Ndoma-Egba
By Maria Onyia
Very often in life, we forget the people who gave us access – the ones who opened doors, pointed us in the right direction, advised us and quietly helped us become who we are. It is easy to remember those who gave us material things, but we sometimes fail to acknowledge those who guided us, supported us, and made room for us in spaces we otherwise may never have entered or places we may not have reached.
As we prepare to mark the anniversary of my sister and friend, Amaka, I remember her as someone who gave access generously and effortlessly. She opened doors for so many people. She lifted others, carried everyone along, and made each person feel seen and valued.
My first true understanding of what access meant came immediately after she passed. While she was alive, I walked freely into her home. We moved through every part of her house as though it were our own. If she needed to take something from her room, she asked us to come along and keep her company. If she wanted to pick an outfit, she told us to choose one for her. Her home was our home. Even in her village house, we all slept in rooms close to hers, without a second thought. She always had a crowd with her. She did not like being alone.
But after she passed, everything changed. Traveling to her village for her funeral, I realized painfully that I no longer had that access. Yes, the crowd was large. Yes, her family was mourning. But there I was, sleeping in a strange hotel in her village – suddenly aware that the open doors she gave us in life were now closed because she was no longer there.
It struck me deeply: we are often where we are because someone gave us access.
Someone let us in.
Someone pointed the way.
Someone held the door open long enough for us to walk through.
Amaka was that person for so many people.
I see many of them today, thriving, and I remember her. Without God and without her, many of them would not be where they are. She gave people access to her home, to jobs they neither qualified for nor expected, to opportunities they could not afford. She gave access to education, to her children, to her family members, even to her parents’ housekeepers and strangers.
I remember one chef whom I first met in her house. His cooking was one of the reasons we loved visiting. Years later, I returned and saw someone else in the kitchen. When I asked, she told me the chef had graduated and was now working with her husband. I was speechless. I was grateful. And I was deeply impressed.
This was who she was.
From the biggest things to the smallest details, Amaka gave access.
If you needed a favor, she provided a name, a contact, a pathway. If you needed work materials, she told you where and how to get them. For many of us, when life got tough, we knew that if we could just talk to her, she would find or create a solution. She was an open door, not in the sense of being available for exploitation, but in her extraordinary ability to guide and uplift others.
All the young women who passed through her home received access to quality education. They became graduates, professionals, working women all because she insisted on it. She sent several people abroad.
It still hurts that very good people often leave the world with so much more to give. Amaka did not live long, but she lived fully. She left impact. She left kindness. She left access.
When we gathered to bury her, there were friendship groups upon friendship groups – so many that in my group alone, we were over 300 people, and there were at least six or seven similar groups. Yet everyone said the same thing. Everyone felt equally close. She had touched every life in a personal way.
Till today, I sometimes wake up wanting to call her, to ask for direction, to ask a question, and she’s not here.
To everyone who gives access, who shows the way, who points people in the right direction, who opens doors even in quiet, unnoticed ways – thank you. Your impact is bigger than you think.
And to my dear friend Amaka, who gave access from her home to the streets, from her business to every space she entered, I celebrate you. You were a true problem solver, a helper, a giver of pathways.
May God bless you, keep you, and continue to protect the beautiful people you left behind.
Rest in peace, my dear friend.
Rest in peace, Amaka the access giver.
Rest in peace,
Amaka “Access” Victor Ndoma-Egba