08/08/2025
The humid Lagos air hung heavy, but not as heavy as the weight on Funke's chest. Two years ago, she had stood in a hospital room, watching her cousin, Bimpe, waste away. Funke, with her vibrant energy and a body that had never given her a day's trouble, had shaken her head, thinking, *"Poor Bimpe. She was just unlucky."*
Funke's life was a whirlwind of success—running a bustling catering business, raising two bright sons, and being the loving pillar for her husband, Akin.
There was no time for doctors' appointments or *"preventive measures."* Her body was a machine, and she was the one in control. Or so she thought.
The first sign was a subtle ache, a dull throb in her left breast. She dismissed it as a pulled muscle from carrying heavy pots. Then came the small, hard lump. A fleeting fear gripped her, a cold whisper in the back of her mind, but she quickly pushed it away. *"It's nothing," she told herself, "just a cyst. I'll get it checked later."*
*"Later"* turned into months, a never-ending cycle of procrastination fueled by the relentless demands of her business and family. She ignored the fatigue that crept in, the persistent cough, the weight loss she attributed to her busy schedule. Her body was screaming, but Funke had her fingers in her ears.
The diagnosis, when it finally came, hit her like a physical blow: *Stage III breast cancer.* 😫😳The doctor's words were a blur, but the phrase *"radical mastectomy"* echoed in her ears.
The healthy, vibrant woman who had once thought her cousin was *"unlucky"* was now the one facing the unthinkable. The surgery left her feeling disfigured and diminished, a shadow of her former self. The chemotherapy, meant to heal, felt like a slow poison, a cruel irony that ravaged her body and stole her joy. Her thick, dark hair fell out in clumps, her appetite vanished, and a constant nausea became her new normal.
The financial strain was immense. Akin, her steadfast husband, had sold their second car, then their third. Finally, a property he had been saving for their retirement was put on the market. The money vanished into a black hole of medical bills, specialist consultations, and expensive medications. Funke saw the worry etched on her husband's face and the fear in her sons' eyes. Her heart ached for them, for the future she had so carelessly jeopardized.
Lying in bed, too weak to get up, Funke finally understood. *"Your body is not a machine, it's a temple,"* she whispered to herself, a quote she had once scoffed at. *"And I let mine fall into disrepair."*
She had forgotten a fundamental truth: The body keeps a meticulous ledger. Every ignored symptom, every skipped check-up, every whispered warning from a friend—it all adds up. The signs she had missed were not subtle; they were a roadmap to a coming disaster.
Now, Funke has a new mission, a purpose born from her pain. She started a blog and a social media campaign, *"Listen to Your Body."* She shares her story with unflinching honesty, her message a siren call to others. *"Cancer is real,"* she says, her voice trembling with conviction. *"It is not a game of chance. It is a consequence of neglecting the most important person in your life: yourself."*
She preaches the importance of regular health screenings, particularly for women over 25 and above. *"Don't procrastinate,"* she implores. *"A simple mammogram can save your life."* She talks about the benefits of a balanced diet, regular exercise, and stress management, not as luxuries but as non-negotiable tools for survival. She shares the grim statistics:
*"According to the World Health Organization, early detection and treatment of cancer can significantly improve survival rates. Delaying care, on the other hand, can lead to a more advanced stage, where treatment is more aggressive, less effective, and far more expensive."*
Funke knows her time is limited. The cancer, like a relentless thief, is still spreading. She sees the pain in her family's eyes, the love that shines through their tears. It's a love she's leaving behind, a legacy she's worked so hard to build, and it's being ripped away. The regret is a bitter pill she swallows every day. She thinks of her cousin, Bimpe, and the silent apology she wishes she could make. She wasn't unlucky; she was a victim of a society that normalizes the neglect of one's own body.
Her last message to the world is a plea, a testament to her tragic journey: *"Please, listen to people who tell you about preventing sickness. Listen to your body. It is the only home you will ever truly have.* Cherish it. Protect it. Because life, my friends, is not kind to those who take it for granted."
