Dad Didn't Appear In Search Frank Edejoro Miller   © Copyright 2025 by Frank Edejoro Miller

Photo courtesy of the author.

 If not for late Grandma Martha, I probably wouldn’t be writing this story. And if I did write it, it would have taken a very different form, perhaps something like the success stories of Samuel Eto’o, Didier Drogba, Mohamed Salah, Nwankwo Kanu, or any other African who rose to fame and fortune by showcasing exceptional talent. That may sound boastful or hollow, but it’s simply the truth. As you read this story, you’ll see that my father’s life reads like one of the saddest autobiographies you’ll ever come across, a story of a man who never got the chance to fulfill his true potential.

His name was Mr. Dowel Orona Miller. His friends called him D.O. Miller. On the football field, they called him “Tack-alone,” a nickname earned from his fierce and unshakable presence as a defender.

Sometime in the late 1970s or early 1980s, a white man—whose name I was too young to remember—arrived in our hometown, Igbide Kingdom, in the Isoko South Local Government Area of Delta State. He came in a helicopter, all the way from the United Kingdom, to take my father to play football for Manchester United. But Grandma Martha refused. Her reason?

“Too many young men who traveled abroad never returned,” she said.

She couldn’t bear the thought of her handsome, intelligent son going overseas and never coming back.

It’s not like Dad was her firstborn, or even her eldest son, but she was adamant: he must not leave with the white man.

At that time, our community lived in deep poverty. Just imagine the lack of opportunities and basic amenities in many parts of Nigeria during that era. An invitation to play football in the UK wasn’t just an opportunity; it was a possible escape from generations of hardship. Even if my father hadn’t become a superstar, even if he had simply played at a professional level, it could have changed everything for our family.

But Grandma Martha said no.

Just like I might have done in his place, Dad wanted to go against his mother’s wishes. He intended to follow the white man, even though she disagreed. But Grandma threatened him: if he dared leave, she would call on the strongest sorcery in our clan. She swore—on the very breast that nursed him—that things would not go well for him if he disobeyed.

Friends and some relatives tried their best to help sneak Dad out, but the white man insisted on having a guarantor. Since Grandma refused, he honored her decision. Being a principled man, he left without my father.

The man, whose name I still don’t know, had once been my father’s headmaster in elementary school. Dad had lived with him back then. That’s how the man had come to witness both his intellectual brilliance and his extraordinary football talent. After his service in Africa, he returned home to his country, but promised young Dowel that he would come back for him, and he kept his word.

Sadly, Grandma’s refusal changed everything.

There were rumors that the white man returned a second time, this time with another foreigner, and that Dad did go with them but came back after six months, empty-handed. People whispered that Grandma’s curse had followed him. I wasn’t born yet, so I don’t know what happened, but even today, some people still insist it’s true that the white man came the second time.

I often wish Grandpa Miller had been alive at the time. He might have stood up for Dad and given him the support he needed to leave. Maybe then, Dad would have gone on to play for Manchester United. Perhaps today, his name would show up when you search for Nigerian footballers online. But sadly, if you were to search for “Mr. Dowel Orona Miller” or even scan through lists of Nigerian football legends, his name wouldn’t appear. And that’s the true tragedy, because Grandma Martha said he must not go to England.

Whenever life got difficult—and it often did—my siblings and I found ourselves blaming Grandma Martha, even long after she passed away. We believed things would have been different if Dad had disobeyed her and followed his dream to the UK.

Yet sometimes I’d wonder: if he had gone, would he ever have met my mother? Would I even have been born? Perhaps he would have married a foreign woman and never returned, just as Grandma feared. Still, the thought that he never got to live up to his potential always filled me with sorrow.

After the football opportunity slipped away, a new one came, this time from late General Paul Omu, the highest-ranking military officer from our clan. He had once served as the military governor of the south-eastern State during the military regime, and his wife was later a senator representing the Delta South Senatorial District. The General took a liking to Dad and wanted to recruit him into the army.

But Grandma Martha reappeared, figuratively, of course, and shut that door too.

“None of my children will ever serve in the army,” she declared. “I don’t want to go and bury them after they die on the battlefield.”

And just like that, Dad lost his two greatest ambitions: football and the military.

As if trying to console him, the community invited him to become the President-General, a revered local leadership position. But Dad declined.

***

My community and its surrounding environment are known for conflict. If you ever mention the Isoko people in Nigeria, you’re likely to hear either “Isoko wa doh!” (meaning “Well done, Isoko!”) or “Isoko tolopia” (meaning “Isoko carry cutlass”), phrases that reflect their reputation for strength and warfare.

Dad fought bravely in several of these communal clashes, particularly to defend his hometown from invasions by neighboring communities like Enwhe and Emede.

During one of those tragic wars with Emede, he nearly lost his life. He and his closest friend were advancing into enemy territory when a sniper shot his friend dead right beside him. Shaken and heartbroken, Dad fled the battlefield and went into hiding, seeking refuge in parts of Kogi and Edo States.

He eventually joined a group of fishermen and sailors and began living a modest life. That’s when he met my mother, Miss Helen School, now known as Mrs. Helen Miller. At that time, Dad had already fathered children with another woman, a lady who had fallen for him because of his football prowess. She would have been my stepmother.

My mother and father had eight children together. Strangely, both the firstborn and the lastborn, who were said to be unusually intelligent, passed away. I am the third among the six surviving children.

When I was old enough to become aware of my surroundings, we were living a modest but decent life. We weren’t rich, but we had enough to eat. We moved frequently from one island or peninsula to another, as Dad partnered with different fishermen and sailors. Our lives followed the rhythm of the River Niger, drifting between Edo and Kogi States.

But over time, things began to fall apart. Gradually, poverty crept in. Mum and Dad started accumulating debts from hospital treatments, food vendors, and supplies from the fishing companies. Eventually, we became the poorest family in one of the most remote and undeveloped villages in the heart of Kogi State. We often had nothing to eat. And when we did, it was barely enough to survive.

We fished, planted crops, harvested, and sold what we could, but misfortune always found a way to torment us.

Dad refused to return home or seek help from his siblings or acquaintances. This was a man who once owned a car during his prime, now reduced to the lowest depths of poverty. Whatever image you have of a truly poor man, Dad became that and more.

Eventually, we settled in a small village called Olukwudu, in the Ibaji Local Government Area of Kogi State.

But the debts only grew worse. Mum and Dad borrowed from anyone who would give. Sometimes it was a nurse, when one of us needed treatment. Other times, it was a vendor we owed for a loaf of bread—just enough to keep us from starving. Or it was fish bought on credit from companies, which Mum would try to resell to raise a little money.

The result was constant gossip, threats, mockery, and misery. To be precise, we were the epitome of poverty among already poor and struggling people.

No matter how hard Dad tried, nothing worked. Sometimes, before the cock even crowed, we would flee our hut and hide all day among campers by the River Niger—just to avoid creditors who roamed the village looking for us. They didn’t know we had escaped before dawn, hoping to avoid harassment and embarrassment. We would only return at night, when most people had gone to sleep.

This was the life of a man who, if not for Grandma Martha, might have been playing football in the UK.

My younger brother and I suffered terribly at school—our buttocks often bore the sting of the cane for not paying our fees. My two elder sisters weren’t spared either; their palms endured the same punishment.

Most of the time, we each had only one change of clothes. One single outfit served as our Christmas attire year after year, as well as for Sundays and any special occasion. Sometimes, I even wore my school uniform to church because there was simply nothing else to wear.

And so life continued, painfully and humbly.

Dad never bounced back.

On November 18, 2016, he passed away—kidney failure, I heard. I wasn’t there when it happened. At the time, I was living with an aunt, far away from Kogi State.

Every time I read The Glass Castle by Jeannette Walls, I’m reminded of how I grew up—how we grew up.

You see, if not for Grandma Martha, Dad’s story could have been different. Maybe he would have become rich or famous, like Victor Osimhen, Ademola Lookman, or Sunday Oliseh. Or maybe not rich, but at least better off.

He had talent. He had promises. If he hadn’t, the white man wouldn’t have come for him.

But the man came. He saw my father. And Grandma Martha ruined it all.

Today, if you search for notable Nigerians who succeeded by chasing their dreams, you’ll find many names. But you won’t find Dowel Orona Miller—even though he aspired, even though he prepared, even though he deserved the chance to give his best.

*****

My name is Frank Edejoro Miller, an emerging author from Delta State, Nigeria. Dad Didn’t Appear in Search is a true and personal account of my late father, Mr. Dowel Orona Miller, whose story remains a quiet echo of lost potential and unrealized dreams.  I was a finalist in the 2024 Biographical Nonfiction Contest sponsored by the Preservation Foundation, and earlier received a cash prize (worth $6.50) for essay writing during high school. I write both short stories and full-length manuscripts, often rooted in memory, family, and identity.  Currently, I’m seeking opportunities for my work, hoping to share stories that resonate, inspire, and help me grow as a storyteller.