By Prof. Chiwuike Uba, Ph.D

The life of Deaconess Nkechinyere Virginia Uba is also the story of a generation that built families, businesses and communities with little formal education and limited resources, but with an extraordinary commitment to work, integrity and faith. Her life offers enduring lessons for contemporary Nigeria about character, family, responsibility and the true meaning of education.

I am writing this not as a biographer, but as her son.

My mother, Deaconess Nkechinyere Virginia Uba, died on June 5, 2026, at the age of 86. Her death has made me reflect not only on the woman she was, but also on the Nigeria of her generation and what that generation can still teach us.

Some lives are remembered by the positions people held, the degrees they earned, the businesses they built or the honours they received. Other lives are remembered differently. They are remembered by the values they embodied, the people they shaped, the homes they held together and the example they left behind.

My mother belonged to the second category.

She was born in 1940 to Nze Onyedum Igwenyere and Nwaobiara. Her parents were from Ishiogwugwu Village, Nkwerre, now Umuchukwu, but were living in Umumasi, now Rumuomasi, Port Harcourt, when she was born. She was the third child of her mother and the third daughter of her father. Her father was a wealthy and respected man in Nkwerre, bearing the title Afoakuejuogaranya I of Nkwerre. Yet my mother did not follow the conventional path that might have been expected of a child from such a family.

As a young girl, she went to Umuahia to live with a maternal aunt. There, she became involved in the family’s business activities and learned early that survival required initiative, discipline and hard work. She bought oranges from wholesalers, peeled them and sold them at the railway station. It was a simple enterprise, but it revealed something that remained with her throughout her life: she understood the dignity of work.

Formal schooling was not part of her life. She later explained that, in her time, mothers often carried much of the responsibility for educating daughters, while fathers were more likely to prioritise the education of sons. She did not want to become an additional burden on her mother. That decision deprived her of formal credentials, but it did not deprive her of intelligence.

Her practical intelligence was extraordinary. Calculations came quickly to her, as did the ability to remember details and understand things through observation and experience. She could listen to the sound of a vehicle and identify that something was wrong with its engine. She understood practical measurements, construction and household economics. Work, relationships, hardship and everyday life became her classroom.

Her knowledge was not written in certificates. It was written in experience. That distinction matters in a country where we sometimes confuse education with certificates. Formal education is important and should never be diminished. But my mother’s life demonstrated that intelligence, wisdom, character and learning do not always arrive in the same package.

She became a trader and travelled extensively in pursuit of her business. Some of those journeys were difficult and dangerous. There were times when she slept in trucks rather than hotels. She experienced accidents, injuries, armed robbery and other hardships. Yet the work continued.

Frugality was one of her defining characteristics, but it was not simply about keeping money. It was rooted in sacrifice and responsibility. She could save rigorously for a purpose and, at the same time, give generously when she encountered genuine need.

That combination of discipline and compassion is one of the things I remember most about her.

Her strongest business principle was expressed in a simple phrase: *“Kwuru kwa n’eziokwu.”* Stand firmly in the truth.

She would not adulterate garri. She would not mix spoiled garri with good garri and sell it as though everything were fine. Measurements were not to be manipulated. Another person’s bag of goods was not to be secretly reduced. She would not “operate” another person’s goods. If something belonged to another person, it remained theirs. For her, business was built on trust.

Temporary financial gain was never worth the permanent damage caused by dishonesty. Money could be lost and recovered. Goods could be lost and replaced. But once a person’s integrity and reputation were destroyed, recovery was much harder.

That lesson is particularly relevant to Nigeria today.

We often discuss corruption in terms of billions of naira, abandoned projects and grand scandals. Those are serious problems. But corruption also begins in smaller decisions: manipulating a measurement, taking what does not belong to us, falsifying a claim, using another person’s property without permission or justifying dishonesty because “everybody does it”.

My mother’s standard was simpler. Hardship was never an excuse for dishonesty.

Her life was also marked by courage.

She married Elder Mark Uba of Ndimbara Amaegbu Village, Nkwerre, and entered a life that was not always easy. Her first child died. Her second child also died. At one point, when circumstances in her husband’s family became difficult, she was encouraged to return to her father’s home. She could have left. She refused. She stayed with her husband and faced the difficulties before her.

After losing two children, she made a covenant with God. If God gave her another child who survived, she would dedicate that child completely to Him. That child was born and became Ihegboromobi Anayochukwu Vincent, who later became a servant of God.

Then came the Nigeria-Biafra Civil War.

The war brought displacement, deprivation and uncertainty into their lives, as it did for millions of Nigerian families. The family fled to Nkwerre. There was little security and little comfort. Again, people encouraged my mother to return to the city. Again, she stayed.

After the war, the family grew. Seven children eventually came from her marriage. The first family home was a mud house. Through years of work and sacrifice, it became a cement block house.

But perhaps her greatest investment was not the house. It was education.

She knew what it meant to live without formal education, and she was determined that her children would not experience the same limitation. She worked, saved and sacrificed to educate them. Education was not a luxury to her. It was a responsibility.

That is another lesson from her generation. Many parents who had little formal education understood something that our society sometimes forgets: education was not merely about getting a job. It was about giving the next generation choices that the previous generation did not have.

Nigeria now has thousands of universities and millions of graduates, yet the paradox is striking. Certificates have multiplied, while concerns persist about employability, critical thinking, creativity, entrepreneurship and character. From “sex for marks” to allegations of examination manipulation and electoral misconduct involving academics, our educational expansion has not always produced a corresponding expansion in values, competence and responsibility.

My mother had no university degree. Yet she understood something that education is supposed to teach: that knowledge without character can become dangerous, and that intelligence without integrity can become an instrument of exploitation.

My mother also understood that a family can possess material things and still lose everything if it loses its unity.

Strong-willed, blunt and uncompromising, she could be difficult at times. Her children sometimes joked about her temperament. But beneath that toughness was a profound commitment to family.

Anger could come. Silence could follow. Hurt could run deep. But permanent division was not something she readily accepted.

She would say, *“Bring all my children home. I want to see them, talk with them and pray with them.”*

That sentence captures much of her philosophy. Family was not something to abandon because of disagreement.

Her Christianity was equally practical.

She was baptised and confirmed at St. Cyprian’s Anglican Church in Port Harcourt. She was active in Scripture Union and Sunday School, visited the sick, encouraged people, sang hymns and prayed regularly. Long before she was formally addressed as a Deaconess, she lived much of what the title represented.

Her early morning prayers were legendary in our home. Around 4 a.m., a lamp could be burning as she prayed for her children, her family and other people.

But one aspect of her faith particularly challenges me when I look at contemporary Nigeria.

My mother never prayed for her enemies to die. She never prayed against those in authorities. She prayed for their repentance. She prayed for their wellbeing and success. She could feed them, clothe them and help them. Even when she believed someone had wronged her, she did not regard that person’s death as an appropriate answer.

In her understanding of Christianity, praying for another person’s death was wrong. She considered it demonic. This is difficult to reconcile with what we sometimes hear in Nigerian churches. In many churches, prayers against enemies, particularly prayers calling for their destruction or death, can receive some of the loudest “Amen” responses.

That should make us pause.

What does it mean to pray for someone’s death while claiming to follow Christ? When does spiritual warfare become a justification for hatred? At what point does protection from evil become a desire for another human being to perish?

My mother did not believe that Christianity required people to tolerate abuse, injustice or criminality. Protection, accountability and justice remain necessary. But she refused to dehumanise another person simply because that person was an adversary.

Her prayer was, essentially: May this person repent. May this person change. May this person live well.

That was not weakness. It was a demanding form of faith.

She used to say, *“Heaven is real. Hell is real. Live your life for God.”*

She took those words seriously. Even during her final years, when her body became weaker, her faith remained active. In January 2025, she became seriously ill, and the family prayed for her. She recovered. Later, when she was sometimes too weak to attend church, she would still dress for worship, sing from her bed and talk about God.

About two weeks before her death, some of her children spent several days with her. There was prayer, conversation, blessing and discussion about family, peace and the future.

Her final concern was still the same: bring the family together, keep peace, love one another and remain close.

On June 5, 2026, at 86, she died surrounded by people who loved her. Her last child was with her.

In a sense, she had come home.

What remains after a life like hers is not simply memory. It is a standard.

Work honestly.

Respect what belongs to another person.

Educate your children.

Be frugal without becoming hard-hearted.

Help people who genuinely need help.

Do not abandon family because of disagreement.

Pray for repentance rather than revenge.

Take God seriously.

My mother was not a perfect woman. She had strong opinions, difficult moments and human weaknesses. But perhaps that makes her story more useful, not less. She did not preach perfection. She lived by convictions.

Her generation faced poverty, war, widowhood, insecurity, limited education and difficult economic circumstances. Yet many people from that generation built families, businesses, communities and institutions with resources that were modest but with standards that were often formidable.

Nigeria today has more universities, more professionals, more technology and greater material possibilities than the Nigeria my mother knew.

But do we have more integrity?

Do we have more compassion?

Do we have stronger families?

Do we have greater respect for what belongs to others?

Do we understand that education without character can become another instrument of exploitation?

Those are questions her life leaves behind.

Deaconess Nkechinyere Virginia Uba lived for 86 years. She did not occupy the highest offices in Nigeria. She did not accumulate academic titles. She did not become famous beyond the circles her life touched. But she raised children. She educated them. She worked. She kept faith. She helped people. She protected family. She stood by her principles. She chose honesty when dishonesty might have been easier. And she tried to leave people better than she met them.

Her life spoke for itself.

Perhaps that is the kind of testimony Nigeria needs more of today.

Not louder words.

Not bigger titles.

Not more impressive certificates.

Just lives that speak clearly through what they do.

*Kwuru kwa n’eziokwu.*

Stand firmly in the truth.