Resolute in Faith and Purpose – THISDAYLIVE

Light filtered through tall bay windows, casting long amber reflections across polished marble floors in his Ikoyi residence. The hush in the room was ceremonial, as if the very walls paused in reverence. At one end, an elegantly curved staircase stood silent. Crystal chandeliers didn’t shout—they shimmered quietly, as though mindful of the man about to enter.

Then, like grace slipping into a meeting, Elder EkeomaEmeEkeoma entered with the soft assurance of someone born to both hewn boardrooms and hushed prayer rooms.

Clad in a black dinner jacket, laced subtly with floral brocade, his face caught the chandelier’s glow just enough to whisper “refined wealth.” The burgundy bow tie, dotted delicately in white, offered a playful twist—his only concession to vanity. His crisp white shirt was immaculate. And the gentleman before me offered not flamboyance, but kind, measured authority.

At 65, he bears no burden of age, only the weight of purpose. He moved slowly, each step deliberate. I noticed how his finger lightly brushed the rail, as though seeking steady ground, even though his posture held the clarity of an unshakable foundation.

His smile—a serene blend of confidence and welcome—stirred something in the room: I was not a guest of a magnate, but a pilgrim invited into a sacred personal temple.

He paused halfway down the staircase, gazed across the room, and offered a brief nod. His presence was calm, contained, yet undeniably magnetic. “Please, come in and sit. We have time.’’ It was a command cloaked in invitation.

I took a seat facing him, heart mindful of the legacy I was preparing to witness. His handshake was firm, but fatherly. His eyes, the colour of wisdom steeped in clarity, searched not to impress—but to understand.

“Welcome,” he said, with a voice both gentle and commanding. “Shall we begin?”

He settled into a cream-leather armchair, posture intentional, an open palm resting on his knee, the other gently gesturing in the soft lamplight.

His opening words, “My name, Ekeoma, means ‘something good’ in Igbo.”

Yet, if ever a name were a prophecy, his life is the sermon. Born without a silver spoon, he now moves among Nigeria’s top tier of industrialists. But his greatest concern isn’t the stock market or diesel prices, it’s the impact.

“What matters to me,” he said with the kind of solemnity that silences a room, “is to make an impact.”

“I wasn’t born with privilege,” he continued. “Born in Igbere after the civil war. Times were hard. Faith and grit were more valuable than dollars.” He leaned forward, elbows on knees.

“At 19, I arrived in Lagos from Igbere with nothing, just me, my uncle, prayer and a suitcase. Broad Street was alive with promise. You could buy a pair of Italian shoes for N62. Today, it’s different,” he paused, and his eyes brightened.

“Today? You’d need either a time machine or a miracle. Yes. Lagos has changed. And so have I, but some truths remain.”

He outlined his early years: Central Bank of Nigeria, where discipline and diligence shaped him; then the pivot to private enterprise.

Reflecting on his anchor, he paused, then softly said, “Patience, take risks, and make an impact.”

He leaned back, eyes scanning the room, as though taking stock. “Wealth is a tool. But faith, that was not business—it was binding. It bound me to something greater than profit,” he said, with his fingers lightly tapping his chest as if to draw the conviction from within.

“I am not a full-time minister,” he said. “But I have a full-time ministry.”

Speaking almost as though recounting a secret, “Believers’ Fellowship began in 2016. It started in my heart. Just business professionals, like me, seeking purpose, the word, worship and re-learning purpose,” he said, palms open. It’s almost biblical, how a man born in post-civil war Nigeria now presides over a non-denominational Christian fellowship with members from Victoria Island to the Mainland. His ministry, built not on spectacle but submission, has grown steadily.

He told of prison visits: “In Lagos, so much noise, so much steel, you wouldn’t know the stillness of a prison chapel. But I do. I walk in. I sit. I listen. I pray with prisoners.” “Three years ago, on my birthday, I facilitated the release of over 300 inmates. It was obedience. The Lord laid it on my heart,” he said. “So far, we’ve helped over 1,000 prisoners regain freedom, paid hospital bills for strangers and preached where hope goes to die.”

He shifted forward. I sensed the gravity in his words would rise now, that the story directiom would give way to purpose.

“Impact and not impressions are what matter,” he said deliberately.

“This year, turning 65 was markedly quieter,” he said, stating that he chose solitude over spectacle. “My birthday was dedicated to interceding for Nigeria’s healing, salvation and its leadership. Then I prayed for family, friends who came to celebrate with me.”

With fingers tracing patterns on the armchair’s leather. “I want Nigeria to be better than the way it is,” he said.

At nearly four decades of marriage, his stories of Barrister NgoziEkeoma, the wife of his youth, came not from plants of pride, but of gratitude. He speaks of her, as one would speak of grace—quietly, firmly. “She is more entrepreneurial than I am,” he said, laughing, hands folded.

On marriage: “It is a divine partnership. A refining fire. You need the Word, not just wedding rings.”

With no cliché, no sermon but just honest accountability, he sat forward, “Marriage is spiritual warfare. Emotionally—and yes, Christian values. You need God’s finger—or you’ll break,” he looked down, hushed in his tone.

“We’ve come through storms, but grace has been the foundation.”

The chat dovetailed to business. “People come and go. But Ngozi stands. She built it alongside. But more than that: she reminds me to stay humble.”

Taking a detour to a tangible legacy in Igbere, he defined his hometown’s transformation with pride as soft as cotton. No press conference needed.

“Some parts of my hometown lacked roads and water. I gave it both.”

His voice brightened again. He named names: entrepreneurs who sprang up. Mothers who no longer carry water, and children whose school attendance soared. “That’s part of my legacy,” he said.

And then, with barely a breath between thoughts, he returns to God, the true axis of his existence. “I don’t feel 65,” with eyes full of youth’s spark, he smiled, leaning back.

“Grace keeps you young. And with grace, age becomes wisdom, not weight. I feel 55. Or younger. My peace comes from knowing I’m walking in His will.”

He spoke of COVID-19 as a divine pause. “It pressed the cosmic reset button,” he said quietly.  “I walk more carefully, eat better and listen more to God.”

There was affection in his voice as he described Nigeria, its turmoil and promise. “Nigeria is for God,” he declared.

“And if God has his hand on us, my feet are rooted here till the final breath.”

And the future? Rising, he adjusted his jacket. He said softly. “My race isn’t finished. More souls to prepare. More prisons to visit. More water to pipe. More hearts to open.”

He paused. His hands came together on the lapel of his jacket—a simple gesture more powerful than any flourish. Then he added: “My life is powered by grace.”

He stepped toward the staircase, each step deliberate. He reached for the rail. Stood a second. And offered one more final note: ‘Nigeria is God’s. We will not fail.’

And then he was gone. But the echo remained long: a quiet thunder born of humility, purpose, and unshakable faith.

If you ever find yourself stuck in Lagos traffic, and a low-key convoy glides past—look closely. In the back seat, a man with clear eyes and a confident, calm demeanor may sit, not on his phone, but with a Bible. Don’t mistake restraint for insignificance—or paradox for pretence.

You’re likely seeing Elder Ekeoma: the oil magnate who walks with God, whose wealth is measured in lives touched, and whose legacy is written in roads paved, prisons silenced, wells sunk, marriages healed—and, above all, in a country prayed over from a quiet, resolute throne.