A letter to my brother, Gen M.I Abdulkadir

My dear Idris, it is hard to believe that you are 40 days gone!  I can not come to terms with the fact that you are gone. It is so hard and difficult and I don’t understand the finality. It is such torture. You were a young man in your prime whose future was so […]

My dear Idris, it is hard to believe that you are 40 days gone!  I can not come to terms with the fact that you are gone. It is so hard and difficult and I don’t understand the finality. It is such torture.

You were a young man in your prime whose future was so promising and bright. You were only 50 years one month and two days.

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Idris, how can I forget growing up with you? I recall fondly some of the things we did together.

Was it the playing of football together in which you would make me the goalkeeper, as clumsy as I was and as unable as I was to prevent the other team from scoring? But you indulged me so that we could have peace and play the match. I had to borrow your  knickers, since girls then, in our generation, had only long gowns and wrappers. We filled up water in the bathtub so we could have our swim before mama returned home. Sadiya, our elder sister, yourself and I splashed water every where in the bathroom. It was so messy and our fingers were too tender to mop it off. Do you remember?

Your immediate younger brother, Bala, whose nanny was Binta would ask us to spread our palms  so she could put his lactogen milk for us to lick. She would ask us to run to the bathroom and hide to lick it. She would  always  tell us to lock the door so that no one could sees us. On this fateful  day, we locked the door and we couldn’t open it until our mum came back and found us with the milk  in our palms and the door had to be forced open. We were both ashamed. Do you remember?

Was it poking the ant hills or going after the butterflies  or climbing the trees or building sand castles or riding our chopper bicycles or playing tennis together or going to the children’s library or picking of mangoes? We had so much joy and so much fun. Our childhood was so beautiful. You were a boy’s scout and I was a brownie.  Do you remember ?

We would be punished by mama each time you and I wrestled. I was your elder but you were stronger.

As we grew up and as young as you were, you knew your career trajectories.

You chose to be a  soldier, hence the commencement of your journey as a young soldier to the Nigerian Military School, Zaria.

You were very athletic and loved to play football. You were so health-conscious that you ran 10 kilometres  every day in your adult life, including the Friday you passed on.

You  recently went jogging one day with your 10-year-old daughter, Aliya, who got tired and refused to move an inch. You had to carry the plum girl on your back.

Do you remember how, on your wedding day, you gave us some shalamar steps? I never knew you were such a good dancer. So you mean the wedding was not going to go into old age? Your wife, Iman, is shattered. How do I console her Idi, when  I am  too heart-broken?

Your sun set as a one star General, though due to be a Major General next year (Not Allah’s will anyway).

You were the star of the family.  You were so altruistic, kind, generous  and super humble. You never ever used your siren and convoy to our family home in Kaduna nor any of our homes.

M.I, you had a meeting one day with Governor El-Rufai of Kaduna State. At the entrance, the security personnel were not sure you were  General M.I Abdulkadir. How can they be sure? You appeared so simple wearing your chinos trousers and your T-shirt. More so in your very old fashioned Sharon car and seated in the  front with your driver. The security personnel had to ask again and again to be sure. When convinced, they gave you your compliments and cleared you. (I Ramatu would not ride in that car o!)

Little wonder that at your demise, people in the community  could not connect or fathom that a powerful man like that came from their locality. You were present in small, medium and big things. You were too kind  and generous. Though you were not the richest in the family,  you had the largest heart.

We never knew you were such a great philanthropist, but in your death, all your  beautiful acts of giving and charity came to the fore. You always had my back. You defended me with all your strength. I am so afraid, Idi na.

You took care of the widows and the orphans. God would send helpers to your wife and children.

You dotted on your parents and  immediate family and spoiled them silly. How can we carry on from here, dearest Idi? How can we fill the void you have unavoidably created?

You were one man that equaled a thousand men.

I look at your mum every morning and I am filled with pity. I feel so sorry for her.  Kai,  kai, God you are the greatest. It is not easy for a mother to bury a child that is three months old, not to talk of burying a good and kind- hearted  man, who is promising and in his prime.

Idi, you remember our dad (whom you fondly called Alhaji) has mild dementia? Dad is 85 years old. He was told of the accident and he accepted it. Alhaji has in the last two weeks been asking of you, “why has Idris refused to come and see me?” M.I,  I can’t and would not answer the question. Can you appear to Alhaji in a dream?

Idi, you were an angel on earth.

One of my regrets Idris, is that I never gave you from my money. Instead I was always receiving and eating yours. Even when you knew that I had more than you sometimes, you would still give me.

May Allah help me so that your children could eat from it.

Idi, there was an issue you  helped me to solve in your capacity as a  soldier, few days to the crash. Do you remember? Hmmm, do you know that they have reversed it? Kai, the dead man  really has no friend. The lady  Major you spoke to about the issue, does not even pick up our calls again.

You believe in a Nigeria that would work again. You were highly  detribalized. It did not matter who came from where, your criteria was competence.

Idi, you were so focused, so brilliant, so loyal and so hard working. You were a very good listener. I had looked  forward to reviewing your office and tapping from your leadership experience. (But Allah did not permit that).

You  were so loyal to your boss and you loved General  Attahiru unconditionally. If I know you well Idris, when the plane started showing signs of  crash, you were a kind of a loyal man that would have told your boss,  sir…..if there’s a way for you to escape or parachute out, you go; since we all are jumpers (air borne ) I would die for us. That was how loyal you were with your boss and friend. May God reward your loyalty beyond your imagination.

You had your fears about your office and that of your boss, Gen Attahiru. But you know what, my darling brother, Idris, nothing happens expect by the will and permission of the Almighty Allah.

Vengeance is His and we leave it to Him alone.

All of you that died in the ill-fated plane are better off.

Yes, life is beautiful, but in  death is also rest insha Allah. May your stay in Barzakh be restful and peaceful.

You died on a Friday, which is an excellent day to die, and you also died by fire which is also an excellent ending insha Allahu.

This is  excellent Rahama, (Mercy). May Allah accept your  shahadda. We say Alhamdulillahi rabil alamin.

You also all died the heroe’s way “with your boots on” You are our heroes.

The finality that death brings  is  so torturing. I am still  unable to deal with that.

I miss you so much, M.I. There was something that bothered me yesterday and I wanted to talk to you about it. I cried all of yesterday and today.

How am I supposed to live without you, General M.I Abdulkadir? How am I  supposed to carry on?

You mean you would not be around when Baba passes on?

How do I begin to pray for you and your co-travellers of that ill-fated plane?

Let me try, Idris!!  hoping and believing it gets to you all.

It is 40 days today. Death, where is thy sting? I ask again, where is thy sting! I have been deeply proud of you and most proud of you. Your boots and shoes are too big but we would try to carry on.

Adieu Idris, my brother, friend and confidant. Rest in perfect peace and in Allah’s Rahama. I love you to bits and till the end of time.

 

Barr. Ramatu Abdulkadir writes from Lagos