There Goes the Preacher

Comfort Obi

It has to be one of the ironies of life. There we were – Venerable Fortune Azubuike, his wife, Nkechi, and I – planning, talking about the future. There we sat down, talking, about Christmas, and the New Year, and what to do. There we were talking about his retirement from the Ministry of Education, Imo State, at a relatively young age. He was full of plans for the future. He was full of life, optimistic. He talked about the possibility of doing something for, and with the Police. He talked about counseling officers, and men of the police. He talked about lecturing them on civility, and the need to put God first while at work. He had such beautiful plans for himself, his wife, his children, his siblings, the church and the community. He thought the world of his children and his siblings. He was particularly proud of one of his younger brothers, Benji, a medical doctor (a Cardiologist). He was Benji’s ambassador, and was in the habit of recommending him to people, including my family. Each time I complained about any symptom of ill-health, he would quickly ask me to call Benji. For Ven. Azubuike, Benji was the ultimate. He spoke about him with so much pride. That was how my brother, Jude, and others I spoke to, began to patronise Benji. That was how I knew his account number.
I knew Venerable Azubuike and his siblings in my younger days. We lived together in Orodo, Mbaitoli Local Government Area, Imo State. His father was a Priest, and mine a school teacher. In my younger days, as in my older days, I saw him as my friend. When I left secondary school, he was at the Alvan Ikoku College of Education. Even though I was closer to another of his younger brother, Bethel, and younger sister, Ngoma, he was my senior friend. I remember him riding a bicycle, coming to our house to visit me during holidays, at Emmanuel School, Okwu Orodo, where my father was the headmaster, before we moved to Central School, Orodo where we became neighbours. I remember him buying novels for me. I remember him scolding me, and at the same time, encouraging me to read and study hard. I called him Dee Fortune then. Even as an Archdeacon of the Anglican Communion, I still called him that.
He had a lot of weaknesses. Chief among them, his deep love for his wife, his children, and his siblings. They were his world. When his two daughters got married, their husbands, Prince and Nnamdi, also became part of his world. Yet, his greatest love was preaching the Word of God. It came naturally to him. He glowed as he did the work of God. It gave him joy. And he did it with passion. He was a Preacher’s Preacher. But now, the Preacher is gone.
His death hit me like a burst of thunder and a clap of lightening. I never knew he was ill, until it was almost late. The last time I saw him was at the funeral of the mother-in-law of the Bishop of Egbu. He was himself, or was he? We spoke, and agreed we’d meet at the investiture of the new Knights of St. Christopher and St. Mary Magdalene on Sunday, October 4, at the Cathedral Church of All Saints, Egbu. The first thing that struck me on the investiture day was that he and his wife were absent. I browsed through the programme, and there was no goodwill message from them. That was odd. I got worried, and asked Sir Herbert Mela, their Parishioner, where they were. He told me Azubuike was ill, but was gradually recovering. Unfortunately, I went back to Lagos early the next day, and so was unable to see him. But a week later, I was back home. I called Nkechi, who told me they were back to the hospital. I panicked, and went to the hospital. On seeing me, Nkechi burst into tears, Carrying a Bible, she was frantically adjusting the drip being administered to her husband. He heard my voice, and opened his eyes. I held one of his hands with both of mine. To say that I was shocked at his state is an understatement. Nkechi and I were mopping at each other, speechless. A Priest was praying. Chinwe, my sister-in-law who accompanied me was in tears. But Nkechi and I had hopes. Our faith in God, in Venerable Azubuike’s recovery, was unshaken. Here is a man, we reasoned, who had given all to God. Nkechi challenged God, and told Him: “Do this for me, you are my father. I need my husband.”
On the morning of her husband’s death, Nkechi called me. It was too early. When I heard her voice, my heart sank. And then, she said: "Com, I have lost my husband. Fortune has left me.” A couple of hours later, Bethel sent a text message to me. “My brother has passed on.” I switched off my phone. I had heard enough for one day. It was a nightmare I thought I would wake up from. I never did.
Venerable. Dee Fortune. Nkechi’s darling husband. A doting father. A loving brother. A caring father-in-law. A Preacher’s Preacher. Now, rest in, and with the Lord whom you loved, and served passionately. Good trip!