BY TONY OKAFOR
On November 14, 2025, sometime in the lazy calm of the afternoon, a strange wind swept across Anambra State. It was not the long awaiting harmattan. It was the rumour of the death of Chief Willie Obiano, the immediate past governor of Anambra State.
The news did not arrive with the urgency of truth. It crawled—sneaking into beer parlours, drinking joints, marketplaces and WhatsApp groups, whispered like something both forbidden and irresistible.
And because Nigerians have perfected the art of speculation, everyone had an angle. Some versions of the story confidently placed his death in London—never mind that the man lives in the United States, a country drowning in medical sophistication.
Some asked, “How does a man based in America suddenly choose London for healthcare?” The rumour peddlers replied with their usual swagger: “The rich can fly anywhere.” For them, the story had to stay alive.
But that, really, is not the heart of this essay.The real matter—the part that struck me and forced a personal reflection—was what happened after the rumour took flight.
For hours, as the “death” of Obiano circulated, something remarkable happened: every single person who mentioned him called him a good man.
There was no insult.No political bitterness.No recycling of old battles.
No jabs.
Instead, people spoke as though a saint had just departed.
They remembered how he empowered people while in office.They remembered his generosity.They remembered the jobs he created, the small businesses he lifted, his joyful lifestyle—his taste for fashion, food, drink and merriment.
In fact, the entire conversation across the state became a spontaneous festival of tribute. If Obiano had truly died that day, his obituary would have been a masterpiece of praise. His memory would have been tender. His name sweet on the tongue.
Then, like a Nollywood twist, the “dead man” resurrected by himself.
In the evening, Chief Willie Obiano released a statement—calm, composed, unintentionally humorous: “My beloved Ndi Anambra… I am alive, hale, hearty, and in excellent health… Please disregard the rumour entirely… Daalu nu.”
Suddenly, the state erupted in relief and genuine joy. WhatsApp groups lit up. Skeptics—if any remained—went silent. And those who had wept earlier wiped their eyes and said, “God forbid! Akpokuedike cannot die like that.”
And that was when a desire crept into me—one that may sound odd, even ridiculous, but is deeply human:If God permits, I too would like to “die” like Obiano—to hear my own obituary,to listen to how people truly feel about me,and still be alive to refute it with my own mouth.
Why?Because in that brief period when he was “dead,” the truth about how he was remembered came out without filters. When people think you are gone, they speak from the soul.
What I witnessed that day was the purest form of societal judgment—raw, unedited and sincere.
Many people live long lives yet never hear the good they did until they are lying motionless in a coffin, unable to smile at the compliments. Some will only be praised when their ears can no longer hear, when their ego can no longer rise, when their kindness is finally acknowledged in the silence of death.
But Obiano—whether by destiny or divine humour—got a preview of his legacy while still breathing.
He “died” to hear his praises.
Then he resurrected to thank those who praised him.What a beautiful privilege.
So my desire is simple but profound:May we live the kind of lives that, if rumours of our death spread today, people will forget our faults and remember our kindness.May we be the kind of people whose supposed death forces others to speak gently, truthfully and gratefully about us.
And if God truly indulges us, may we also enjoy the Obiano blessing—the rare chance to witness our own eulogy, gently interrupt it, and say: “My people, relax. I am not dead. I am only trending.”
Because in the end, it is not the rumour that matters.It is not the mischief of rumourmongers.What matters is this: when your name was placed briefly on the altar of memory, people remembered you with love. And you were alive to hear it.
If that is not a good way to “die,” I don’t know what is.
Long life to Akpokuedike.
