This gallery contains 1 photo.
Pearls! What Are You Hanging On To? Pearls! What Are You Hanging On To? The cheerful girl with bouncy golden curls was almost five. Waiting with her mother at the checkout stand, she saw them: a circle of glistening white … Continue reading
His name was Staff Sergeant Chinedu Nkemakonam.
To his village, he was the boy who always danced first at every masquerade festival.
To the Nigerian Army, he was a fearless fighter — the man who never let a single bullet scare him.
But to his wife, Amaka…
He was just “Nedu” — the husband who never stopped smiling, even when he was tired from battle.
The call came on a Friday.
Troops were needed urgently to back up men pinned down near the Sambisa axis.
He packed quickly. Hugged his twin sons. Gave Amaka a note sealed in nylon.
“If I don’t come back, open this.”
She slapped his chest playfully, laughing through her tears:
“Stop that, Nedu! You’ll come back. You always do.”
He smiled. He always smiled.
The operation was brutal.
A hidden IED tore through their Hilux.
Shrapnel hit three soldiers.
Chinedu was the last man standing.
He radioed for air support, dragged one bleeding corporal behind cover, and kept firing…
…until he didn’t.
When reinforcements arrived, they found Chinedu slumped over his radio — hand still clutching the mic.
“Enemy approaching from the east… hold line… I repeat—”
And that was his last transmission.
Three days later.
A knock on Amaka’s door.
Three officers in dress uniform.
One folded flag.
She knew.
She opened the nylon he gave her. Inside was a letter written in ink and rain-stained fingerprints:
“If you’re reading this, Amaka, it means I didn’t make it home. But I died for you. For our boys. For this land we call Nigeria. Tell Chisom and Ebuka that their father was a warrior. And tell Mama… I’ll see her again in the land of ancestors.”
Today, in the compound of Chinedu’s family house, his mother still beats the ogene (metal gong) every evening — not in celebration, but in mourning.
And his twin boys?
They now wear little wooden necklaces carved with the letters “SN” — for Sergeant Nedu.
And when anyone asks who their father was, they say:
“Our father danced into battle… and never stopped until the music faded.”
He was a son, a father, a fighter. And now, a name carried by the wind.
By @iamossy_
1998. Victoria Island, Lagos.
My name is Chinaza, and I grew up in a mansion. Marble floors. Private drivers. Nannies. My father was a respected surgeon.
My mother ran a fashion boutique in Lekki.
We had everything….Except empathy.
Right outside our back kitchen was a tiny servant’s quarters — where our gate man, Papa Sunday, lived with his wife and son.
His son’s name?
Ebuka.
He was quiet.
Always barefoot.
Always polite.
He’d sweep the compound, wash my father’s car, then disappear behind the small zinc wall that divided our world from his.
My mother hated him.
“Tell him not to sit on our veranda. He smells like hardship.”
I never understood it.
Because every time I saw him, he was helping someone.
Carrying groceries.
Fetching water.
Smiling with gratitude.
But I never really noticed Ebuka — not until that Saturday
2002.
I was 17.
He was 19.
I was sitting outside reading a novel when I suddenly started gasping. My throat tightened. I couldn’t breathe.
I was having an asthma attack — my worst ever.
I fell to the floor.
Everyone was screaming.
And then… Ebuka ran in.
Carried me on his back.
Rushed me into the car.
Drove me — with no license — to the nearest hospital.
I survived.
That night, my father yelled at him:
“How dare you take my car? Are you mad?”
Ebuka bowed his head and said:
“I’m sorry sir. But she would’ve died.”
My mother slapped him.
I watched silently.
The next week, his father was fired.
They packed in the night.
No goodbyes.
No forwarding address.
Just silence.
20 years passed.
I became a banker. Moved to Port Harcourt.
Married. Had one child.
But life happened.
My marriage collapsed. I lost my job. Developed fibroids. Struggled with depression.
I returned to Lagos — not to a mansion — but to my mother’s old house. She had passed. The place was dusty and hollow.
I decided to do surgery for the fibroids.
Everyone recommended one place:
“Hopewell Specialist Clinic.”
They said the CEO was a mystery. Young. Brilliant. Private.
I booked the procedure.
The nurse asked:
“Would you like to meet the consultant before your surgery?”
I said yes.
The door opened…
And Ebuka walked in.
But not in rags. Not in slippers. In a fitted suit. Clean shoes. A golden lapel pin with the initials: E.A.O. — Ebuka Anozie Okafor.
He stopped. Stared at me.
“Chinaza?”
I covered my mouth.
“Ebuka?”
We both froze. Years of silence collapsed in seconds.
He sat down.
Tears filled my eyes.
“I thought you disappeared.”
He smiled.
“I didn’t disappear. I just… built.”
He told me his story.
After they were fired, they moved to a church compound in Mushin.
He continued washing cars. Then started teaching neighbourhood kids math.
A pastor’s wife noticed him. Paid his WAEC fees. He passed.
Won a scholarship to UNN. Studied Medicine. Graduated top of his class.
Won another scholarship — to study in South Africa.
Then returned.
Opened his clinic in Ajah with ₦50,000 and one mattress.
Now?
He owns four clinics. Employs over 120 medical staff.
I wept.
“You saved me again.”
He smiled.
“This time, I have a license.”
After the surgery, he refused to charge me.
I insisted.
He said:
“You once gave me books when everyone else gave me insults.”
I didn’t remember.
But he did.
He said:
“You gave me your old copy of ‘Purple Hibiscus’ and said, ‘Your brain is too big to waste sweeping.’ That sentence stayed with me forever.”
Today, we are friends. Real friends.
He sponsors my NGO for underprivileged women.
And last month, at a business conference, someone asked him:
“Who inspired you the most?”
He pointed at me.
“The girl who gave me a book instead of a broom.”
From gate boy…
To gate opener.
From house help…
To hospital hero.
From insulted…
To influential.
Sometimes, the people the world throws away… Are the ones God raises to save those who once looked down on them.
Share this if you believe no one stays small forever.
Thank You Jesus,
Salvation Prayers
If you don’t Know Jesus as your personal Lord and Saviour and would like to accept him into your life as your personal Lord and Saviour, Please say this prayer:
Father, I know that I have broken your laws and my sins have separated me from You. I am truly sorry, and now I want to turn away from my past sinful life toward You. Please forgive me, and help me avoid sinning again. I believe that Your son, Jesus Christ died for my sins, was resurrected from the dead, is alive, and hears my prayer. I invite Jesus to become the Lord of my life, to rule and reign in my heart from this day forward. Please send Your Holy Spirit to help me obey You, and to do Your Will for the rest of my life. In Jesus’ name I pray, Amen.
Support Our Ministry,
Good Morning Dear,
It cost a lot of money to maintain a website, Nonetheless a non-profit Christian website,
Please if you have been blessed by this ministry and you are led to support and bless this ministry in return,
Please make your donation to this account,
Chukwuemeka Obiorah Ogwo,
Account Number,0139438409,
Guaranty Trust Bank Plc Nigeria,
To help us continue in the spreading of The GOSPEL OF OUR LORD JESUS CHRIST to every corner of this world,
Thank You Very Much For Your Support,
May GOD, we Serve Bless You A Million Times in return, Amen,
May God Bless Israel, May God Bless Nigeria, May God Bless America And Take Care Of Us; May God Make His Face Shine Upon Us, And Be Gracious To Us; May The Lord Lift Up His Countenance Upon Us, And Give Us Peace, In Jesus Christ Name, We Pray! Amen!
May The Grace The Lord Jesus Christ, And The Love Of God, And The Fellowship Of The Holy Spirit Be With You All. Amen!
Spiritual Exercise:
Worldwide Prayer Haven 