Inna lillahi wa inna ilaihi raji’un. Indeed, we belong to Allah, and to Him we shall return.
Another great wall has fallen in our family. With the passing of Na’ibin Zazzau, Alhaji Usman Shu’aibu Nai’ibi, we have lost a gentle man, a patient elder and a cherished custodian of the traditions that held generations of our family together.
Alhaji Usman held managerial positions at the Niger State Development Company, Sokoto Cement Company and Habib Bank Plc. Beyond the offices he occupied, however, were the lives he touched. Those who knew him can testify to his gentleness, patience and the dignity with which he carried himself.
He was a wall of support to relatives on both his maternal and paternal sides. He helped educate many of them, guided them and supported their efforts to find their feet in life. For those who benefited from his kindness, his legacy is deeply personal: it lives in the opportunities he helped create and the futures he helped secure.
For me, this death carries a particular pain. Alhaji Usman was about seventy-six years old when he died, yet in him, I have lost a son.
Yes, a son.
He was old enough to be my father, but within the family tradition in which we were raised, he remained my son until his death. To understand this relationship is to understand something precious about our family and the way our forebears taught us to recognise one another.
Those who have followed my writings may remember my explanation that we were raised to regard one another as fathers, mothers, sons, daughters, brothers and sisters. We did not ordinarily describe our relationships through the terms cousin, nephew, niece, uncle or aunt. The wider family was embraced within those immediate bonds, together with the affection, responsibility and respect they carried.
Alhaji Usman’s grandfather and my father shared the same father. Yet, within that family order, she regarded my father as her father, even though she was older than he was. She was my sister, and her son was therefore my son.
It may sound unusual to those outside our family, but to us, it was a familiar and honoured way of belonging.
I remember a conversation with his mother, whom I called Yaya, meaning elder sister. She told me about their childhood and how our grandfather, the Madaki of the old Abuja Emirate, took her and my father to elementary school.
With a smile, she recalled holding my father’s hand on their way to school and protecting him from anyone who tried to trouble him. It was during that conversation that I fully understood that Yaya was older than our father.
Yet the difference in their ages never displaced the respect she accorded him. She would remove her slippers and kneel to greet him, addressing him as “Babana”—my father.
That memory has remained with me because it captures the strength of a tradition that might otherwise be difficult to explain. She had protected him as a child, but she still honoured the place he occupied in our family. For her, that respect was natural.
Another incident comes to mind as I mourn Alhaji Usman.
We had attended a presentation of gifts to the family of a young woman who was to marry one of our own. In appreciation, the bride’s family offered us generous gifts and money to take home. They presented them to one of the older women in our group, assuming that she should receive them on our behalf.
She declined and pointed to me.
The gifts, she explained, should be presented to the senior person among us.
Our hosts were confused, and so was I. Several of the women present were older than I was. But Baaba, as I called her, who was a foster daughter of my late sister, explained that I represented their late mother.
In that moment, I was being accorded the respect attached to my place in the family, rather than my age.
Such experiences have often reminded me that the relationships we inherited came with responsibilities. To be called a mother was to be expected to care. To be called a father was to be expected to guide. To be a son or daughter was to belong, with all the duties and affection that belonging required.
Alhaji Usman came from a heritage in which these bonds were deeply rooted. His father was an author who wrote Abuja Chronicle and other books, and belonged to the royal family of old Abuja, now Suleja. Marriage connected the royal family and the family of the then Madaki, who stood as second in command after the Emir. Incidentally, his father was also the Madaki of Abuja.
These ties formed part of our shared family history. They connected households, strengthened relationships and passed a sense of belonging from one generation to another.
We were fortunate to come from a noble yet modest family, where relationships mattered greatly. Whatever distinctions our history carried, we were taught to recognise and honour the people bound to us.
That is why Alhaji Usman’s passing hurts beyond the immediate sorrow of bereavement. With each elder we lose, we also lose someone who could explain our history, recall its details and demonstrate its values through everyday conduct.
He was among the last great custodians of that tradition. His death leaves me wondering how much of it the generations after us will understand, and how much we will succeed in preserving.
Yet this loss must also call us to responsibility. If we cherish what our elders gave us, we must carry it forward: by telling their stories, caring for one another, supporting the young and refusing to allow family bonds to weaken through neglect.
Alhaji Usman helped many relatives find their feet. We honour him when we extend that same care to others. We preserve his memory when those he supported remember him in their prayers and make room for someone else to rise.
My dear son, you lived long enough to be an elder to many, but you remained my son in the beautiful order of our family. I mourn your passing with love, gratitude and a profound sense of loss.
May Allah forgive your shortcomings, accept your good deeds and reward you abundantly for every life you touched. May every person you educated, guided or supported be a continuing source of reward for you.
May Allah make your grave spacious and fill it with light. May He grant you ease in the questioning of the grave, protect you from its trials and grant you Aljannatul Firdaus.
May Allah comfort your family and all who loved you. May He grant us the patience to bear your absence and the wisdom to preserve the love and unity you helped sustain.
Allahumma ighfir lahu warhamhu wa ‘afihi wa‘fu ‘anhu.
O Allah, forgive him, have mercy upon him, grant him well-being and pardon him.
Another great wall has fallen. May Allah shelter those who once found support beneath it, and may the goodness of Alhaji Usman Shuaibu Nai’ibi continue to bear fruit for generations to come.
Amin ya Rabbal ‘alamin.
