Tribute to my late father

By Asmau Abdullahi My heart is broken. I have tried to find the right words, but I do not know if words can ever be enough to capture the life of a man who meant so much to so many people. To many, he was a headmaster. To others, he was their lecturer. To some, […]

By Asmau Abdullahi

My heart is broken. I have tried to find the right words, but I do not know if words can ever be enough to capture the life of a man who meant so much to so many people.

To many, he was a headmaster. To others, he was their lecturer. To some, he was that bougie uncle from America, or that Oga Perm Sec at the office. To countless others, he was a mentor, a benefactor, a father figure, and a friend. But to me, he was simply Baba, and I was his granddaughter.

The last time I saw him was on the 9th of May, the day he was discharged from the hospital. I remember reviewing his results, speaking with his doctors, and being reassured that everything was fine. I remember convincing him that he was okay to go home, even though he told me he did not feel great. I held on to the reassurance. I held on to hope. And now I find myself replaying that day over and over again.

I knew death was a possibility. In fact, if there was one prayer I constantly made for him, it was that Allah would grant him ease and never allow him to suffer. But I did not expect the answer to come so soon. I did not know that less than a month after I last saw him, on the 3rd of June 2026, Allah would call him back.

Just days ago, I was standing before Allah in Haram asking for Baba’s recovery. Today, I stand in that same place asking Allah to have mercy on him, illuminate his grave, forgive his shortcomings, and grant him Al-Jannatul Firdaus. I was not prepared for that transition. I was praying for more time, not knowing that Allah, in His infinite wisdom, had already decreed otherwise.

What hurts most is that I am thousands of miles away while my family is in Yola burying him. A part of me keeps wishing I could be there, to see him one more time, to sit beside my mother, and to say goodbye. Instead, I sit here carrying memories, and perhaps that is what grief is: love with nowhere to go.

Baba loved me in a way that made me feel special my entire life. Growing up, he indulged almost every request I made. If I wanted something, somehow it would appear. I often felt sorry for my aunt Nafisa because she was usually the one sent to make it happen. Looking back now, I smile through my tears. He loved through giving, through showing up, and through remembering.

Even as a married woman, he would go grocery shopping in Yola and send items all the way to Abuja. And he never forgot me. He would specifically tell my mother to make sure my share reached me. A grown woman, a wife, a mother, and yet in his eyes, I was still his little girl. No matter how old I became, he never stopped caring for me. No matter how accomplished I became, he never stopped giving to me. No matter how much I earned, he still found a way to press money into my hand. I often wondered how much of his pension he had left after taking care of everyone else, yet somehow, he always found more to give.

That was the thing about him. He gave and gave and gave. His house was open. His heart was open. His hands were open. Growing up, there were so many people I called “Aunty” who were not related to me. At some point, I stopped trying to understand who was family and who was not, because to Baba, everyone was family. If life became difficult, his home became your home. If you were divorced, you were welcome. If you were widowed, you were welcome. If you had nowhere else to go, his house was yours. He gave people something far more valuable than shelter. He gave them dignity, belonging, and the feeling of being loved.

Life tested him in ways I cannot begin to imagine. He buried children he loved, children no parent should ever have to bury, and still became a father to my cousins, ensuring they never lacked. He carried responsibilities that were not his and stepped into gaps others could not fill. That was his nature. If you needed him, he showed up.

And then there was the way he called me “Doctor.” I can still hear it. He said it with so much pride, not because of the title itself, but because he was proud of me. Every time he called me Doctor, I felt loved, seen, and believed in. What I would give to hear him call me Doctor one more time.

One of my recent favourite memories was when Hope for Her Foundation held an outreach in Yola in October 2025. Baba was so proud. Proud is even an understatement. He told everybody. Anyone who cared to listen heard about it. And when he heard it mentioned on the radio, he called people to come and listen. I can still see the excitement, the smile, the pride, as if he had personally organised the outreach himself. As if my success belonged to him. And perhaps it did, because every achievement of mine was built on the shoulders of people like him, who believed in me long before anyone else did.

My mother is one of the most generous people I know. Anyone who knows her will tell you that she loves deeply, gives freely, and carries people. She got that from her father. And if I am being honest, she did not inherit half of him. That is how extraordinary he was. Today, my heart breaks for her because she has lost her only surviving parent. No matter how old we become, there is something about being someone’s child that never leaves us.

On the 3rd of June 2026, the world lost Dr. Mohammed Abba. My family lost its pillar. My mother lost her only surviving parent. And I lost my Baba.

Baba, thank you for loving me. Thank you for believing in me. Thank you for every prayer, every gift, every sacrifice, and every quiet act of love. Thank you for making me feel cherished. Thank you for teaching me that generosity is not measured by how much we have, but by how much of ourselves we give away.

The world may remember your titles. Your students may remember your lectures. Your colleagues may remember your service. Your community may remember your leadership. But I will remember the man. The grandfather. The provider. The protector. The safe place.

May Allah forgive you. May Allah have mercy on you. May Allah expand your grave and fill it with light. May Allah reunite you with the children you lost. May Allah reward every life you touched. May Allah grant you Al-Jannatul Firdaus without reckoning, and may He reunite us there someday.

Until then, Baba, thank you for everything, I love you, and I miss you dearly, Inna Lillahi Wa Inna Ilaihi Raji’un.