By Dr. Betty Anyanwu-Akeredolu
Yesterday, July 20, I marked my 72nd birthday. A quiet, intimate celebration surrounded by a few friends and family members who came together to rejoice with me. It was nice. It was cute. There was laughter and warmth. And beyond the four walls of our gathering, social media was bursting at the seams with love – thousands celebrating me, their Ada Owere 1, the breast cancer survivor, the advocate, the mother, the grandmother, the woman who continues to thrive. I was truly delighted, humbled, and grateful.
But today – today is different. July 21. My darling Aketi’s birthday. He would have been 69 today.
Instead of playing host to family and retinue of Aketi’s friends and associates, I’m left staring into the void that his absence has created. The man who stood beside me for nearly five decades, whose laughter and expensive jokes filled our home, whose courage defined a state, whose voice calmed the storms in my heart – he is no longer here.
Death snatched him from me on December 26, 2023. A day forever etched into my soul as the darkest of nights. And today, as I remember him on what should have been a joyous occasion, I find myself unraveling all over again.
I had thought I could scribble a few simple words—“Aketi, Gone but not Forgotten. Evergreen in my Broken Heart.” But those words refuse to carry the weight of this pain. The grief is too heavy, the silence too loud.
People say time heals all wounds. But how long is “time”? Almost two years have passed, and it still feels like yesterday. I find myself reliving the agony, the helplessness, the disbelief that followed his final breath. There are days I manage to mask the ache with work, with advocacy, with the faces of young girls whose lives we are transforming. But on days like this, the dam breaks.
He was more than a husband. He was my soulmate, my intellectual sparring partner, my confidant, the father of our children, the one who truly understood me – even when I didn’t speak. His love gave me strength; his stubbornness gave me balance. He believed in me, and I in him.
I have often wondered: Will this pain ever go away? Perhaps not. Perhaps we don’t get over such losses—we learn to live with them. We carry them, like a stone in the shoe. We walk with a limp only our hearts can feel.
But today, I don’t want to talk about moving on. Today, I just want to feel. To grieve. To cry. To whisper “Happy Birthday, my love” into the universe and hope that somehow, somewhere, he hears me.
Aketi, my darling, you are gone, but never forgotten. You remain evergreen in my broken heart. I carry your memory in everything I do, in every cause I champion, in every step I take.
Sleep well, Darlin’mi.
Your Adorable Betty
By Dr. Betty Anyanwu-Akeredolu
