May Allah never forget us

In 2014 or thereabouts, I was driving in the Bwari area of Abuja one afternoon when a certain car kept tailing me and flashing its lights and blaring its horn. I was to say the least irritated as I thought they wanted to overtake. To be on the safe side, I veered to the side […]

In 2014 or thereabouts, I was driving in the Bwari area of Abuja one afternoon when a certain car kept tailing me and flashing its lights and blaring its horn. I was to say the least irritated as I thought they wanted to overtake. To be on the safe side, I veered to the side of the road to let them pass. They didn’t. I then parked fully and they also parked behind me. I alighted, and they did same. A gentleman, a lady and four children came towards me. As they approached, the woman looked faintly familiar.

On reaching me, they all knelt almost to the ground and started greeting me. I was taken aback. The woman spoke: “Mallam, you were my teacher twenty years ago. But for you I wouldn’t have graduated…” the words were tumbling out of her mouth as she fought the emotions. We greeted further and I asked them to stand up. The husband – for that was what he was – apologised for the tailing and the flashing and the horning. His wife had recognised me as her former teacher and had directed him to stop me by all means necessary. And he did. And in the few moments before we met, she had told the man and the children what she told them about me, her teacher.

It so happened she was a really a student of mine twenty years previously, and I was what we call her “Level Coordinator”. When she was about to graduate, one or two of her results from other departments were missing, and I did the legwork (as it was the analogue era) and expended other efforts to get them. As it was part of our duty, every level coordinator would have done the same, and I had done it for countless other students. But she, especially, did not forget that. She thanked and cried and thanked me again. The whole family chorused in gratitude. I was really pleasantly shocked and mesmerised at this emotional scene.

Then she did something amazing – she looked right, left, up, down, as if looking for something. She then saw a recharge card seller further down the road. She rushed to him, bought a N1,500 MTN card, returned and knelt down again and said: “Please Mallam take this. It is the little I can do at the moment.”

I didn’t know when the tears rolled down my own face as well. I then became the one thanking her so profusely. I showed and spoke my appreciation. To cut the long story short, we are now good friends with all the family, alhamdu lilLah.

And that is the joy of teaching.

This week, ten of my students whose final year projects I supervised were all grateful and thankful for the guidance and other bits and pieces of advice I had offered over the year. As some of them were leaving, one of them said: “Thank you so much Sir. We really appreciate your guidance. Allah Ya kara girma Ya sa a fi haka. Allah Ya biya ma ka bukatunka na alkhairi duniya da lahira.” Then one of them said – with real feeling of sincerity – that I would have to forgive them in advance for some of them may never even text me again to say Salam and Hello. And the others, with a sad feeling, acknowledged it to be so.

So back to the title of today’s piece. I said to them, DEAR STUDENTS – FEEL NOT GUILTY! And I told them the story of the Bwari Lady. And told them it’s natural to forget. And in fact, they should. For that is life. Whatever I did was part of my duty, and if there was any extra, it was fisabililLah. And I advised that a du’a, a prayer, for me whenever I am remembered would be more than enough.

I also told them I also forget. We are all human. I didn’t remember Mallam Baita, my Arabic Teacher in Primary School, till long after he had died, and it was only because I saw a silver bicycle somewhere that I remembered he had one. When I remembered him I prayed for him. May Allah forgive him.

But sometimes I do remember. Like I remembered Usman Tahir, my boss at the Newsroom of Bauchi State Television (BATV) when I reported for NYSC back in 1989. He groomed me, taught me, tolerated me. Then, by pure chance, Usman had to come to BUK a few years later for a professional qualification, as a certain law had required all media practitioners with non-journalism/media/communication qualifications to obtain at least a diploma. So Usman, my boss, became my student.

Over the period I taught Usman’s class – perhaps Media English or Radio Production – his mates “enjoyed”. If they needed any ‘concession’, they needed only to ‘lobby’ Usman. And I would oblige without compromising. For he was my teacher. And I am appreciative.

And I also remembered on this page my Primary School Headmaster the late Alhaji Sarki Lawan who was killed in the Kano Grand Mosque Massacre of November 2014. 

Didn’t I also remember on this page my first English teacher at secondary school, Prof. Abubakar Adamu Rasheed, who became my Vice Chancellor at BUK and now Executive Secretary NUC? It was Rasheed who conducted the decisive quiz between Adamu Franco and I for me to win ‘Best Student in English Form One 1976’ at the School for Arabic Studies, Kano. The word I spelt correctly to win that prize 41 years ago was ‘Deterioration’. (I hope Franco has forgiven me by now). And hasn’t the world deteriorated?

I always tell students about how, in 1977 or thereabouts (we were in Form Two, Rasheed’s brother and I), he gave us tickets to watch him act in BUK English Department’s re-enactment of “Death and the King’s Horseman.” And he gave us meal tickets before the show.

So when, after many years away from the university, Rasheed as VC directed that I return to teaching, I did. No argument.

So my students, feel not guilty. Forgetfulness is ours, human; and to always remember is Divine. And indeed, I may not even remember what you look like twenty years down the line, if we are still around. As I didn’t remember Bwari Lady at first glance. So if you do remember me, remember to tell me your current circumstances, about your work, your family, children. But don’t dwell on remembering me. Move on.

And take the case of Hajara Umar Sanda, now a PhD and a colleague in this same BUK Department of Mass Communication. She was my student in the first class I was to teach as a Graduate Assistant. Whenever she would come into my office to see me now, she would kneel far down to greet me, whoever else was in the office. When students see their teacher greeting their teacher, she would always tell them, he was my teacher! 

So this then makes me your Grand Teacher. You may kneel twice as down!

Write in if you remember me. You have my email address. When, if, we eventually meet, all past is forgiven. What I want you to do is simply this: if I have been kind to you, be kind to others in return. But don’t feel guilty, forget about me. Move on.

See you in Bwari or elsewhere in twenty years or so. And yes, that N1,500 recharge card was something I cherish. It was one credit I would always give credit for.

May Allah never forget us.