Title: What Chima Taught Me About Music, Resilience, and the Human Spirit

jonathanjohnsonchp
May 22, 2025
3 min read

In 2003, my family welcomed someone into our home who would leave an imprint on our lives forever. His name was Chima Akomas—a gifted jazz pianist, a relentless optimist, and, above all, a friend. Born in Canada but raised in Nigeria, Chima returned to Canada that year and lived with us until around 2015. What began as a temporary arrangement quickly grew into something much deeper: a brotherhood forged through music, laughter, and moments that challenged us both.

Chima was living with scoliosis, a condition that affected his spine and physical movement. Over time, he also lost his sight, several fingers, and eventually his ability to walk—conditions that would’ve silenced many musicians. But not Chima. Where others might’ve seen barriers, he saw keys—both musical and metaphorical. Even when his body resisted, his spirit played on.

Every morning, Chima would gravitate toward the piano, often before breakfast. He’d explore melodies in the quiet of the house while the rest of us were just waking up. His long fingers danced on the keys with grace. His ear? Sharp as ever. He’d interpret the world through music—his way of adapting, surviving, and ultimately thriving. He didn’t play despite his condition. He played through it.

But Chima didn’t just express himself at the piano—he moved through music too. I still remember catching him in the living room, dancing to “1, 2 Step” by Ciara. And I mean dancing—shoulders popping, arms grooving, completely in his own world. What made it remarkable wasn’t just the movement—it was the process. Chima could barely see the screen, but he watched that choreography video over and over, determined to learn it. Over the course of a few weeks, he broke it down step by step, practicing daily, sharing his progress with me. And when he finally nailed the routine—when his body hit the beat just right—you should’ve seen his face. The joy that exploded from him was something I’ll never forget. It wasn’t just about dancing—it was about triumph. About finding freedom and expression through sheer will. That moment has stuck with me ever since: proof that rhythm doesn’t need permission from the body. It’s a feeling, a pulse—and Chima was always in step.

Chima’s faith was another powerful part of his life. He was a Christian, and while he wasn’t afraid to ask deep, sometimes difficult questions, his belief gave him a grounding that never wavered. Even in his darkest moments—when his body weakened, when his sight faded, when the pain felt relentless—he drew strength from his faith. I often saw him reflect quietly, or speak honestly about his wrestles with God, but he always returned to a place of peace. His relationship with his faith wasn’t performative—it was personal, raw, and deeply resilient. That quiet trust shaped the way he approached his music, his struggles, and the people around him. It gave him comfort. It gave him purpose. And it gave the rest of us a glimpse into the depth of his spirit.

As artists, we often talk about inspiration, but rarely do we experience it in its rawest form. Chima was that form. He reminded me that creativity doesn’t wait for the perfect setup, the best tools, or even ideal health. It exists in our persistence. It lives in showing up when it’s hard, especially when it’s hard.

We bonded over jazz and hip-hop, debated over chord voicings and rhythm, and shared stories about the kind of legacy we each hoped to leave behind. I remember one moment in particular—Chima, newly blind, feeling out a melody on the keyboard entirely by ear, smiling as he landed on something he liked. That smile didn’t just say “I got it.” It said, “I’m still here.”

Chima passed away recently, and while the world feels a little quieter without his presence, I know the music he made continues to echo—not just in sound, but in spirit. He taught me something that every artist, every dreamer, needs to hear: Your limitations don’t define your voice—your persistence does.

So to every artist out there feeling stuck, discouraged, or unseen—this one’s for you. Play anyway. Write anyway. Create anyway. Someone out there, maybe even someone like Chima, is finding their rhythm despite the silence.

And remember: you are loved.

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