In praise of my grandfather: Late Sultan Ibrahim Dasuki

I write this epistle of praise in memory of my beloved grandfather, the late Ibrahim Dasuki, the 18th Sultan of Sokoto – son of Halliru son of Bara’u son of Buhari son of Usman dan Fodio, (fondly addressed as “Baba Sarki” by the family) who left us grief stricken, despite reaching the uncommon age of […]

I write this epistle of praise in memory of my beloved grandfather, the late Ibrahim Dasuki, the 18th Sultan of Sokoto – son of Halliru son of Bara’u son of Buhari son of Usman dan Fodio, (fondly addressed as “Baba Sarki” by the family) who left us grief stricken, despite reaching the uncommon age of 92 years – barely 6 weeks to his 93rd birthday (and 95 years according to the Islamic calendar) on the 14th of November, 2016.

My most treasured memories of my grandfather would be the many times that I would praise-sing to him – often times bootlegging and adapting Hausa praise musicians unbeknownst to him as he marveled at my ‘lyrical prowess’ and earning me the sobriquet ‘Zabaya’. These singing sessions used to bring him such joy and would make him laugh heartedly and would almost always end with me at least a hundred dollars richer. Whenever I was broke, I turned to my grandfather, sang him a few praises and earned some cash that would see me through the end of the month! He loved being sung to by me, and occasionally, he would call me on the phone, out of the blue and I was sure I was on speaker phone, would ask me to sing for him. Sometimes when I visited, he would ask me to sing for him even in front of visitors or extended family members and I would jokingly wriggle my way out of doing so telling him that my services were too expensive now, and that he couldn’t afford my ‘praise singing’ any longer. Once the visitors left, I would oblige him to his utmost amusement and pleasure!

 

Baba Sarki was always impeccably dressed in subtle hues with such finesse like the Fulani King that he was – and not in the garish manner of the Bare-bari (his Kanuri subjects). He was so eclectic in his dressing, and I remember vividly, pre-1988 when we were younger and before he was enthroned as Sultan, how I used to marvel at how he would pull off the Igbo traditional wear, the Yoruba cap, the Tiv outfit, full traditional garb including the babbar riga sewn from atamfa and to top it all up and despite his princely status – the multi-colored outfit of the ‘dogarai’. Even in his old age, he was always crisp in white, delectable in sky blue and dapper in whatever color or style he chose to wear. Till this day, I feel he wore the rawani (the royal turban) best amongst kings. 

 

I remember our excitement when he visited Kaduna when we were little children – then fondly called Baba Barade (as he was then the Baraden Sokoto). I also remember our regular holiday visits to Sokoto, firstly at his Miyetti Allah residence and then at the Palace. Even as Sultan, he would have dinner with us and chat for some time before he retired for the night. And if you were in the palace, and did not come to greet him at night, he would remember and would enquire why you did not visit the night before. He knew everybody in his household, his many children – both biological and adopted and other extended family members. I remember how unfailingly and every night he would visit each of his 4 wives’ quarters to say hello and see how their day was before he retired for the night. Occasionally, we would escort him from one quarter to the next – from Gwaggo Jabbo’s (now of blessed memory) to Inna’s to Gwaggo Abou’s and to Anty Risi’s. And then finally to his own quarters. 

 

I remember our deep conversations into the night especially in November 2014 and in June 2015 when I visited him London whilst he was nursing his health. He told me personal stories about the deep love he had for my late grandmother who died of childbirth when my mother was only 10 years old. He told me so many fascinating stories about his childhood, his first job, his career progression climaxing as a Federal Permanent Secretary, Chairman of the Northern Nigeria Marketing Board and Chairman of the Nigeria Railway Corporation at various times. All the stories were laced with such humour as is typical of him – I cried in laughter at his many adventures in Zaria, in Jos and in the Sudan and silently in empathy as he spoke so lovingly about my grandmother and about his nearly 2 year detention in Zing after he was deposed.  Baba Sarki had such exceptional memory – he remembered to the last penny how much he earned in 1948 as he remembered vividly the intricate details of so many of his adventures including the hilarious fight he had with a feisty Yoruba woman aboard a train to Lagos! 

Baba Sarki was so generous – in spirit and in giving, but was never one to be ostentatious in his giving – he had nothing to prove to anyone. He would give and give and give, and he never lacked. Whenever he travelled, he bought gifts for all of us – children, grandchildren and even our children (great grandchildren) alike. That was the quintessential Baba Sarki for you.

 

This ode would be incomplete without a mention of his sense of humor. And oh my, did have a sense of humor. He would tease and make jest of his children, his grandchildren, his aides and any one at all. And I being his grandchild was often times the butt of his jokes (as it is in our culture). I enjoyed his regular jokes making fun of me and I reciprocated at every opportunity. I remember sometime in June this year, whilst I was in Maiduguri on a work visit. I had called him on a Friday (to pay the Friday homage) and told him I was in Yerwa. He asked that I visit the Shehu of Borno and tell him that I am his (Baba Sarki’s) servant and that he has ‘gifted’ me as a servant to the Shehu. I said to him: ‘Baba Sarki, this is not funny!’ and he laughed so hard that he had ‘offended’ me. This was the nature of our regular light hearted banters. 

On the 13th of November, 2016, I last saw my grandfather alive. He was unconscious and on life support at the Turkish Nizamiye Hospital in Abuja. I was allowed to see him as I was travelling for a work trip to New York a few hours later. I went over to his left side, put my hands under the sheets, held his left hand and said prayers for him amidst sobs.  His hands were so soft (have always been soft) but a little cold. I touched his left thigh, his left shoulder and finally kissed his hand. He was oblivious to the happenings around him but he moved his left leg whilst I was praying for him. I composed myself and walked out of the ICU. As I reached the door, I turned back and had one last glance at him and I knew I would never see him again. I looked at my watch and it was exactly 3:49p.m. After a long stopover in Paris, I arrived New York to the news of the death of my grandfather. I was actually shocked despite the very poor condition that I left him in. We are never prepared for the death of loved ones no matter how old or how ill they may be. I expected and hoped that he would live a little longer; maybe come out of the coma.

Baba Sarki was such a wonderful father and grandfather, that had he lived to be 100 years, I know that we would still grieve him like we do.  Baba Sarki, thank you for the love, laughter and especially for the awesome memories. Thank you for my big ears that I inherited from you.  And I praise you not so you may acquire honour and not because you are gone but because you were an honourable man and deserving of esteem and respect.  I will miss you sorely for the rest of my life. I will most especially miss our phone conversations which always started like this:

 

 

 

Baba Sarki: Na’am

 

Me: Allah Shi taimake ka

 

Baba Sarki: Fatima Daura!

 

Me: Zaki!

 

Baba Sarki: Kina lafiya?

 

Me: Lafiya Zaki!

 

Baba Sarki: Ina labari?

 

Me: Laughter

 

Zaki! Allah Shi gafarta!

 

Fatima Mamman Daura wrote this piece from Kaduna