The Story of My Life
My name is Victory Omamoromo. I am 19 years old, the first daughter of Mr. and Mrs. Francis Omamoromo. I was born and raised in Ugboroke Community and am a native of Ughelli South, a local government area in Delta State, Nigeria. Growing up in a modest household with my two younger siblings — Testimony and Wonderful — life was simple, sometimes tough, but always filled with love and the strong presence of faith. Being the eldest child naturally placed a lot of expectations on me, but over time, I came to embrace the role with pride and a sense of purpose. I always wanted to be someone my siblings could look up to.
Our family wasn't wealthy, but my mother made our home rich in spirit. She was the pillar of our family, a woman of unwavering faith, warmth, and wisdom. Her name was Mrs. Joy Omamoromo, and truly, she embodied her name in every way. She was a devoted Christian and a full member of the Assemblies of God Church — a commitment she passed down to her children. From a young age, my siblings and I were involved in church activities. Sundays were sacred in our household. We would rise early, dress in our best clothes, and walk together to the church, our hearts full of expectation. Those were some of the happiest memories of my childhood.
My mother played a major role in shaping my faith and character. She taught me how to pray, how to trust in God even when life became difficult, and how to love others selflessly. But beyond faith, she taught me to dream. She saw potential in me that I didn't always see in myself. She was my encourager, my personal cheerleader, and my strongest motivator. Her smile alone could ease the burden of a tough day. When I struggled, she reminded me that my story wasn't over — that I was born for something great.
One of the gifts she nurtured in me was my love for singing. Music has always been a special part of my life. I found joy in melodies and healing in lyrics. Singing wasn't just a talent — it became my therapy, my outlet, and my connection to God. In church, I joined the choir and slowly found confidence standing before people, lifting my voice in worship. Each time I sang, it felt like I was pouring my heart out before God, and in return, I received peace, joy, and strength. My mother would often watch me from the congregation with so much pride in her eyes. Those moments are now some of my most cherished memories.
But life wasn't perfect. One area of pain and constant prayer in our family was my father's relationship with the church — or rather, the lack of one. Despite my mother's devotion and our efforts as children to encourage him, my father remained distant when it came to spiritual matters. He never attended church with us, no matter how much we pleaded or prayed. We would invite him to special programs and church anniversaries, and though he would sometimes nod politely, he never came. His refusal to participate in that part of our lives was something we all felt deeply, especially my mother. But even in that, she never gave up on him. She continued to love him, pray for him, and believe that one day, his heart would change.
Then came the darkest day of my life — January 23rd, 2024. The day my mother passed away. It felt like the ground beneath me had collapsed. The pain was unbearable. I was in complete shock. I kept hoping it was a bad dream, that I would wake up and find her standing in the kitchen, humming her favorite gospel songs. But reality hit hard. She was gone. The woman who had been the anchor of our family, my guide, my comforter, my everything — was no longer with us.
After her death, life became incredibly difficult. I found it hard to function. Simple things like eating, sleeping, or smiling became struggles. I felt lost, like a part of me had died too. My siblings were also grieving, and as the eldest, I tried to be strong for them, but the truth was, I was breaking inside. Our home felt empty without her. Church services became emotional because everywhere reminded me of her. I missed her voice, her prayers, her advice, her hugs. It was a pain no words could truly capture.
Yet, even in her absence, my mother's legacy continued to bless me. Before she passed, she had introduced me to a respected woman in our church — Mrs. Ngozi. I didn't know then that this introduction would become one of the greatest gifts she left behind. After my mother's death, Mrs. Ngozi took a special interest in me. She offered guidance, encouragement, and support when I needed it most. She helped me through the admission process and by God's grace, I was accepted into the University of Abraka. That moment marked a turning point for me. It was as if God was reminding me that though I had lost someone dear, He had not forgotten me.
Gaining admission to the university was a dream come true. It gave me a fresh start — a chance to rebuild, to heal, and to grow. I knew my mother would have been proud. I could almost hear her voice telling me, "Victory, this is just the beginning. Keep going, keep shining." I carried those words in my heart as I packed my things and prepared for this new phase of life.
Starting university wasn't easy. I was stepping into a whole new world, far from home and the comfort of my family. I faced challenges, both emotionally and academically. But deep inside me was the strength of a girl who had walked through fire and survived. My faith, though shaken, remained my anchor. I held on to God, to music, and to the memory of my mother. I knew she would want me to live fully — to chase my dreams and become all that God created me to be.
This is the story of how my life began to change — not without pain, but with purpose. Though I started this journey with tears in my eyes, I am learning that even broken hearts can still beat with hope. My name is Victory, and true to my name, I believe I was born to rise — no matter what life throws my way.