Remembering Prof Peter N. Uzoegwu – A son’s moving tribute

“Ozi, thank you so much for this trip. You don’t know what you did for me. You added three more years to my life.”

PROLOGUE

I have read a lot of obituaries but no single obituary has moved me like this one written to lament his father’s passing recently. Ozioma Uzoegwu (B.Eng), an engineer and solutions architect of the Internet Age wrote on the life and death of his father, Prof. Peter Nzeemndu Uzoegwu, KSM, who served as a Professor of Biochemistry at the University of Nigeria, Nsukka (UNN). It is a poetic masterpiece and a gripping tribute to a father he would never see again. I have read it out to myself and to others so many times. By the way, Ozioma Uzoegwu is a Principal Solutions Architect with Amazon Web Services (AWS) where he focuses on Data & AI for financial services. A first-class graduate of UNN and MPhil from University of Cambridge. He lives in Ipswich, UK, with his wife and three children—a boy and twin girls. I am proud to feature him in my column today. Read it and keep it!

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By OZIOMA UZOEGWU

“Ozidi Boy,” you called me—

A name that never aged, never changed,

Even when I became a father of three,

Even when miles separated us,

That name was your love, constant and unchanging

You taught me, Dad, what it meant to work with purpose before I even understood the meaning of the word. I can still see you—late into the night, running genotype tests for hundreds of young people. While others slept, you were in the lab on a mission both scientific and sacred: to save lives, to prevent heartbreak, to give knowledge where ignorance had reigned.

And then we became your production line. One child writing results, another stuffing envelopes, another sealing them shut. You were teaching us that greatness isn’t found in grand gestures alone, but in the quiet, repetitive work done with love. You showed us that service to humanity could be both purposeful and profitable, that doing good and doing well were not opposites but companions.

I was scared, Dad, when you’d drive us through Nsukka on Easter and Christmas Day, stopping to feed the homeless. I feared for you as you stepped out with Mum’s carefully prepared meals. But you knew something I didn’t: that fear dissolves in the presence of love, that God’s protection wraps around those doing His work. You taught me that Christ isn’t found only in churches, but in the streets, in the eyes of the forgotten, in the simple act of feeding the hungry.

Of all the gifts you gave me, serving beside you at the altar remains among the precious. You introduced me to Christ, not through daily preaching, but through daily example. The family rosary, the morning mass, the decades you spent as a mass server from boyhood into your seventies. Serving together, standing side by side at that altar—those mornings brought us closest. In those moments, we weren’t just father and son; we were brothers in faith, servants together connected to something greater than ourselves. You showed me that faith isn’t inherited; it’s witnessed. It’s lived.

Generous to a fault—that’s what they say about you. But it wasn’t a fault, Dad. It was your super power. You fed mass servers after midnight carols, built churches, sponsored priests, took your extended family as your own. And those Uga students joining UNN—you helped them gain admission, then welcomed them into our home for weeks, sometimes months. I built friendship during those times that remain dear to me today. You were building more than your own family; you were building community, connection, legacy.

“Ten naira for every A scored in your exams.” and ten naira was very big in those days. Such a simple promise, but it changed everything. When result came, I wasn’t just counting my A’s—I was counting how much you owed me! And you always paid, Dad. Always. Those ten naira notes felt like gold because they represented your belief in me, you recognition of effort, your promise kept. You taught me that hard work doesn’t go unnoticed, that when you aim for something and give your best, success is not just possible—it’s likely.

You wanted a medical doctor. I wanted to be an engineer. I could see the disappointment when I told you, but you took it on the chin. You didn’t force me. Instead, you made sure I had everything I needed to excel in the path I had chosen. And then came graduation day. Dad, I hope you knew that valedictory speech was for you. When I looked up and saw your face, saw that smile—that proud, radiant smile—I knew I’d given you something precious. Your happiness that day was my greatest reward.

Leaving Nigeria was one of the hardest thing I ever did, because I knew what it meant: less time with you. But WhatsApp became our lifeline. When I prepared for holy matrimony, you spoke to me with the gravity of a man who understood what marriage truly meant. You taught me about being a better man for my wife and children. Those lessons, Dad—I carry them like treasures. They’ve guided me through every challenge, every joy, every ordinary moment.

Thank God we got you to visit in 2019 before the pandemic. I remember Felixstowe Beach and you shouting: “Ozioma, step back! Don’t go further. Hold the kids!” You were so terrified of that ocean, but it wasn’t about fear. It was about love. You always wanted to protect us, to keep us safe. Our road trips to London brought back your memories of studying for your PhD there. And your birthday that year, September 8, 2019—we danced to Osadebe! Those moves of yours cracked everyone up. When you left, you said something that haunts me now with beauty: “Ozi, thank you so much for this trip. You don’t know what you did for me. You added three more years to my life.” You knew how precious time was. You knew every moment was a gift.

In April 2024, I came to see you. Though you weren’t feeling great, your spirit was high. We drove around UNN campus together, got your haircut, ran errands. Such simple things, but I cherished them. I didn’t know these would be our last moments of that kind. When I was leaving, you gave me a big hug. And then I saw them: tears dripping down your face. It broke my heart. But now, I understand. You saw what I couldn’t. You knew this was goodbye.

In your last years, you fought illness with everything you had. When I came back in July 2025 and saw you in that hospital bed, you were still fighting, still trying to show us you’d beat this. You couldn’t speak properly, but on the day I was leaving, you asked me to come back again. Dad, I’m back. I’m here. But not the way we planned. I can’t hold your hand. I can’t tell you about the kids and watch your eyes light up. But I am comforted, Dad. I am comforted by the good life you lived. I know you are resting with God now, that you are free from pain, that you’ve received the crown you earned through decades of faithful service.

The kids will know you, Dad. The world will know what you did. Your research that saved lives. Your generosity that lifted communities. Your faith that moved mountains. Your love that knew no bounds. Keep looking over us. Watch your grandchildren grow. Guide them as you guided me. Thank you, Dad—for teaching me purpose through your work, service through your example, and love without limits. Thank you for believing in my dreams. Thank you for everything. The boy who held your hand to nursery and primary school has grown. But I am still your Ozidi Boy. I always will be.