I still feel like I’m caught in a bad dream. Each morning, I hope I’ll wake up and find that it was just a mistake—just a terrible mix-up. But with every passing day, the truth settles in: you’re no longer here with us. And so, we cling to what we have left—our beautiful, priceless memories of you.

More than 40 years ago, Chuka introduced you to Nkoli and me. I still remember that first meeting so clearly. You were stunning—beautiful in the most natural, effortless way. But beyond that, you were elegant, confident, and immediately engaging. You had a presence that made people feel welcomed and seen. From the very beginning, our connection was easy and genuine. What started as friendship quickly became family. We adopted each other as brother and sister, and from then on, our lives were forever intertwined.

I often think back to our early years together—the days when we were all young couples, full of energy and dreams. We shared so many unforgettable moments: evenings out, long conversations, holidays spent together in San Francisco and Los Angeles. I remember the thrill of the theme parks, the laughter, the carefree joy of youth. And of course, the unforgettable nights dancing and celebrating life in L.A. nightclubs. You were always radiant—composed, joyful, and full of life. There was an elegance about you that stood out even in a crowd. You carried yourself with quiet confidence and unmistakable class.

I remember our Christmas trip to Las Vegas as young parents. You and Nkoli kept watch over the kids, ever so attentive, while Chuka and I acted like we were on a mission to conquer the RIO buffet. We laughed so much that night. These memories—these priceless, irreplaceable moments—are what we hold onto now.

As we all grew older and became parents of grown adults, our bond only deepened. We celebrated your son Obinna’s wedding and shared milestone birthdays—whether celebrating yours in Atlanta and Houston, or ours in Los Angeles. Each time we met, it felt like a reunion of hearts that never grew apart, no matter the distance.

You had many beautiful qualities, but one I deeply admired was your strength of character. You were never one to pretend or placate. With you, there was no mushy middle—things were either right or wrong, and you had the courage to speak the truth, no matter who was involved. And yet, you never lost your tenderness. You were like a mother hen—fiercely loyal, fiercely protective. If you loved someone, you loved them fully, without conditions. You showed up. You stood up. And you never stopped caring.
I remember our last conversation. You were hopeful, strong in spirit, and full of plans. We talked about you recovering fully and about us visiting each other again and growing old together—just the four of us, as we had always been. I said we’d sit around as old folks, telling “old people jokes” and laughing at how far we’d come. That image stayed with me. I was truly looking forward to that chapter, and it breaks my heart that we won’t get to live it out together.

Though your physical presence is gone, your impact on our lives remains everlasting. We will miss you deeply, but we will also remember you with love and gratitude. Now that you are in God’s embrace, may your gentle spirit bring comfort to those you left behind.

Sleep well, dear sister, until we all meet again.

— Ifeanyichukwu Obi