It was a very hot afternoon when my father called me and gave me the heartbreaking news of Ifeanyi’s passing.

He was fondly called Odo Diele, a name that signifies the faithfulness of the Odo deity. According to family history, his father had longed for a son as his last child and promised the deity that if his wish came to pass, he would name the child after it.

So, Ifeanyichukwu was born, and true to his promise, his father named him Odo Diele—meaning the faithful Odo deity.

As a child, Ifeanyi was fun-loving, protective, and full of life. Whenever I visited Mbanito, our farming village, he would always save the head of the fish for me. It may sound like a small gesture today, but back then, the fish were usually very large, and every child cherished the fried fish head. As I write this, I can almost taste it again. Funny how memories can awaken even the senses.

Beyond his kindness, Ifeanyi loved to laugh. He was always cracking jokes, and his laughter was contagious. He was remarkably strong, wise beyond his years, and deeply caring.

Yet, beneath that cheerful spirit was a silent battle.

I grew up knowing him with a noticeably swollen stomach. Whenever the pain became unbearable, he would cry in agony. Looking back now, I believe it was what we would recognise today as ascites. He suffered immensely, but he fought bravely and somehow managed to keep smiling despite the pain.

Although he lived mostly in Mbanito with his father, he never failed to ask about me whenever anyone visited. I always asked about him too. We shared a bond that distance could never weaken.

Then his condition worsened.

He was taken from one hospital to another. Everyone tried their best. Traditional healers, herbalists, and medical professionals all did what they could. But some battles are fought beyond human strength.

One afternoon, I returned home from school just as my father had come back from Mbanito. I was excited because I knew Ifeanyi always had something waiting for me, even if it was uto (bush apple).

That day, there was no bush apple.

Instead, I received words that carried both the courage of a warrior and the helplessness of a child who desperately wanted to live.

Even in unbearable pain, he remembered me.

His final message was:

“Gwa Onu Nwanne m na ike agwomu.”

“Tell Onuora, my brother, that I am tired.”

At the time, I didn’t fully understand what those words meant.

As I grew older, I realised they were goodbye.

I would never hear his laughter again.

I would never receive another fish head from him.

I would never hear him sing again.

He was only 12 years old when he died.

More than twenty years have passed, yet his memory remains as vivid as ever. Time may soften grief, but it never erases love.

Whenever you come across this post, please say a prayer for Ifeanyi and for everyone who longed to live but was taken by circumstances beyond their control.

May the soul of Ifeanyi and the souls of all the faithful departed continue to rest in perfect peace.

Isee.

And while you still can, value the people around you. Create happiness wherever you find yourself, because none of us will be here forever.

I miss you, Ify, nwannem.

I miss you, Nazy Oyom.

I miss you, Anto.

I miss you, Faith Ya.

Jee nu nke ọma.

I remain your friend and brother,

Maazi Onuora Obodoechi.