Tribute to my late mother, Zainab Basiru (1957-2022)
By Nasiru Manga
My dear mother, as pilgrims converge at Mount Arafat today, marking the climax of this year’s Hajj, I can’t help but shed tears, remembering that it was one of the lifetime ambitions you didn’t live to fulfil as you passed on precisely 155 days ago. Had you been alive and healthy, you could have been among the over one million pilgrims standing at the plain of Arafat today in observance of one of the five pillars of Islam that not every Muslim is lucky to perform.
I know you craved nothing in this world more than seeing yourself circumambulating the house of God, Kaaba al-Musharraf, in Makka and visiting the holy prophet of Islam (PBUH) in Madina. This informed my decision the first time I was blessed with fortune enough to sponsor your pilgrimage about three years ago.
I remember your reaction vividly when I broke the good news to you as I was seated a few meters away, facing you after you finished your Duha prayers one Saturday morning. Your face radiated with joy instantly upon hearing my plan, and for the first time in my life, I noticed tears of joy cascading down your cheeks despite your effort to stifle them. This image of you has kept flashing on my memory all these five months since you met your creator. I remember how you made me blush as you kept showering me with prayers and words of blessings as it was your wont in every little thing done to you.
We started all the necessary preparations for your Hajj. That was when I got to know your actual date of birth, as I had never discussed it with you before. You told me you were sixty-four and born on Sunday, the 7th day of Ramadan. So, using the Hijri converter, I arrived on 7th April 1957, the date we used in all your official documents to anticipate your lifting up to the holy land.
I remember how we had an animated conversation over the phone on the first day you started attending the weekly lessons organised for intending pilgrims in Dukku. You excitedly told me what transpired at the session in minute detail from the attendants, the number of lessons’ teachers and all each of them said, while I was keenly listening, interrupting you only for more clarification. However, we were disappointed when the organisers brought the session to an end a few weeks later. To our disappointment, we learned that there would be no hajj in 2020 due to Covid-19 pandemic restrictions in the world, including the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia, thereby upending your plan to fulfil your lifetime ambition of answering the call of Prophet Abraham (PBUH).
I remember your response when it was suggested that you perform Umrah, when the Kingdom of Saudi started relaxing its Covid-19 restrictions. You told me over the phone that I should allow God to decide. You insisted that it should be Hajj first before Umrah. And you added: “If Allah so will that I will be there, they will push me even in a wheelbarrow, but if it was already written in lauhul mahfuz that I will not perform hajj, there is nothing you can do about it”.
Your health condition started deteriorating during the Covid-19 imposed two-year hiatus from Hajj. You had been a hypertensive patient, a regular visitor to the Federal Teaching Hospital Gombe, but you were never on admission until barely six months before you departed us. And even during your on and off admissions to the hospital, you were hopeful that the restriction would soon be lifted, and you would witness this day on the mount of Arafat. In fact, it was why you agreed to be hospitalised after your grandchildren convinced you that you should take your treatment seriously for this important day.
When I last saw you on a hospital bed, along with my wife and your grandchildren, you looked frail and not the spirited and good-humoured Maama I knew who would tease her grandchildren lovingly. But despite your condition, you were conscious of time for five daily prayers. The following day when I visited you, I heard you complain in a barely audible and soft voice about how your granddaughter did not wake you up in time to observe Subh prayer. I take consolation like a soothing balm in knowing that, as a follower of Tijjaniyya Sufi order, your mouth was full of Azkaar when you were placed on a ventilator about an hour before you took your last breath on 2nd Rajab 1443 (4th February 2022) after Juma’at prayer. It was around 3 pm that I received an unforgettable call from my kid bro and your youngest child informing me of the inevitable.
It’s been five months since you left us, Maama, but we have yet to come to terms with the vacuum you created. It has left an ineffable deep void in our hearts. Now I feel down every morning I wake up. I cannot hear your voice over the phone; listen to your never-ending prayers for me until I cut off the call. Your prayer for me, which I believe catalyses my success, is what I miss greatly. Images of you kept flashing in my memory when I last set my foot in your room which was a source of comfort and joy to everyone around you, especially your grandchildren, who thronged it for the daily goodies you preserved for them. My last call with you was on Wednesday, two days before your death, when I informed you of having an additional grandson, and I remember how you teased the new child calling him Moɗadimbo since his elder brother was called Moodibbo.
You taught me in your words and deeds how I should be generous and a happy giver, believing that what I give out to others is what’s mine, not what I spend on myself. I also learned altruism from you, as you were always concerned about the well-being of others above yours. The first time I brought you some stuff, you shared almost everything in my presence. This taught me a lesson not to buy things for you alone: I had to include my stepmother and uncle’s wives.
I remembered when once I visited you and discovered that your fan was not working. After buying you a new one, you insisted I should do the same for my stepmother as her own wasn’t functioning too. Any time I visited, you would remind me to see so and so person, and while on the phone, you would tell me to call and felicitate or commiserate with so and so person, and you would ask me the next day whether I carried out your command.
I often felt guilty for hiding some of my problems from you because of your extreme care and concern for me. However, this was out of my respect for you, too, as you became more affected by my problem than I do. Missing you now is a heartache that will never go away.
On this Arafat day, which you had been longing for, I pray to Almighty Allah to grant you al-Jannatul Firdaus and forgive your shortcomings.
Nasiru Manga wrote from Dukku, Gombe State, via nasman@gmail.com.