Oldest Missionary To Nigeria, Ruth Elton Dies At 91 and Tuzzuper blog finds a perfect poem for the old lady. This is a tribute to Ruth Elton (1933–2025)
She came not as an empress with gold on her sleeve,
But a barefoot spirit with dust in her weave.
The daughter of England, land once proud and cold,
Yet she walked Nigeria not to conquer — but to console.
Her hair once kissed by Thames-side wind,
Fell quietly beneath Ilesa’s crimson rain.
She heard the drums, the cry, the hymn,
And never wished to leave again.
She bore no crown nor conquest plan,
Unlike the kings of her homeland,
Whose ships once stole the sons of sand
And broke the bones of motherland.
Yes, she knew of Britain’s chains,
The slave ships born on Atlantic veins.
Perhaps she saw it in her youth—
The stories hushed, but full of truth.
Yet unlike those who pillaged land,
She came and stayed to heal with hand.
Not to enslave, but to kneel,
To bind what centuries couldn’t heal.
She shed her title, her British name,
Declared Nigeria as her flame.
In Kaduna’s court, her voice rang true:
“I choose this soil, I am one of you.”
No pomp, no bridal gown or veil,
She wed the mission, not man or mail.
A bride of Christ, a mother to none—
But oh, how many daughters she won.
From Kogi hills to Ondo’s streams,
She stitched her love into our dreams.
With Ebira tongue and Yoruba grace,
She spoke as kin, not stranger’s face.
She fought not with guns, but with soap and song,
Taught mothers how to keep babies strong.
In huts, in churches, in dusty halls,
She answered prayers before they called.
No child too small, no faith too weak,
She bore their names when they couldn’t speak.
They called her “Omotere,” flower of peace,
Whose presence made all grieving cease.
She knew the power of hands held tight,
Of scripture lit by lantern light.
She knew the old gods and their fears,
But offered love that dried their tears.
She watched our nation burn and build,
Saw temples rise and tyrants killed.
From coups to cries, from hope to dust,
Still, in her Jesus, she placed her trust.
She whispered prophecies in her sleep,
Of Nigeria rising from the deep.
Like her father Sidney had foretold,
That righteousness would make us bold.
Even as her bones grew frail,
Her spirit danced in every tale.
Not as “oyibo,” not foreign face,
But as a woman who claimed this place.
Now she rests, her task complete,
Her sandals worn, her soul at peace.
No cathedral grand or tomb of gold,
But every heart her story told.
She lived not for statues or a name,
But for children fed and lives reclaimed.
No louder sermon will ever ring
Than what her quiet years did bring.
Oh Ruth, white rose in Nigeria’s field,
You broke no chains, yet wounds you healed.
Though born of those who once enslaved,
You chose to serve where others caved.
A missionary? Yes—but more than that—
You wore the earth like a woven hat.
You gave your blood, your years, your voice,
And taught us love is still a choice.
So sleep, beloved, the soil you chose
Will cradle you beneath the rose.
And when we speak of heaven’s gate,
We’ll say: she served, she loved, she waited.
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