By Oreva Godwin
It gladdens my heart that the mere thought of writing this article puts a smile on my face. Your handsome face is forever etched in my heart. My lookalike, my first true love. My mentor. My joy. Loving you was so easy because you were a good man. Today, I declare my love for you again and remind you, even though you’re gone, that you are not forgotten.
Godwin Ukoko was an amazing father and a loving husband. He made our house a home built on love, unity, and support. In his words to my older siblings: “Why should the elder eat when the younger ones haven’t?” He was a quiet man, a giver, a one-man squad. Yes, he was someone you could always run to for help.
I was his princess, and he was my king. I remember how he would scold my siblings and even my mom, all to protect me. He could move mountains to see me smile. Yes, he spoilt me with love, with attention, and with deep, unwavering care. At school, I was even nicknamed “the spoilt child.” But above all, what stood out in him was his intelligence.
Godwin Ukoko was a very intelligent man. I once saw his academic results and felt ashamed of myself. This was a man who never had the chance to pursue higher education. He sold chewing sticks just to attend night school. He would sit under the streetlight to do his assignments. Yet he was a straight-A student.
I miss those beautiful nights under the moon when families would gather outside, the breeze cool, the moon shining bright, the birds singing softly. My dad would bring his daughters out and say: “A girl child is not a waste. You all can be like Dora Akunyili. Like Condoleezza Rice. Are they not women? So you, my daughters can do what men can do. All you have to do is study hard.”
He was also a talented footballer, a fast learner, and a natural engineer. Despite no formal training, he fixed tractors for the foreign company he worked with. When the German engineers couldn’t repair a particular machine, my father offered help and succeeded with ease. His German boss was stunned. He later visited our home and asked to take my father with him to Germany, saying, “Godwin, you are too much for Nigeria.” But he refused. He would never leave his family behind.
Discipline was his language of love. When we misbehaved, he didn’t raise his hand, he used his words, and they hit harder than any cane. He made you see your mistakes and feel the weight of them without shouting. That was his power.
Though not highly educated on paper, his mind was deeply enlightened. His life proved that literacy of the heart and mind outweighs formal degrees. He was an Isoko man with a difference.
I remember when a Nigerian man based in Germany came to ask for my eldest sister’s hand in marriage. My mother, after doing her background check on the suitor, was convinced he was a good man. But my father was quiet. When the suitor presented drinks as tradition demanded, my father barely spoke. He listened and watched.
Later, he called my sister into his room and said:
“How old are you? Why are you listening to your mother? Do you know a woman without education is a liability? What makes you think he’ll support your academics once you’re married? Finish school first. If marriage is still what you want after that, I’ll bless it. But for now—don’t listen to your mother.”
That was the kind of man he was. He believed deeply in the value of the girl child. He knew the world would try to reduce us to baby factories and sexual objects, so he gave us armor: education, confidence, and dignity.
When it came to my mom, my dad was a lover boy. He worshipped the ground she walked on. He saw no wrong in her. Her flaws were his to carry. He cooked for her, danced for her, and made us all laugh. Outside, he was the quiet gentleman. At home? A joyful, loving, deeply funny man.
He always thought of us even in the smallest ways. New clothes, fruits, provisions, Sunday treats from Mr. Bigg’s, Duke’s bread, etc. He gave everything he had, even to strangers. That was Godwin Ukoko.
The year that shattered my world was 2008. The year death knocked on our door. I was 15 when we lost him. He was just 57.
I arrived at the hospital and saw my mother crying outside with church members. I ran in and saw my dad lifeless. I laid my ear on his chest, searching desperately for a heartbeat. There was none. I was dragged out of the room.
No tears came. Just silence. I watched the world fall apart around me. I whispered prayers. “He’s just sleeping.” That night, I dreamt of him. He called me by my pet name, “Debbygirl.” I ran into his arms. I said, “They say you’re dead, but here you are!” He smiled.
Then I was pulled away by a group, yelling, “Come, your father is dead.” I woke up in tears. Reality crashed in. I was breathless. Broken. My heart ached as if it had been torn out. I felt betrayed by God. Didn’t my prayers count? Was I not loud enough?
Who would now call me “Debbygirl”? Who would fight for me, love me, advise me the way he did?
At his sing-song night, the crowd overflowed the church. Strangers. Neighbors. People we’d never seen. All crying. Telling stories of how he changed their lives quietly. He was a reserved man, yet his impact was loud.
That day, I realized how many people loved him… even if he never knew.
A legacy that lives on. Godwin Ukoko stirred the feminist in me.
And today, I’m living the life he envisioned. I am a columnist. I work. I run businesses. I own a foundation. I am a voice.
I am educated.
I am everything he believed I could be.
Your voice still echoes in my heart, Daddy. You visit me in dreams. You still call me Debbygirl. You are my quiet guardian angel.
Sometimes, I talk to God and say, “If Your love for me is greater than my father’s love for me, then God, Yours must be an obsession.” But who am I to question how deep His love runs?
Rest well, Daddy.
May your soul continue to find peace. I love you forever. You are my only earthly father. We will meet again and I have so much to tell you.
*Oreva Godwin,
The Southerner
