His humour was unparalleled, as was his love and concern for me and my family. Whenever he bantered with my husband, it was a sight for sore eyes. As my dear uncle, and a special one at that, he would summon my spouse jocularly whenever I was unhappy. These hilarious moments included occasions when I complained, for example, that I thought my husband gave a side-eye to a passing distraction.
“Thompson,” he would bellow, “did you or didn’t you?” And the stories could last for more than an hour. General Abbe would warn him, and my husband would go logical, asking the good General what the definition of a side-eye was. The hilarity was infectious. His wife, the lovely Mrs. Abbe—a school proprietor and faithful companion—would join in, mentioning that the general might also have given a side-eye to a certain broadcaster on TV. The General would at first admit, “Yes, she has a nice smile,” but then demand evidence. My only contribution would be: “With my industry network, I would post the distracting newsreader to the farthest end of the earth.” To which the general would reply, “You are just jealous.” It was such spirited banter; it made my day always and made his day eternally.
He was at once warm and humorous, but he was also a soldier and a gentleman. Every time we visited, he would regale us with stories from his soldiering journey and uncanny memorable moments in his life.
The last time we saw him, he told us the story of how the army had a system for checking that you married a good woman or vice versa. With Mrs. Abbe joining in to explicate, Abbe shared that a young officer had to visit a superior officer informally when he had found “the one.” Aunty added, for good measure, that the girl would not know—and in the case of a female officer, the man would not know either. While informal, the superior officer’s duty was to run a check to ensure that the union and the person involved were of good character and would not torpedo the career of their own. He checked for everything: neatness, conduct, and respect.
General Abbe was at his witty best when he told these stories. He would burst into a raucous laugh with a glint in his eyes. He was without a doubt a good father and a good husband to my aunt, but he was also generous in spirit and would show up for you at your most difficult times. I recall when my father died many years ago. As we sat under the expansive canopy to receive visitors, I turned and found General and his wife seated beside my late uncle, Admiral Ogohi. Without informing or asking for directions, my sleepy village played host to the defence minister. It was, for me, a defining moment of his incredible generosity.
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It is hard to believe that I shall be referring to Uncle Abbe, as I fondly call him, in the past. The call came while I was far away in another country, and it was persistent, so I reluctantly picked it up. It was Dr. Abang, former Director in the Federal Civil Service and a dear friend. We had shared a lot about General Abbe, bonding over his sense of humour, love for his country, loyalty to friends, and mentoring spirit. The phone call wouldn’t stop, so I finally picked up.
“Did you see what I sent to you on WhatsApp?”
“No,” I said. “I’m just rising.”
“Oh,” Dr. Abang said, “it’s General Abbe. He passed.”
Alone in my room, in a country other than mine, it hit me like a tonne of bricks. When? How? The questions haunted me. Then, of course, I opened Google, and it was all true. I ruminated on our lengthy phone calls, the banter, his sense of history, his service to his nation, and his dedication to his family.
I reflected on how I met him. He was the first military governor of Akwa Ibom State, much beloved by the state. They spoke fondly of him, and he spoke fondly of the citizens he governed. He was young, dashing, determined, and focused. He was also a much-loved governor of Rivers State.
The late Mrs. Makka, former First Lady of Benue State, had named me as a member of a delegation to visit Akwa Ibom State and another state to personally invite the governors’ wives to an event in Makurdi. We travelled by road, first to Uyo and then to the second state, which I do not remember.
Mrs. Abbe, whom we had never met, was a gracious host. She accepted the invitation and sent us back with goodwill messages to Mrs. Makka, along with local sponges and a generous dose of smoked fish. At lunch hosted by Mrs. Abbe before our departure, General Abbe strolled in to greet us. Though stern, he was welcoming. His humour struck me, and her humility captivated me. From that moment on, we became family.
The Abbes have remained intertwined in my family’s lives. When I had my twins, Mrs. Abbe was one of the first to visit, bringing a ram for the girls. Now, over 20 years later, one of Abbe’s desires was to see them as adults—a wish sadly unfulfilled.
General Abbe held many titles: Commandant TRADOC, Commandant National War College, Military Governor, Honourable Minister of Defence, and Elder Statesman.
His beautiful life is unforgettable, and his values and sense of duty should be studied by young officers. Once, when a news anchor complained about me to him, he heard me out and concluded with, “If she is misbehaving, post her to the bush. She is very stupid.” That was quintessential Abbe—direct, patriotic, and uncompromising with bad behaviour.
He had not been in excellent health for a while, but his wife and confidant, Aunty, catered to his every need. Even in between coughing, General Abbe would throw a joke, driving us all into laughter.
He was a proud father, a doting husband, and a soldier to the end.
My deepest condolences to Aunty and the Abbe boys. As many celebrate this season, we pause to remember a great man, an uncle, a husband, a father, a soldier, and a gentleman.
It is well, Aunty. May his gentle soul rest in perfect peace.
Amen.
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