The journey of Iya Wura’s endless sacrifice

Depression is the foundation of all madness. It could lead to death, if not managed properly. It shouldn’t be ignored. It is a powerful oppressor. A silent sniper. Everyone is a victim. No one is free. Iya Ireti was a nurse, but to everyone who knew her, she was Iya Wura, Mother Gold.

A woman of steel and fire, yet as soft as fresh eko when it came to her children. She worked tirelessly, often moving from her day job at the hospital to her modest drugstore in the community.

Her son, Ayotunde, watched her with admiration and worry. She never seemed to rest.  He would whisper to himself, “I must grow strong enough to carry her smile in my hands someday.”

During the hard years when civil servants weren’t paid, power outages became normal, and food scarcity choked households, Mother Gold held her home together with quiet courage. Salaries were delayed, yet debts grew fast.

Even those who had once driven flashy cars had to abandon them, walking with worn-out slippers and fading dignity. Mother Gold became known as a “professional walker,” trekking to her chemist store each day, except Sundays– Sundays were for God.

She didn’t wait for miracles. Her husband, Baba Ireti (Alabi), believed in “all conditions are permanent.” But Iya Wura did not.

She dragged the family from the dusty outskirts of Ibadan into a house closer to the teaching hospital. She opened another drugstore nearby. She knew the children needed stability, books, and peace.

Her husband grumbled at times, “Ah-ah, Wura, don’t use ‘change for recharge card’ to insult me.” And she would reply playfully, “Awon okunrin ti pari. Men have finished.” Then they’d laugh it off, like two old friends stuck in life’s storm.

When Baba Ireti retired early, the burden quadrupled. Their first child had just gained admission into Obafemi Awolowo University. Iya Wura became the sole engine of their household. Her small salary and sales from the store funded school fees, feeding, clothes, and every single dream.

Whenever one of her children left for NYSC, she would place a Bible in their hands and say, “Omo mi, HIV/AIDS is real. Please, follow the path of God.” All her children passed through this rite.

In 2011, life struck. Iya Wura was diagnosed with cancer. Ayotunde, her last child, had to abandon his pharmacist internship to care for her in the hospital. For almost eight months, he barely slept, barely breathed. The woman who had carried him all his life now had to be carried, bathed, lifted, fed, prayed over.

Ayotunde crumbled slowly. Depression wrapped itself around his thoughts like thick harmattan dust. He would stare at the ceiling in the hospital corridor, asking questions the walls couldn’t answer: Where was God? How could a woman give so much and still be robbed of peace?

The grief weighed on his body. He began to experience constant reflux, a burning in his chest and throat that felt like he was swallowing coals. His fellow doctors ran tests, heart scans, bloodwork, antibiotics. Nothing worked. Finally, a surgeon friend insisted on an endoscopy.

“You have GERD,” the doctor told him after the procedure. “You need to cut out alcohol and spicy food. Reduce stress.”

Ayotunde read everything about GERD online and learned it could lead to cancer of the oesophagus if ignored. He panicked. He gave up alcohol, adopted a strict vegetable-and-fruit diet, and dropped over 20 kilograms in a few months. But while he was healing, Iya Wura’s health was declining.

The cancer had advanced into an endocrine tumor. Her body swelled. Her cries in pain turned into whispers of prayer. “God, I served you day and night. Why now? Why can’t I taste the fruits of my labour?”

Ayotunde saw a fear in her eyes that reminded him of Christ in Gethsemane. He held her hand through every sleepless night, until she drifted off.

Eventually, the family flew her to London for further treatment. The doctors there were kind, but clinical. “She has six weeks to live,” one of them said gently.

Iya Wura laughed. “You are not my God. My Chukwu is still on the throne.”

The doctor looked bewildered but nodded. Chemotherapy began. After two rounds, she bounced back, smiling, cracking jokes, praying aloud. But after the fifth round, her condition plummeted. Her skin grew paler, her voice weaker. Her children flew her back to Nigeria.

A few days after, she insisted on attending her mother’s burial, against all advice. Her husband pleaded, “Wura, please rest. Let someone else go.”

But she replied, “I have nothing left to live for, Alabi. Let me follow Jesus.”

She collapsed during the outing Mass. Panic. Prayers. A sister who was a pastor fired powerful prayers, and Iya Wura revived. She opened her eyes and asked, “Who was praying like that?” When told, she smiled weakly and said, “Tuo Jesu Igwe!” And the congregation echoed, “Igwe!”

On the way back from the burial, she asked her son to take her home. As they drove, she whispered, “Heaven is real, my children. Don’t stop praying. I love you all.”

Moments before they arrived, she said to her son, “Buy groundnut for me… don’t worry about the banana.” Then she pecked her daughter gently on the cheek.

They pulled over. Her daughter held her like a child. And just like that, at 5:20 p.m., Iya Wura breathed her last. There were no screams. Only tears falling like rain on quiet soil. Her children knew, they had witnessed a saint’s passing.

Weeks later, Ayotunde dreamt of her. She wore white, her smile as calm as the sea, a gold anklet gleaming on her foot.

“Mummy, are you here for me?” he asked in the dream.

She laughed. “No, I only came to see how you’re doing.”

He reached to call his siblings, but she floated away. He woke up on the floor, crawling toward the door.

He smiled, tears drying in his eyes. She is fine, he whispered. She is home.

Two years later, Baba Ireti joined her.