HiveComb

I would sit for hours just watching her sing.
There was just something about her voice that felt so calm and so effortless, like the song wasn’t even coming from her lips, but from somewhere way deeper. Her presence alone could bring immense peace to a noisy room. That’s how I fell in love with gospel music through her voice. Her name is Osinachi Kalu Okoro Egbu but we all know her as Sinach.

I was only twelve the first time I heard her. The song was “More of you,” and it played from our neighbor’s TV one Sunny Sunday afternoon. I froze right where I was, carrying a plate of food to the dining table. I had never ever heard anything so beautiful and calming. I didn’t even know her name then, but that voice literally stayed with me. I remember asking our neighbor the next day, “Uncle, please what’s the name of that song you played yesterday?” He smiled and wrote it down on a piece of paper for me.

Later, I heard the same song again in church, and this time I paid full attention. That was how I found her.
From that day, I became a loyal fan. I saved my pocket money to buy her CDs, borrowed friends’ phones just to copy her songs, and when I finally got my own phone, I downloaded everything she had ever released and I’m not even exaggerating. Sinach became my silent mentor. I didn’t just enjoy her voice; I studied her thoroughly.

I wasn’t just listening anymore. I was learning through and through.

I would sit in front of our old DVD player with the remote in my hand, playing and pausing, rewinding certain lines, repeating her modulations until my voice cracked so badly. I watched how she lifted her hands in the middle of a chorus, how she carried the crowd along and how she smiled with her eyes.
I wasn’t just copying her but I was absorbing her spirit.

My mom was the first to notice this.

“Dinma, you’re beginning to sing like Sinach o,” she would happily say as she stirred soup or folded clothes in the living room.

And I would smile. “That’s the whole idea, Mummy.”

She encouraged me every step of the way. Sometimes, she would even sit in the parlor while I sang, nodding her head like she was my audience.
Other times, she would correct my pitch gently or say, “Sing from your belly, not your throat dear. Or else you’ll keep shouting.” She believed so much in me, and because of that, I believed in myself.

At church, they started noticing too.

“Dinma, you remind me of Sinach,” my choir director said one Sunday after a worship session. “You’ve really found something special.”

Those words ignited a fire inside of me. But at the same time, a quiet question started to grow in my heart— was I only going to be the girl who sounded like Sinach?

That question didn’t haunt me but stayed within me and followed me around like my shadow.

It wasn’t until I turned seventeen that I noticed something had shifted. One night, during my quiet time, a melody dropped in my heart and I rushed to write it down. It wasn’t even a full song, no it was just a few lines, but they felt like mine. Like, I owned this one.

Over the next few days, I built on it. Verse after verse. I didn’t even think much of it until a few weeks later at youth fellowship, our coordinator said, “Next Sunday is Youth Sunday. Does anyone have something new to minister?” My friend nudged me.

“Sing that your song na,” she whispered.

I shook my head. “Please, it’s not ready.”

“It doesn’t have to be perfect. Just sing it.”

I still don’t know how I agreed to that, but that Sunday I stood before the congregation, my hands were slightly trembling and I felt my heart in my throat. But the moment I opened my mouth, everything suddenly calmed down. I was not trying to sound like Sinach anymore. I was not mimicking her voice or her movements. I was just…me. So honest and bare. I sang from a place I didn’t even know I had.

And something beautiful happened.
People worshipped while they raised their hands and closed their eyes. Some even knelt down. Not because the notes were perfect, but because the message was real and that night, something in me broke free.

After the service, my choir director found me again.

“You didn’t sound like Sinach today,” he said.

I braced myself, for the oncoming corrections.

Then he smiled. “And that’s a good thing. Today, you sounded like Dinma.”

That moment changed everything for me. I still adored Sinach, watched her and listened to her songs for inspiration. But I had finally understood that taking a leaf from her book didn’t mean becoming her. It meant learning from her and then writing my own pages.

A few years later, I got the opportunity to sing at a regional gospel concert. Guess who the guest minister was? Yes, Sinach. I couldn’t breathe when I saw her backstage. She looked exactly like she did in those videos. So graceful and radiant.

When I finished singing, I walked past her, smiling nervously. She looked at me, gave a gentle nod and said, “Well done.”

That was all I really needed.

I may never ever get the chance to tell her what she means to me. But I know the truth and it is that I took a leaf from her book, and from that single leaf, I found my voice.
And for that, I’ll always be thankful.