My cousin Nikko Soliman was older than me by a few years. We weren’t particularly close, but we always had easygoing conversations. During family gatherings we would greet each other, and he was always his amicable self.
Kuya Nikko and his family were primarily based in Tarlac, my parents’ hometown. His large house was always the venue for clan gatherings, and he always welcomed us with a smile as warm as the Luzon heartland he called home.
He was the ideal greeter, with a handsome face that turned heads in his youth, mellowing into a John Lloyd Cruz-ish look in his later years. They will never admit it, but there was an unspoken competition among my male cousins on who was the most pogi. The finalists were John Defensor, the Dingdong Dantes of Olongapo; Dylan Lacsamana, who internally claims his K-pop idol visage was decades ahead of its time; and Nikko Soliman. All I can say is, pasalamat kayo masarap luto ng nanay ko.
I have fond memories of my cousin Nikko in various stages of my life. During my younger years in the ’80s he would visit our house in Makati, loud music blaring from his Mazda 626. In the summer of 1992 I lived in their house in Tarlac when his father, Uncle Bert, ran for local office. Then in 2012 I remember he picked us up at the airport after a family vacation, since we couldn’t arrange a ride home beforehand; as always his kind smiling face welcomed us back home.
Then in December 2019 I went to Tarlac for the annual family holiday gatherings. I greeted everyone and fielded questions from cousins and uncles asking about the latest cars. This time Nikko struck a conversation with me.
He asked for a recommendation on what was a good car in the market. I asked what he had at the time. So we went to their garage and he showed me. He was driving a Mazda CX-3, a base variant (that’s us checking out his ride in the photo above). I said this is a good car. He complained about the finish on the inside being easily scuffed because of the fine surface. I said some people like this kind of material, and that a detailing job should take care of it.
I showed him the Mazda CX-30 demo car I had at the time, quite new in 2019. It was definitely roomier than his CX-3, and it belonged to the next generation of Mazdas with newer infotainment systems and a bigger platform. Nikko was assessing the rear door and the ground clearance, asking about ease of entry. I realized he wasn’t looking at the bigger Mazda for himself. Ever the good son, he was thinking of how his mom, my Auntie Lyn, could enter and exit easily.
I showed him the CX-30’s luggage space, rear legroom, and fine blue leather seats. Alas, the easily scuffed surfaces that bothered him were also here. Still, I think he liked Mazda’s compact crossover in the end. We talked a bit more and then went back in the house for spaghetti and lechon.
That was the last time I saw him alive.
In the second week of February 2020 I heard he was rushed to the hospital because he was feeling unwell. I knew he already had pre-existing conditions, but I was hopeful he would pull through.
My brother and I were already on our way to visit him at the hospital, fully expecting to see his wide grin again and tell me to take it easy on the lechon. But my mom called and said there was no more need to go. One day before Valentine’s Day, Kuya Nikko broke all our hearts and went with God.
I went back to Tarlac again a few days later for the wake. Photos of us cousins were flashed by a projector, and we smiled and laughed at the memories through the decades. The congressman and governor of Tarlac, the latter being Nikko’s last boss, passed by to pay their respects. The congressman, a car enthusiast who used to race in his youth, asked me what’s a good seven-seater that’s not too large. I thought a bit, then recommended the Mazda CX-9, thinking he would also enjoy the driving dynamics.
After the temporary bliss of a reunion, we came to the sad part of the burial. My aunt wailed as reality hit her. You could almost hear the lacerations on her soul as her middle son was finally, inevitably, lowered into the ground.
In my clan, mothers are strong, immovable forces. That day I saw what overwhelmed an indomitable spirit, what breaks an unbreakable soul. Mothers can give so much to their children: their careers, their time, their dreams, their very lives. But I realized that mothers were not built to give their baby boys back to God.
I do not use the term ‘baby boy’ lightly. All sons know this truth: We will be bald, fat and wrinkled, but imprinted for all time in our mothers’ eyes is that image of a cherubic infant with arms outstretched. We also carry with us the potential to be the best of their husbands and fathers.
After the burial we had a family group photo. It was the last I would physically see some of my cousins for years. This was 2020, and Nikko brought us together for one last time before a global pandemic ripped across the world.
In our cousin group chats we would remember Nikko fondly; he was the first in our generation to go. My cousin Karen said it best: We, the descendants of Col. Pedro Soliman, a survivor of the Bataan Death March, and Bonifacia Gococo, who raised her children with a will of fire and steel, will never be complete.
When someone young and dear to us departs, we inevitably ask why. We even become bitter and point to more suitable candidates to be taken. And when we can’t think of answers we turn to our faith. I think God just chose Nikko to be the one to pick us up when it’s our time.
When my time comes, kuya, I have one request for an afterlife chariot: A ceramic white Mazda MX-5 ND2. I always told myself I will have this car, in this life or the next.
PS: We take a measure of comfort knowing Nikko is no longer alone up there. We know he and cousin Joey Soliman had a great view of the fireworks, just like how we all used to celebrate in the big house in Tarlac.
