I miss my late wife badly — Ray Ekpu

PROLOGUE: A VALENTINE STORY OF LOVE AND LOSS

On Valentine’s Day, the world celebrates roses, chocolates, and romantic messages.  For Ray Ekpu, one of Nigeria’s most respected journalists, Valentine is different.

It is a day of memories. A day of quiet longing. A day of love remembered.

Not the love of cards and candles, but the love of shared struggles, silent sacrifices, and enduring companionship.

This is not a story of romance in its bloom. It is a story of love in its absence.

It is the Valentine story of a man who lost his heart—and still carries it with dignity.  Let’s hear Ray Ekpu’s Valentine story from the legendary Ray Ekpu himself:

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Life without my late wife is very, very tough. Even though I have a cook—I have always had one since I grew up—a personal assistant, and someone who washes and irons my clothes, it is still very difficult. All these people can help you, but they cannot fill the gap left by my wife’s absence.

She was a very nice person, very compassionate, and we were very close—very, very close. I miss her. I miss her every day. Sometimes, when I tell my children, “I miss your mother a great deal,” they reply, “Daddy, please move on. We know how you feel. Daddy, please move on.” But it is very difficult to move on.

When you have had the privilege of living with a woman like that, moving on is not easy.

I come from a polygamous family of 19 children, and she still chose to marry me. I was carrying the burden of that huge family, yet she never complained. She never regretted marrying me. She never said, “You can’t spend your money taking care of all these people.”

Three of my siblings lived with us when we were on Isaac John Street in Ikeja GRA, and she supported it fully. Not many women would allow that. They stayed with us for several years until they got jobs and moved out. Sometimes, I did not even have money to pay their school fees, and my wife would quietly bring out her own money.

She was an excellent wife, an excellent mother, and an excellent companion. That space cannot be filled. It will never be filled.

Then came the tragedy.

She had surgery, and after one week, the hospital discharged her. I told the doctor, “I am not sure she has fully recovered. Please keep her for another week or two.” They refused. They said they needed the space. I told them we were ready to pay, but they still insisted on discharging her.

That is one of the problems in this country—medical mismanagement.

They rushed her out.

I brought her home. My daughter and I decided to hire a caregiver for one month. The caregiver arrived around 6 a.m. on a Sunday. I introduced her to everyone and went out briefly to buy diesel for the generator, so that we would have electricity if NEPA took light.

As I was returning, my daughter stood at the gate, shouting, “Daddy, come! Mummy is vomiting!”

We rushed her to a hospital in Ikeja.

She died.

It was post-surgery complications—things that could have been handled properly if they had allowed her to stay longer. But they had collected her money and were already thinking of the next patient.

I will not mention the hospital’s name.

There are too many strange and painful things happening in Nigeria’s medical system. Sometimes, I wonder how I am still alive after all I have been through.

Even before her final illness, we had troubling medical experiences.

My wife once saw a professor at a teaching hospital who prescribed a drug to be taken every six hours—four times daily. She already had insomnia. I told her, “I didn’t argue because they would say, ‘Are you a doctor?’ But common sense tells me this is not right. How can you take a drug at midnight and still sleep well?”

She said, “Let’s accept that she is a doctor.”

I replied, “This is beyond being a doctor. It is common sense.”

Later, we decided to go to the UK for a second opinion. The doctor there looked at her medications and said, “No. You can’t take this four times a day. It will worsen your insomnia.” He reduced it to three times daily.

When she returned, she laughed and said to me, “You should have been a doctor. You said exactly what the UK doctor said.”

Yet, it was a Nigerian doctor who prescribed four times daily.

I also had a similar experience with my own health. I once went to what they called the best eye hospital in Nigeria. After tests, the doctor prescribed three eye drops: one to be taken twice daily, another three times daily, and the third four times daily.

When we entered the car, I told my wife, “I will take this one only three times. I don’t want to argue, but I know better.”

And that was what I did.

There is no drug I will take four times in a day, no matter who prescribes it. I value my sleep. I don’t want to complicate my health. And, by God’s grace, I sleep well.

Today, I live with the memories of a woman who stood by me through family burdens, professional pressures, and personal struggles. She shared my life quietly, faithfully, and without complaint. Losing her has left a vacuum that no comfort, no service, and no companionship can replace.

Life goes on, they say.

But some loves never end.

They only become memories that live forever in the heart.