town Union meeting in nearly two years. Every person who crossed the threshold marveled at the Ken’s house, eyes bulging as we took in the sheer grandiosityof the place. I had met Uncle Ken at my dad’s funeral, and since then he had worked hard to ease my inclusion in the community.
“Mr. Eze Ihenetu, the Honorable Dee Peter’s son,” Ken said as we shook hands. “It is so good to have you here with us.”
“It’s good to see you too, Chief Ken,” I said. “Your home is so beautiful.”
“Nwanne(brother), didn’t I tell you ten years ago after you father passed?”
“What did you tell me?”
“I said that I belong to you and you belong to me. We would be in this together. And here we are on this blessed today.”
“It is a very good day,” I said. “I am relieved because I didn’t think we’d make it for a while. This Covid-19 was no joke, you know. It got Uncle Cletus.”
Uncle Ken’s smile quickly faded. “Yes, that was a great loss for us. He is looking down on us from above. Let us move forward for him.”
“Amen, brother.”
After spending a good amount of time conversating amongst ourselves, delaying the start of the meeting by approximately two hours, Uncle Ken led the opening prayer, invoking a message similar to the one Uncle Cletus often delivered when he was alive. Ezeina, the second child of my Uncle Athan and the youngest of us, prepared the ceremonial kola nuts for the oldest member to bless. Then Ezeina approached each member in attendance, offering greetings and proffering the plate upon which the chopped kola nuts had been strategically placed. I politely waved him away because I am not fond of the bitter-tasting Nigerian delicacy. Eager to not offend the Uncle Ken, a gracious host, I nibbled on some cashew nuts. After the kola nuts were ingested, evincing solidarity, everyone was officially welcomed.
There were thirteen items listed on the agenda, the most importing being the upcoming ATU (Amaigbo Town Union) convention that would be situated in Denver, Colorado, my hometown. Eyes lit up as ideas and plans for the event were discussed in Igbo, a language that escapes my understanding. Mom sat next to me and translated the words.
Leadership said that the convention should take place on the third week of July, or five months after this meeting would conclude. It was a heavy lift, essentiallycreating a mini-Igbo village attuned to the needs of the Nigerian diaspora. Nevertheless, we were determined to deliver a product for our community, a reminder of home. At the end of our meeting, we held hands and prayed intensely, thanking the lord for the United States of America, our adoptedhome.
As the ATU convention date inched closer, the meetings became more frequent, and the stress levels, bubbling beneath the surface, became more acute. Uncle Ken, who assumed most of the responsibilities for coordinating the convention, became increasingly short tempered, prompting an equally adverse reaction from my Uncle Athan, who threatened to quit the ATU organization altogether. Meetings were laced with a tangible tension, the kind that you could cut through with a steak knife. Nevertheless, we powered through, practicing cordiality, for we were all cognizant of our paramount responsibility to the culture.
Concurrently, the Biden economic policy machine was humming, producing millions of jobs, buttressing savings and retirement accounts, expanding healthcare, and pulling people out of perpetual poverty. I was finally promoted to manager of my department, a position that I had been coveting for years. Virtually all the other members of the larger American based Igbo community thrive personally and economically. No one seemed to be struggling economically, prompting members to donate funds to causes that benefitted the people at home.
Because of my promotion, I was able to spend profusely on new clothing in preparation for the convention. I bought multiple outfits, consisting of two sets of bright Isiagu shirts and accompanying trousers, an okpu-agu kufu cap, and black shoes. I modeled the attire for Aunt Victoria, the owner of the boutique.
Aunt Victoria clapped her hands and said, “Look at how good you look. You look like a king, someone reflective of your given name.”
“Thank you, Auntie,” I said, before taking a turn. The pants were snug across my waist, a feeling I was not familiar with. I’d preferred wearing pants that were more capacious because they’d helped me set aside thoughts about changing my diet. “The pants seem a little bit small though.”
“Don’t worry about that,” Victoria said, waving away my concern as if it were a meddlesome fly. “This is the style now, you know. Pants that fit like they are supposed to. Do not be like these knuckleheads who walk around with their pants hanging off their bottoms. You are a grown man, now! And you are dressing like it.”
“All right. I will listen to you Aunt Victoria because you are the expert,” I said. “I think I’ve got everything I need.”
As the clothing scannerkept pinging, signaling the accrual of more costs, my breathing remained consistent because my money was buttressing the fortunes of Aunt Victoria, one of the community members who’d visited my house when I was a young boy.
I wore my purple uniform to the gala two weeks later. I was situated amongst hundreds of Igbos, everyone of them looking resplendent in their uniforms. The men wore various iterations of Isiagu, brandishing their power, authority, and pride. The women were just as inspiring, exuding confidence and glamour in shimmering gowns and headwraps. There was so much color exhibited through clothing, and the fabrics seemed to swirl as the men and women danced together. Near the end of the night, a group of women dressed in synchronized red gowns formed a line and danced on one area of the floor, prompting a torrential deluge of green one-dollar bills. Immediately after the bills touched the ground, diminutive children scurried across the floor, scooping up the bills and stuffing them into black plastic bags for eventual counting. These donations would be used to fund infrastructure projects in Nigeria. My Dad and Uncle Cletus would have been so proud.
We could not have done all this without Joe Biden, the man who led America through a very dark period in our history. I want to thank him for everything he did for me and my people. I was able to revel in the beauty manifested by a distinct cultural event, and my community is much better off now than we were four years ago.
Now you can check out some of the photos.