By Ndubuisi Ikpeagha
My sister, we did not come from a place of plenty. We grew up together in the dust and dew of the village, walking to the farms, enduring the heat of the Amasiri weather and the cold mist of the harmattan. We knew what it meant to wake up and simply do what had to be done.
Then Papa died.
And suddenly, life became different.
Mama had to fend for all of us, and we children had to contribute whatever little strength we had. We helped her hawk moi moi, akara, akamu, and whatever else was in season that she could sell.
But you, my elder sister, were the first to carry those wares on your head.
You carried them so much and so proudly that the entire village began to identify Mama through you. They would call her Nne Orie Ikpe—the mother of Orie Ikpe.
You became, in a way, the signpost of Mama’s struggle.
And then the rest of us joined.
We went from one family friend to another, hoping that someone would help us pay a portion of our school fees. Many of the people we visited were supposed to be well-to-do. Some turned us about. Some turned us away. Others listened and gave what they could, even when what they could give was nowhere near what was needed.
Yet we left grateful.
I still remember one particularly painful experience. We went to see a highly placed politician who had been a friend of our father. He promised to help us, but somehow, that promise came with an unacceptable demand for an arm an a leg in return.
I was deeply torn when I heard about it.
But look at us now.
Decades have come. Decades have gone. Months have come and gone. The years have turned into numbers that we now count—and when we look back, all we can say is: GOD IS GREAT.
And indeed, God is great.
You had wonderful beginnings as a child. I remember how you would listen to advertisements on the radio and place a few coins beside the radio, believing that the person whose voice you were hearing was actually inside that radio—and asking the person to please buy you some chocolate bars!
Today, you know better.
Much better.
That little girl who thought people lived inside the radio has grown into a formidable woman who manages people and resources, an astute management professional, a top-brass executive and a true boardroom guru.
Life has taken you through many seasons.
You have known joy.
You have known responsibility.
You have known loss.
And when your husband passed away, you stood strong.
You did not only fend for your own children; you opened your heart and your home to the children of other people. You have adopted, nurtured, trained and supported many.
That is why today, we are not merely celebrating your birthday.
We are celebrating bravery.
We are celebrating doggedness.
We are celebrating sacrifice.
We are celebrating resilience.
We are celebrating love.
And above all, we are celebrating the grace of God that has brought you from the dusty paths of Amasiri to the heights you occupy today.
My dear sister, may God continue to make your road smooth.
May He replenish every strength you have expended on others.
May He reward every sacrifice that nobody saw.
May He surround you with people who will love you genuinely, honour you sincerely and stand by you faithfully.
And may every person who comes into contact with you be touched, blessed and positively infected by the goodness that continues to exude from your life.
From those village paths…
From Mama’s akara and moi moi…
From the farms…
From the harmattan mornings…
From the school-fee journeys…
From the disappointments…
From the struggles…
To the woman you are today—
What a journey. What a testimony. What a God.
Happy birthday, my elder sister, Edna IKPEAGHA Onyianta.
May this new chapter bring you greater joy, deeper peace, stronger health, abundant grace and many more reasons to look back and say:
“God has been good.”
We love you.
Happy Birthday, Edynkonko. ❤️🎂🎉
