By Uche Amunike
There were tears. There were hymns. There were whispered prayers. Yet, amid the solemnity that marked the funeral of Professor Ijeoma Udegbunam, one emotion seemed to overshadow every other: gratitude.
To many gathered that day, she was an accomplished academic, a distinguished veterinary professor and humanitarian whose contributions would long be remembered. But to the people who knew her best—her siblings—she was something even greater.
She was the sister who held everyone together.
Her passing at 51 has left a void that is difficult to describe. Yet, as members of the Andrew Nweke family reflected on her life, they spoke less about the circumstances of her death and more about the remarkable way she lived.
For the family’s eldest son, Chief Chike Nweke, memories of Ijeoma begin long before she became Professor Udegbunam.
‘I was old enough to understand what was happening when she was born,’ he recalled. ‘She cried so much as a baby that we immediately gave her a nickname. As she grew, one quality stood out above all else—curiosity.’
‘She was always asking questions, always searching for answers. Looking back, that spirit of inquiry defined her entire life.’
Her love for veterinary medicine began surprisingly early.
She helped their mother raise chickens, and by the time she reached secondary school, the family jokingly nicknamed her ‘Aroma’, after the famous poultry farm in Awka.
The nickname reflected what everyone already knew: She had found her life’s calling.
Years later, she would earn her doctorate before turning 38 and rise through the ranks to become professor and head of department.
Yet, according to Chike, her greatest title was never professor. It was sister.
‘She devoted herself to our family,’ he said. ‘Whenever anyone needed help, she gave her time, energy and resources without hesitation.’
Living in Eastern Nigeria while many of her siblings were based in Lagos and overseas, she became the family’s dependable presence.
‘She was our eyes and ears back home. She represented us at important family events and ensured nothing was neglected.’
Her compassion also revealed itself in quiet acts few people ever knew about. While coordinating the Onebunne Foundation’s scholarship programme, there were times when applicants failed to meet the required benchmark.
Rather than turn them away, she would quietly approach her brother with another idea.
‘She would ask if we could jointly sponsor the child ourselves.’
Ijeoma Udegbunam
If Chike remembered the little sister who grew into the family’s dependable pillar, her second eldest brother, Theophilus Chukwudi Nweke, remembered the woman whose impact stretched far beyond the family.
For him, death is not the end.
‘I don’t see this as death,’ he reflected quietly. ‘I see it as a transition from one plane of life to another.’
It was an unexpected transition, he admitted, one that the family never imagined would come so soon. Still, their faith offered comfort.
‘We believe that God gives life and, in His infinite wisdom, He has called her home. We can only bow to that wisdom while trying to fill the huge vacuum she has left behind.’
That vacuum, he explained, exists because Ijeoma occupied a unique place in both the family and society.
‘She wasn’t only brilliant academically. She had an uncommon gift for organizing people and coordinating activities. She was truly the family person.’
Looking around the packed church during the funeral service, and later at their father’s compound overflowing with mourners during the reception, he saw proof of the lives she had touched.
‘People left their work on a weekday just to celebrate her life. That tells you everything.’
Then came the words that perhaps best captured his sister’s philosophy of life.
‘If you live 51 quality years, it is better than living 80 unfulfilled years.’
For him, the number of years mattered less than the depth of impact.
‘In those 51 years, she touched lives meaningfully. Our responsibility now is to continue the work she started and make it even bigger. That way, she lives on.’
While her brothers spoke of her remarkable achievements and service, perhaps no one understood the tenderness beneath Ijeoma’s strength more than her elder sister, Ifeyinwa Nweke.
‘My sister was my rock,’ she said softly. ‘She has always been my baby. I protected her, but somehow she was always taking care of me.’
Among all her memories, one conversation remains impossible to forget. When Ijeoma was diagnosed with cancer, she delayed telling her elder sister—not because she feared the disease, but because she feared how her sister would react.
‘She told me she didn’t want me to know immediately because she didn’t know how I would take it.’
Even while confronting one of life’s most devastating diagnoses, her first concern was someone else’s pain.
‘Those words still break my heart,’ Ifeyinwa said. ‘The person who was sick was thinking about the person who wasn’t.’
The following day, they met. Trying to comfort her sister, Ijeoma smiled and said, ‘Don’t worry. I’m okay. I’m going to fight this.’
Then she asked a question that would forever remain etched in her sister’s heart: ‘How do I ever repay you for all the love you’ve shown me?’
Ifeyinwa’s answer came instantly.
‘I told her, ‘Just live. Don’t die.’
She paused.
‘But she didn’t live. She’s gone.’
Their bond was unlike anything she had ever known.
‘We never competed with each other. We found strength in each other. She used to tell everyone that she wasn’t fashionable but her big sister was a real fashionista.’
She laughed through tears.
‘She was like my twin, even though we weren’t twins.’
Now, she says, a part of her is missing.
‘I ask God every day to help me bear this pain. I’ll keep loving her until we meet again, never to part anymore.’
If the family’s memories revealed the loving sister behind the professor, her younger brother, Okey Nweke, reflected on the lasting legacy she leaves behind.
To him, the measure of Ijeoma’s life lies in the legacies she built.
‘Words cannot adequately explain how we feel,” he said. ‘Her passing was sudden and completely unexpected.’ However, whenever he speaks about his sister, grief quickly gives way to pride.
She became a professor at just 38 years old, an achievement few academics attain so early in life. She also broke barriers by becoming the first female Professor of Veterinary Medicine at the University of Nigeria, Nsukka.
Within the university, she headed several departments, introduced initiatives that strengthened the faculty’s curriculum and earned the respect of colleagues who described her as a workhorse whose shoes would be difficult to fill.
‘I want her to be remembered for the consequential impact she made in academia,’ Okey said.
Yet, her influence extended far beyond lecture halls.
As coordinator of the Onebunne Foundation, she championed scholarships, educational programmes and community development initiatives that transformed lives.
‘I also want people to remember her humanitarian contributions,’ he added. ‘She served society with everything she had.’
His greatest hope now is that the children she left behind will carry forward the values she lived by.
‘I pray they will pick up the mantle and attain even greater heights than their mother.’
Listening to all four siblings, one truth becomes unmistakable. Each remembered a different woman.
One remembered the curious little sister who became the family’s anchor.
Another remembered the organiser and unifier.
Another remembered the loving sister whose compassion endured even in suffering.
And another remembered the scholar and humanitarian whose impact reached far beyond the university.
Yet somehow, they were all describing the same person.
Perhaps that is why the church was filled beyond expectation on a working day, and why her father’s compound overflowed with mourners the following day.
People had not gathered simply to mourn a professor.
They had come to honour a woman whose greatest achievement was not found in academic titles or professional distinctions, but in the countless lives she quietly held together.
Some lives are measured by the years they span. Others are measured by the lives they transform.
For Professor Ijeoma Udegbunam, her family believes the measure is already clear. Though her voice has fallen silent, her compassion continues to speak.
And in the hearts of those she loved—and who loved her in return—the sister who held everyone together still lives on.
