A whole year without ‘Grandma’

In one of his famous novels, British author and journalist Frederick Forsyth had written that almost everyone knew exactly where he was, when he/she heard about the assassination of former US president, John F Kennedy.

And I agree with him.

That’s because after more than four decades, I still recall exactly where I was when I heard about the death our late head of state, General Murtala Mohammed.

I was in primary then, a little less than ten years old, when I walked into our home, that February morning, and saw my mother seated alone under the big neem tree in our courtyard.

She was doing some chore with the traditional tray (pai-pai) on her lap. But next to her was her small radio set, from which some Arabic recitation was coming.

I moved closer because I was returning home from one of the neighbouring houses where I went to play.

But on reaching where Mama was, I noticed the tears falling from her eyes. I was alarmed because I had never seen her cry before then.

I asked her what happened and she simply replied in Hausa “An kashe Murtala” (Murtala has been killled). I can’t remember which shocked me more between her tears and the news of the assassination, but I do remember asking ‘Is that why they are playing the Holy Quran?’ pointing at the radio and she replied. ‘It’s not the Holy Quran, it’s Ishiriniya.’ That was the first time I heard the name of famous poetry in praise of Prophet Muhammad SAW, which had been made popular by late Islamic scholar Malam Bala Maiyafe.

Through his melodious rendition of it during his lifetime, it became a regular feature at religious events on our radios and TVs.

The day before, Mama had explained to me that the strange music that had taken over the airwaves was being played because ‘juyin mulki’ a coup had occurred. That was martial music.

At that time few people knew the fate that had befallen the charismatic leader.

But by that Saturday morning, as I stood before Mama, the assassination was the only item on the news. It was followed by the announcement that General Murtala’s body will be brought home to Kano for burial.

Years after that, any time I heard the Ishiriniya by Malam Bala Maiyafe, I was taken right back to that emotional/ educational session at the courtyard, in our family home, at Tarauni ward of Kano metropolis.

But it took me decades to know that it’s not just the death of statesmen that leaves indelible memories in the hearts. It’s the death of anyone who ever means anything to you.

And this is why I remember where I was, and exactly what I was doing, when I learnt about the death of my beloved father, my dearest brother, Abdullahi (Baba Yaro) the many friends and relatives I’d lost over the years, and most recently my beloved elder sister, Yaya Binta.

It seemed like yesterday, when a knock on my bedroom door at 9am admitted my son Walid (real name Abdallah). He greeted me and quickly added “I’m afraid I have bad news”.

I was folding some clothes lying on the couch in my room when I stopped immediately and looked at him. But he couldn’t say more. I waited a few seconds and had to find the answer myself.

I simply said “Yaya Binta” and he nodded. I sat back on my bed and began reciting the Istirja’.

I couldn’t remember how many times I said it before Walid found his voice and added. “Ahmad (my nephew and his cousin) just called and condoled me. He had no idea we hadn’t even heard.”

Apparently there had been numerous attempts to reach us, since after the Fajr prayer, but with our phones on flight mode since the night, we couldn’t be reached.

We lost my sister at around 4am on December 7th, 2022, at the Intensive Care Unit of Aminu Kano Teaching hospital.

She had been there for exactly a week, since she was brought back from the ICU of the Saudi German Hospital in Cairo.

In some ways her death had been expected, but we had been hoping against hope that some miracle might bring her back to good health. After suffering from cancer for almost two years, it was becoming obvious that she might not survive it.

But in line with the Hausa saying ‘Ciwo bai san inda rai yake ba’ (literally ‘disease doesn’t know where life is’) we had hoped and prayed that the disease will continue to ‘miss road’ where Yaya Binta was concerned.

In many ways she epitomised the Hausa idiom ‘Babbar ya uwa’ (literally ‘the eldest sister is the mother”).

She was very much like a mother to us. Whenever duty called she never waited to be told or assisted, she would simply do what was required.

It took me this whole year to write about her because I just didn’t know where to start.

There is so much to say, to appreciate to admire and to be grateful for, about her life and the role she played in mine, that I kept feeling lost whenever I want to begin.

Should I start at the day she came home and saw that I hadn’t started secondary school, a whole term after my primary school classmates had all began? She simply took charge and got me off to school that same week.

There had been a debate about my going to form one (now JS1) because my late older brother Baba Yaro, had not wanted me to go to the teacher’s college I gained admission into at Gezawa town.

He vowed to get me admitted into a ‘better school’ because he felt I was unfairly treated by the examiners at the common entrance, who dared to sent a ‘bright pupil’ like me to a village school. He set his sights on getting me moved to GGC Dala.

Unfortunately the admission I got was problematic because it belonged to someone who didn’t show up and meant I’d have to be using her name in the school.

My parents rejected that outright and the search for a solution to that problem led to my missing a whole school term. One weekend Yaya Binta came home from our aunty’s house, where she was brought up, and saw me there when she thought I was already in boarding school.

She asked why and I told her about the name dilemma. She immediately said that she agreed I shouldn’t use anybody’s name but also insisted that she saw no response why I should miss out on that school year because of it.

She told our parents that there was nothing wrong with going to WTC Gezawa since that was where I was admitted to. And she collected money from our father and took me straight to Kano cooperative consumer shop, then newly opened and having every item of provision in stock. It was my first time in a supermarket of its size and elegance.

By the time we were through, everything I needed for a life in boarding school had been bought. She took me back home and by the following day shepherded me off to school.

She had played similar roles with my other siblings, in situations where a decision needed to be made, and had taken responsibility for it with no regrets.

The cases are many and can’t be contained in a piece of this nature. But suffice it to say that she was there when we needed her, never complaining and never asking for a helping hand when she could do it by herself.

On three different occasions she had left all she was doing to be with me in hospital, when I was on admission with different ailments. On one of those occasions she was to accompany her daughter Zainab, to deliver a child in the US, but she was already with me in hospital, where I was admitted for back/spinal issues. She told her daughter to go ahead, with another relative, and said she’ll join them only after I left hospital.

By the time I was discharged, the baby boy had been born, and she saw no reason to travel to the US. She stayed behind and continued nursing me at home.

She was blessed with a lot of energy. Yaya Binta was the most active among us.

She was always all over the place, handling this, fixing that, giving instructions to do that etc. One of our in-laws jokingly called her “The organiser.”

The fact that she was all over the place, at any given moment, was the reason it broke my heart to see her ill on that hospital bed. She used to effortlessly move from one task to the other, but when I went to stay with her in Cairo, when she was receiving treatment, it was hard to see that someone so active could become so dependent on others to even move around.

Yaya Binta became a grandmother 11 years before her death. Somehow the transition from “Yaya” to “Grandma” was very easy for me. The moment the first one, Aisha Manal began to talk, I joined her in the chorus to say “Grandma” and before long it became my permanent name for her.

But she wasn’t just a Grandma to her grandkids, she spread her love and kindness to all and sundry. She was thoughtful and empathetic, easily transporting herself into your situation and trying to help you with it.

It’s indeed hard to believe that it’s actually one year since we lost her. We miss her dearly, but we also know that everything only happens by Almighty Allah’s will. No one can change His decrees.

It’s my prayer that Allah SWT will grant Yaya Binta more forgiveness and mercy and a home in aljannah firdausi. Amin.

But she wasn’t just a Grandma to her grandkids, she spread her love and kindness to all and sundry. She was thoughtful and empathetic, easily transporting herself into your situation and trying to help you with it. It’s indeed hard to believe that it’s actually one year since we lost her. We miss her dearly, but we also know that everything only happens by Almighty Allah’s will. No one can change His decrees.