Beatrice Adejumoke Adebola, is everyone referring to you as an angel because you were perfect? "Nope"! Why do I say this? Because whilst I only ever saw a woman of grace, faith and valour; on your Facebook page,when someone once wrote 'perfect couple'; you replied 'Only God is perfect'. You knew your limitations as a human, but clearly refused to be limited by illness.

Whilst we're mourning, heaven is rejoicing, and all we can do is to thank God for the gift of an angel, a jewel, a diamond, a bright star that touched our lives so briefly - yet so measurably.

You’re the only other woman I know - besides me - to threaten people that 'if you dare cry when I’m gone ...I'll be back to haunt you”.

Baby Sis! You never boasted about your missionary work– neither about your academic skills and knowledge; your wisdom simply shone through in every conversation we had. You were the epitome of the woman of Proverbs 31 - a true angel. You prevented me from coming, in your latter weeks - because whilst we both knew the end was near, only you had the strength to accept that reality. Graceful to the end - a powerhouse, a warrior and an angel.

The first day I saw you walking with a stick in 2014, and asked 'what was wrong?’; you casually talked about your then three year battle for life - and immediately offered me a space in your car for a journey to Gravesend. I must admit, I was 'scared' travelling in your car after what you’d told me - especially when you stopped to drop off your wheelchair at home and then accelerated down the A2 at great speed with your trademark 6ft heels. I simply couldn't believe that someone - so strong and beautiful – had been through such gruelling treatment and illness – and yet was able to drive me to Gravesend (safely)!

My mum adopted you as her eighth child on her nightly prayer list from 2014 when I told her about you; maybe because my grandma's name was 'Madam Beatrice Mojibola', and your name was 'Mrs Beatrice Adebola'.

"Angel Beatrice", so what were you like?

I never knew you without that dreadful sickness, and yet I never knew you without a smile. I never knew you with fear, instead I always met you with faith. I never ever saw you cry, instead whenever I cried for you - you’d comfort me.

You put me to shame when, in 2014, I was at home in tears over my job; you rang me on that Tuesday morning and said “Sis mi, I just rang to see how you're doing?” I felt so ashamed of myself for crying over a mere job. You never held 'pity-parties' for yourself, instead you celebrated with those who celebrated, and mourned with those who mourned.

You constantly made excuses for friends who couldn’t pop round to see you - saying “everyone is going through something”. You were a constant cheerleader, often saying to me “sebi eyin ni Sister Ibukun” (i.e. you can do it Ibukun!).

You were beautiful on the inside and outside; giving credit to God always for everything you had, despite the health challenges you bravely faced. Many people described you as a ‘private’ person – as their reason for not ringing you; whereas, you weren’t private, you were the epitome of humility instead. You valued relationships, and gave more than what you received to anyone you engaged with.

You loved your husband, Uncle Tope, to bits; and I used to think he was vying to be the next Ooni of Ile-Ife because you would always call him “Ooni”…it took me a while to realise you meant “honey”; I teased you mercilessly over this, but I’d give anything to hear you call your “Ooni” whichever way you know how to pronounce the word today.

From when I met you, you made it clear that you weren't going to die before you were ready, and that's why multiple “terminal” diagnoses didn't stop you from living your life to the fullest - in between gruelling hospital treatments, operations and comas.

In 2014, I bartered with you that you had to sit at the high table for my birthday celebrations in 2016 and, for two years, during both sickness and health - we agreed that this would come to pass.

When I came to see you again in hospital in April 2016, I regretted coming over. I only recognised three things - your smile, your voice, and your ever faithful `husband - Uncle Tope - by your side. It’s a great testament to your strength of character that you walked out of that hospital on your two feet again, looking like a supermodel. You'd been discharged with the instruction to avoid people and the risk of infection; but you immediately travelled to America and Spain with your beautiful family, and came for my birthday celebrations as promised.

For my birthday present, I asked everyone for a donation to a blood Cancer charity only; you not only gave the highest donation to.my chosen charity; you also bought me a dress from the U.S – which I’ll cherish forever. You continued to celebrate with others in the lead up to December; creating endearing memories for friends and family; and stirring up the faith in many of us, your friends, your medics and others. You were just something else.

Photographs of you show that you became more and more beautiful, as the sickness progressed. I'm proud that one of your most beautiful pictures shared after your death - was a picture taken at my birthday celebrations; but you looked more angelic than that in December, following a coma, brain surgery, and further gruelling treatment. Then, you turned your surgery haircut into a fashion statement, and I honestly thought you’d live till you were 80! Your radiance after each hospital stay might be due to the fact that each time you went in, you presented Christ – stirring up the faith of the medics and other patients you met whilst inside.

Whilst you were in hospital for the last time, I learnt to intercede, rather than to simply pray. You literally died then, but bartered with God to return you to earth until your appointed time. Once you recovered from major surgery then, you talked about the journey you’d been on whilst in a coma, and about your desire to go peacefully - once God’s time and your time was right. You also said ‘I want my honey to be happy again - and taken care off once I’m gone”. Word of warning therefore, to everyone here today –even as Uncle Tope continues his journey as a dad and as a man in this world, anyone who begrudges his future happiness, will have a lot to contend with – so to be forewarned is to be forearmed!

Sister Beatrice, they tried to keep the news about your death from me, till after my four hour exam on Saturday 24th June, yet the news got to me on my way to the exam centre. I cried throughout the paper; and yet each time I felt like giving up during those long four hours to return home to grieve, all I could hear was your voice saying 'sebi eyin ni Sister Ibukun'. To God be the glory', I today dedicate my CISA certification attained on that day, to you, baby Sis.

Now a celebration of your life wouldn't be complete without mentioning some individuals that surrounded you in your time of need - Brother Joseph, Sister Rita and Uncle Ade, and the Baloguns' - thanks so much for always being a blessing – a 100-fold reward IJN. Pastors, Ministers' - God bless you real good. My baby sister's four children (including the baby of the family -who suddenly stopped looking like mum last year and switched to looking like daddy!); each of you four beautiful children who Sister Beatrice has left on this earth as a legacy of her angelic life well lived - thank you for being so brave and for giving mummy that much needed peace of mind over the years'.

Now, Sister B., it was a testament of your godly wisdom, love and character; that you accepted the proposal of this great man - Uncle Tope Adebola to be your husband. With all credit to you, and glory to God, Sis, you married a man of calibre, honour, and fortitude; a giant of a man, who walked through that storm with you every step of the way. Whenever I asked Uncle if I could come and stay in hospital with my baby sister - for him to go home and get some rest, I could almost feel the ‘accusation’ in his voice like ‘she’s MY wife’ so I WILL stay with her – even though he would simply say ‘e ma worry’ (don't worry).

Sister Beatrice, I thank God you experienced the love of your sweetheart and best friend till the end. Kudos to you for making the right choice Sis, and thank you Uncle for your love. You’re an exemplary model of a husband and man; and I pray that your reward will come here on this planet earth for your steadfastness and exemplary care to your wife, and our friend and sister. The Lord God almighty will honour you every single day of your life IJN – and affliction will not arise again in your family or life IJN.

Now a human's real journey begins - not when we are born, and gasping for our first breath - but when we close our eyes and draw our last breath. From all accounts of your last breath, you introduced the word 'dignity' to the act of transitioning from this earth on to the next stage - of eternal life.

Your last breath on this earth was peaceful - because you lived a peaceable life. Your love for your honey, your love for each of your children, your love for family, friends and for every human shone through.

Sister Beatrice, you weren't taken away from us, death didn't snatch you from us; rather, you departed this earth - of your own free will – when you were good and ready to go and rest in Christ.

Good night baby Sis. and sleep tight. You are already missed and memories of your smiles, devotion to your family, and enduring bravery will remain with us forever. Enjoy your rest in the bosom of the Lord - till we meet to part no more – and, just for the record, you still won’t be taller than me in those 6ft. heels baby Sis when I catch up with you in heaven.

You’re resting now - Sweetness - Angel Beatrice, AdeJumoke, Adebola.

Love you loads.

x Ibukun