by Collins and Tonia Nweke
It’s strange how the mind plays tricks on you when someone you love departs this world.
About two weeks after Nna’s passing on Friday, 1 August 2025, Tonia and I were deep in one of those long conversations that so often led us back to him. The topic was an old Igbuzo cultural practice — one that, as is often the case, leaned unfairly against women. We had spoken to Nna about it a few years earlier, seeking his counsel as we always did when a matter touched both conscience and custom.
He had listened patiently, his fingers tracing the rim of his walking stick as he often did when thinking, his head lowered. Then, in that calm, reasoned voice that always seemed to come from a well deeper than his years, he said:
“Yes, you are right. It is unjust that a woman who dies within the stipulated mourning period, is deemed to have committed an abomination and would be cast away to the evil forest. But to change what is old, first understand why it was born. Find its roots, then begin the conversation. Reform that endures must begin with understanding. Yes, it is even made worse because a man in the same situation does not suffer the same faith as the woman”
That was Nna: a traditionalist with a reformer’s heart. A man grounded in heritage. Yet unafraid to prune its branches when they grew crooked. He could hold a mirror to our culture without breaking it.
So, on that day — two weeks after he was gone — when our discussion reached an impasse, I said to Tonia half-jokingly, “Let’s just put a Videocall to Nna and know what the state of play is.” As I reached for my phone, she gently took my hand and whispered, “Nna is no more.”
A silence followed. Heavy, final, unbelievable. And I said, quietly, “Indeed. He can’t take a call in the mortuary.”
That was when the full weight of loss settled in. For so long, his presence was our constant. Teacher, private philosopher, cultural encyclopaedia, compass in the fog. When I doubted if I wanted to accept to serve as the leader of my age group, Ogbor Midwest, it was to him I turned. And when I doubted about how far we must reform the age group culture, retooling it for 21st Century impact, it was to him I turned with my now ‘generic question’: will it be an alu or abomination in Igbuzo culture if we did this or that? His voice was always a phone call away, his wisdom, my cultural compass, always within reach.
I had thought that because he lived so long, nearly a century, I had been given enough time to prepare for his absence. I was wrong.
And yet, in another sense, I was right. He did prepare us. He left behind a wealth of lessons, proverbs, and silent examples that will outlive any number of phone calls. He trained our instincts to ask, “What would Nna have said or done under the circumstance ?” and in that question, his spirit continues to answer. That spirit, sometimes in silent and unspoken words, just a gaze or eye contact, would guide me and my siblings throughout the long elaborate planning process for his funeral. ‘What would Nna say or do?’ became our compass.
The last time I saw him in person, I spoke to him as a son to a father, but also as a father myself. I told him that I was trying — truly trying — to be for my two sons and grandson what he had been for me: a source of grounding, a moral centre, a quiet flame of wisdom in noisy times.
He sat with his head lowered, listening. After a moment, he lifted his face, looked at me steadily, and said just two words:
“Jisike nwam.”
Keep it up, my son. Keep trying.
Those words have become my inheritance. Not of gold or land, but of purpose.
Nna lived a life that stretched across generations. He was a bridge from the pre-independence era to the restless, global world we now inhabit. He carried tradition not as a burden, but as a torch, lighting our path with reason, humour, and grace. His was not just the crown of an Obi, but the wisdom of an elder who understood that power is service, and service is legacy.
As the Boys, Tonia and I remember him, we find ourselves still guided by his calm presence. We still try to debate as he taught us to: thoughtfully, respectfully, seeking truth, not victory. His voice may no longer sound across the compound, but it echoes in our conscience and our choices.
Yes, Nna — we will “keep it up.”
We will honour your lessons, preserve your humour, continue your conversations, and live by the compass you placed in our hands.
Thank you for your impact, your grace, and your endless patience.
Safe journey to our ancestors. Your Okpu Eze crown is eternal; your light undimmed.
Egbolumani Nwa Abako & his Wife, Tonia, your grandsons, Tonna & Chidi, and your greatgrandson, Noah(your Akaeze)
