By Ufo Eric-Atuanya, Esq.

Her Baby Brother – Whether I liked it or not

How do you begin to pay tribute to someone who was not just your sister, but a piece of your soul’s foundation?

Chizoah, as I fondly called her, was my eldest sister and first sibling — eight years my senior — and from the very beginning of my life, she made sure I knew just how much that gap entitled her to certain lifelong privileges.
She would always introduce me with pride, saying:

“This is my baby brother!”
Not one. Every time.

And she would emphasize “baby” with a sparkle in her eyes — especially if she sensed it made me mildly uncomfortable. The truth is, I never really minded. That title gave her joy, and for her, that story was sacred: the way she carried me as an infant, cradled me everywhere, and watched over me with a maternal devotion far beyond her years.

In many ways, Chizoah was my first protector, my second mother, and the silent architect of the emotional balance in my life.

When we lost our father, I was only 14. When our mother passed, five years later, I was just 19. And at the age of 49, when I lost my beloved wife, it was my siblings, led by Chizoah — in her steady, unshakable way — who stepped in as the anchor of my storm-tossed soul.

She didn’t make loud declarations. She didn’t orchestrate grand interventions. Instead, she showed up — quietly, consistently, lovingly. She had this unique ability to hold space for your grief, and at the same time, reinforce the structure around your life so it wouldn’t collapse.

For my son Kwen, my siblings steadied his world with fierce tenderness. They refused to let him feel the absence of maternal love. My brother, Oguejiofor, became his confidant. My sister, Ifeyinwa, residing in Houston, was there for every school project, every scraped knee, every moment that called for motherly care. And Chizoah, did not allow distance to deter her. She became that mother and grandmother rolled into one—the one who made every holiday magical, every summer break sacred. Her home became a haven. Her arms, a place of refuge. Her voice, always full of encouragement, wisdom, and tenderness. She didn’t just open her home to my son; she opened her heart, wrapping him in the fullness of maternal love—so much so that I had to wrestle him back from her during the COVID season. Kwen never once doubted that he was surrounded by love; and in those periods, I understood the pride and responsibility Chizoah took in calling me her Baby Brother. It was also in those moments that I appreciated the fullness of who my Big Sis was: selfless, nurturing, and profoundly committed to family.

Today, as we honor her life, I thank her for the gift she gave to me, my late wife, my son, my siblings and my parents — a gift of unconditional love, stability, and joy.

Chizo’s quiet strength calmed our storms. Her elegance softened our hard days. Her generosity made us feel seen. Her faith reminded us of what mattered. And through it all, she never asked for recognition.

Even as I grieve, I cannot help but smile through the tears, remembering her long phone conversations, her deliberate calm, and the gentle power she wielded without ever needing to raise her voice.

To me, she will always be “Big Sis.”
My earliest memory of safety.
My lifelong place of quiet strength.
My compass when life was chaotic.
And yes — forever and proudly — my big sister’s favorite “baby brother.”

Rest well, dearest Chizo. Ada nnem! Ada Osodi! Ada Ezefum! Nnekwu Ada!
Your elegance and grace still echo in the spaces you once filled.
Your love remains etched into every corner of our hearts.
And your legacy lives on — not only in your children, your family, and your friends — but in the lives you held up when the world tried to knock us down.

Your final words remain indelible in my ears.

With all my love,
Your Baby Brother,
Ufo