In a world where migration often strips people of identity and belonging, one man chose to preserve both and give them room to flourish. His name is HRM Eze Chris Umeh, known among his people as Igwe Aranazunwa Japan.
The title Aranazunwa means “the breast that feeds the children,” a powerful metaphor for selfless leadership. But for those who know him, it’s not just a name, it’s a reflection of the man himself: wealthy, wise, generous, and deeply tied to the spirit of his people.
His journey is documented in “People, Predicaments and Potentials in Africa”, a book co-authored by Japanese scholars Takehiko Ochiai, Misa Hirano-Nomoto, and Harvard’s Daniel E. Agbiboa. In Chapter 9, titled “African ‘Kings’ and Globalisation: Chieftaincy and Transnational Mobility among Igbo Migrants in Japan”, the book tells how Umeh’s story began in 2003 as a young Igbo man from Anambra State who came to Japan hoping to buy used car parts and return home. That plan fell through, but he didn’t retreat. He stayed, worked, learned, and grew.
He started in restaurant kitchens and factories, saving up not just money but life lessons. By 2007, he launched his own recycling and reuse company with his Japanese wife. But it wasn’t just his business that flourished; it was his community.
Known for his generosity and quiet influence, Umeh quickly became the person people turned to for help, advice, or a listening ear. His name appeared at fundraisers, his home opened to fellow migrants in need, and his presence commanded genuine respect. People called him “Aranazunwa” because he earned it, not through talk, but through years of giving and service.
Then came July 2015, a landmark moment for Igbos in Japan. At the opening of his Nigerian-style home in Saitama, Umeh was crowned Igwe. It wasn’t a show or an assumed title. A traditional Eze from Anambra and elders from the diaspora placed the crown on his head in recognition of his years of sacrifice. A throne was placed in his living room, not as decoration, but as a declaration.
Of course, not everyone agreed. Some attendees claimed they thought it was just a housewarming. Others questioned why he was called Igwe Japan instead of Igwe Saitama. Critics argued he should be called “Chief,” not “Igwe.” But for many, these debates missed the point. His influence had long spoken for itself. Titles didn’t make him a leader, his actions did.
Umeh believes kingship in the diaspora should be grounded in both tradition and practicality. In his view, an Igwe must come from royal lineage or hold an Ozo title, be financially stable enough to help others, and most importantly, have a physical palace where the community can gather. His own home in Japan became that palace, a bold statement that home is wherever your people are.
Among the Nigerian community in Japan, especially the Igbos, Igwe Japan is more than a symbolic figure. He is a mediator, a cultural guide, and a leader. Children who see him in full traditional regalia during festivals begin to understand where they come from. His presence offers them a link to their heritage, a face and a throne that carries memory and meaning.
Even as some traditional councils in Nigeria question the legitimacy of diaspora kingships, the need for them persists. In places where Igbo migrants face cultural erosion or invisibility, having an Igwe is about more than tradition, it’s about identity and belonging.
So when Igwe Aranazunwa Japan sits on his throne, he wears not power but memory. The memory of home, of culture, of ancestors, and a people is still bound together no matter how far they’ve travelled.
This isn’t just the story of a migrant who made it. It’s the story of what it means to carry your people in your chest while standing on foreign ground. To build a palace not just in brick and mortar, but in hearts. To wear a crown not for glory but for legacy.
And in that legacy, Igwe Japan stands as a cultural bridge, a king without borders, and a symbol of the unshakable Igbo spirit.
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