Remembrance Cake

My journey to becoming an Australian is a long story for another blog. However, as my birthday approaches each year, I feel special that we get a day off.

ANZAC Day stirs something deep within me—I celebrate my birthday while joining thousands of others who remember the fallen—women and men who sacrificed their lives for Australia and New Zealand. I tease my husband (who is in the military) for choosing to attend the dawn service over having breakfast with me. ANZAC Day also brings back memories of my dad—the man who instilled in me integrity and discipline. He was a man ahead of his time, never treating me differently because of my sex. He taught me never to let any man belittle me—a lesson I cherish to this day.

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My dad, Ibiwei Mac-Jonah Osede, was born in 1945 in Oporoma, a remote village in Bayelsa State, Nigeria. Surrounded by swamps, mangroves, and tropical rainforests, the only way to reach the village was by a three-day boat trip across the Nun River. The people of this region lived in mud homes dug from the riverbed. Women would carry baskets of soft clay on their heads to the building site, where men would use it to build the huts. Dry palm fronds served as the roofs. Despite the lack of electricity or tap water, everyday memories flourished in this simple life.

As the eldest in a family of 12 children, my dad didn’t let his surroundings define his dreams. In 1959, he left the village for Abeokuta, a city in southwestern Nigeria, to complete his primary and secondary school education. His passion for education earned him a scholarship at the Ambassadors Commercial Institute. In 1965, as the Biafra war broke out, he enlisted in the Nigerian Army, which presented him with an opportunity to further his education. He enrolled in the Nigerian Army School of Education and graduated first-class. This marked the beginning of a military career that spanned over 35 years.

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I was only 11 when my parents dropped me off at Command Secondary School Jos, a military school. Back then, my dad was a Sergeant in the military. The year I began high school, the Army posted my dad to Port Harcourt, a three-day train journey from Jos. My only means of communication with the outside world were letters. I vividly recall sitting at tables of twelve, a polished cedarwood dining table, every Monday morning, with no appetite for my food, eagerly awaiting the arrival of the dining prefect who delivered our mail. I anticipated those Monday mornings, knowing that I would receive a letter from my dad.

If I possessed any magical abilities today, I would relish the opportunity to read those letters once again. I would savour the scent of his aftershave on the envelopes.

Dad was a man of few words. If I had to describe him in one word, I’d choose the cliché: “His actions spoke louder than words.” Perhaps that’s why I cherished his letters—the way he inhabited the space while writing.

Over time, I grew accustomed to the distinct features of his writing—the clarity, the spacing, the indentation, and the unique way he scrawled his name ‘Ibiwei Mac Jonah Osede’ at the back upper right corner of the envelope with red and blue rims. In white pages, covered in scribbles of blue ink, his writing had a gentle yet precise tone. It conveyed the pauses and clauses of the written language, the rhythm and disposition, and above all, his profound love for me. He did not sign ‘I love you’ at the bottom, instead he subtly wrote it through the inky scrawl, in the nooks, the crannies of his mind through those words, his belief in me. I remember, at night, reading the words in those letters under my sheets. I returned to the words time and time again. In the 80s, letters were our way of communicating, but he did most of the writing.

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Letter writing, obviously predating the 1980s, possesses a potent legacy exemplified by Phillis Wheatley’s 1765 letter to Reverend Samson Occom, a powerful advocacy for enslaved people. From personal correspondence to political activism and social justice, letters have served diverse and vital purposes, each unveiling human complexity, offering a connection to home, and fuelling the fight for equality. This form enabled individuals to articulate thoughts, gather support, and forge connections, shaping movements and impacting generations. In Australia, for instance, over a century has passed since the collection of ANZAC letters and diaries from World War I trenches began; these official records—numbering over 15,000—include heartfelt love letters, poignant descriptions of war’s realities, and precious home news for deployed soldiers. They offer invaluable insight into the human cost of war, revealing the emotions and struggles of those who served, preserving individual memories and highlighting the nation’s resilience during challenging times.

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I am fascinated by how women have used letter writing to tell their stories, particularly in past decades when their voices were often dismissed. Consider, for instance, the missionary wives who migrated from Britain to New Zealand, or those sent by the Christian Missionary Society to African countries like Nigeria and Ghana with the purported goal of  “civilizing the heathens.” Then there are Black women such as Alice Walker, Harriet Jacobs, Fannie Lou Hamer, and Zora Neale Hurston, who used writing as a tool for activism, community rebuilding, and combating the historical erasure of Black women’s voices.

Audre Lorde, too, found solace and strength in letters. Today, however, letter writing feels antiquated; my mailbox is crammed with junk mail. This decline has also contributed to diminishing handwriting skills, resulting in a loss of the intimacy that a handwritten letter provided, in contrast to impersonal emails.

My research will therefore focus on letters, revealing untold stories and amplifying the voices of extraordinary women. While we commemorate ANZAC Day by honouring fallen soldiers and my own mentor, I remain mindful of life’s continuous cycle.

As Phillis Wheatley writes in her poem, A Hymn to the Evening:

Night’s leaden sceptre seals my drowsy eyes,

Then cease, my song, till fair Aurora rise.