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Part 4: His Proverbs Were More Than WordsAs I grew older, I began to realize something:Papa Amara didn’t just say prove...
30/07/2025

Part 4: His Proverbs Were More Than Words

As I grew older, I began to realize something:

Papa Amara didn’t just say proverbs. He lived them.

He taught us how to listen with our hearts and think with wisdom.

Whenever someone in the family faced a challenge — job loss, marriage troubles, business failure — Papa would quietly sit with them. No long lectures. Just one or two proverbs that landed like thunder:

“Agwọ anaghị agba ọsọ n’efu.”
(“A snake does not run for nothing.”)

He meant: something is always behind an action. Find it. Understand it.

He used proverbs to solve arguments without picking sides.
When two people in the village quarreled over land, he told them:

Umunna bụ ike, ma ọ bụrụ na ike adịghị, e mesie okwu.”
("Family is strength, but if strength is lost, the matter is finished.")

He turned quarrels into understanding. He made people reflect.

Even strangers respected him. You couldn’t argue with Papa because even if you came with heat, he responded with calm wisdom:

“A na-ezi ihe, a naghị egbu egbu.”
("You teach a person, you don’t kill them.")

To him, every conflict had a root, and every root had a proverb waiting to dig it out.

At times I wondered: Did Papa read all these things in a book?
But no—his life was the book.

Every pain he endured, every joy he celebrated, every mistake he made—he captured them in a line of wisdom.

And when you asked him why he spoke that way, he would smile and say:

“Mgbe mmadụ na-ege nti, ihe a kpọrọ okwu aghọara ya ihe.”
("When a person listens, mere words become understanding.")

At this point I have to be hiding this phone after holidays I continue
29/07/2025

At this point I have to be hiding this phone after holidays I continue

28/07/2025

Growing up in our home, you didn’t need to attend a village meeting to hear ancient wisdom — my father was the meeting. His voice, deep and commanding, often broke the morning silence with proverbs that sounded like riddles, yet carried weight that shaped our lives.

He would say things like:
“O bulu na i juru n’olu, lee onye ka i juru n’olu ya.”
(If you feel overwhelmed, look at someone who has it worse — you'll learn patience.)

That was Emma Atu’s style — not many words, but every one of them loaded. You couldn’t argue with him. You’d just quietly replay his sayings in your mind hours later and realize he was always five steps ahead in thought.

One morning, when a neighbor accused me of breaking her water pot, I returned home furious. My father didn’t react immediately. He sat on his wooden stool under the mango tree, peeling garden eggs. After I poured out my complaints, he looked at me and calmly said:

“A na-agwa nwa nti nti okwu, o na-agbacha na mgbada ukwu.”
(When you advise a child who doesn't listen, the message runs to the waist of the future.)

I didn’t understand it fully until years later when I learned the value of keeping quiet, watching, and letting life answer certain accusations for you.

That was how he led us — not with threats, but with parables. Not with punishment, but with phrases that made you think. And as much as I sometimes wanted a straight answer, I grew to understand that those adages were the gifts of a father who wanted us to survive in a world that rarely speaks

28/07/2025

Let’s continue with Part 2 of the story about your father, Emmanuel Uchenna Onwugigbo, aka Emma atu
Part 2: The Man Who Spoke in Proverbs

Growing up in our household meant growing up in the school of wisdom.

You didn’t ask Papa a question and expect a straight answer—you got a proverb instead.

“When the goat returns from a journey and tells the tale of the lion, you must ask what path it took.”

That was how Papa warned us about telling stories we didn’t understand or repeating gossip.

He had a saying for everything. If we were lazy:

“Onye rụrụ arụ, anaghị eri arụ.”
("He who does not work does not eat.")

If we were impatient:

“Ife di n’iru ka mma.”
("What lies ahead is better.")

Sometimes it felt like he had a personal library of proverbs tucked under his wrapper.

At family meetings, people listened when Papa spoke—not just because of his voice, deep and steady—but because every sentence came with a proverb. It made his words feel ancient, tested, and true.

Even when he was angry, his wisdom was poetic.

One day, when one of my cousins misbehaved, Papa didn’t shout. He simply said:

“A na-amaghị ama, a ga-amaghị ife e ji ama ama.”
("If one doesn’t recognize wisdom, one won’t understand what it's used for.")

Silence fell in the room.

And when he smiled, he would say:

“Mmiri n’eku ezu, onye amaghị ama ya na o nwere isi.”
("A gentle rain has depth; don’t mistake quietness for weakness)

Please do me well comment and share

26/07/2025

MY FATHER, THE MAN WHO SPOKE IN PROVERB

“A child who does not travel thinks his mother is the best cook.”
That was one of my father's favorite sayings. He would say it with a slight smile and a tone that suggested he was about to teach me something important.

My father, Emmanuel Uchenna Onwugigbo, fondly known as Emma Atu, is a typical Igbo man from Anambra State—firm, wise, proud of his roots, and never short of an adage to drive his point home.

Growing up in a house led by a man like my father meant you had to listen more than you spoke. It wasn’t because he demanded silence, but because when he spoke, you had to think deeply. Every lesson came wrapped in a proverb, and if you didn’t understand it, he would wait—days, even weeks—for life to teach you the meaning.

One time I came home crying because a friend had betrayed me. My father listened quietly, then simply said,

“Onye ji ihe nwata, ejiri ya egwu.”
(The one who holds a child’s property uses it to perform a dance.)
At the time, I didn’t understand. Later, I realized he meant that people will exploit your innocence if you trust blindly.

Emma Atu believed in hard work, respect, and patience.
He’d always say:

“Ngwugwu e ji eje mba, bu ezi omume.”
(The bag that takes you far in life is good character.)
He repeated this so often, I can still hear it in his voice. He wasn’t rich, but his dignity made him the wealthiest man I knew.

During family meetings or traditional ceremonies, you’d see him shine. He would pour libation with confidence, break kola nuts with grace, and speak Igbo that felt like poetry. He didn’t need titles to command respect—his wisdom did that for him.

Now as a grown woman, I find myself using his proverbs in conversations. Sometimes, I say them in English, sometimes in Igbo. But they never lose their power.

The one that stays with me the most is:

“A na-amaghị ama, a mara n’ihu.”
(You may not understand now, but you will understand later.)
That was his way of reminding me that experience teaches more than words.

My father might not be the loudest man in the room, but his words echo louder than most. Through him, I learned that language isn’t just for talking—it’s for guiding, protecting, and remembering where you come from.

And now, when I look in the mirror, I see his wisdom staring back at me—one proverb at a time.

24/07/2025

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24/07/2025

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No matter what you're going through, there's a light at the end of the tunnel and it may seem hard to get to it but you ...
23/07/2025

No matter what you're going through, there's a light at the end of the tunnel and it may seem hard to get to it but you can do it and just keep working towards it and you'll find the positive side of things.

26/06/2025

Children are educated by what the grown-up is and not by his talk.

26/06/2025

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