Ismail Omipidan
Death, that five letter word, is inevitable. When it calls…, nothing, just nothing can stop it. Otherwise, my mother’s death could have been stopped. After all, she had recovered, waiting to be discharged from the hospital.
By the Wednesday preceding her death, she had expressed her willingness to go “home” on Friday. No one knew she was speaking in parables. But my older brother, AbdulGaniyu Omipidan, reminded her that she needed to rest and must be very okay, before leaving the hospital. She looked at the direction of my brother and said “well, if you are not going with me, I will go alone on Friday.”
My father died 15 years ago. Incidentally, he died on a Friday too. Friday is a special day for Muslims anywhere in the world. And by Friday February 17, 2017, my mother passed.
Death is one event that is certain in everyone’s life. Whether you are rich, poor, boy, girl, man or woman, it will come. And once it is time, you can’t delay it. If the time has not come, you can’t fast-forward it. Forget about those who claim to have the power of life and death. Nothing happens without the permission of God, our Creator.
Twenty years ago, she told some of us that anytime she was sick to the extent that she could no longer go to her shop, we should know that she was close to her grave. My mother was committed to her business. The business community in Otukpo, where she plied her trade for 51 years before her demise knows how passionate, Hajia Lasisi was about her business. She had no Sunday, she has no Saturday. For her, every day was a business day.
When, therefore, in December 2016, we were compelled to take her to the hospital where for the first time in over 30 years, she was admitted into the place, I was scared stiff for the first three days she was in the hospital. But my joy knew no bounds when she was asked to go home.
However, by January we returned her to the hospital. After about a week again, she was out of the hospital. But when we returned her to the hospital in February, she did not return. But like the two previous times, she was also in the hospital for just five days, before she passed.
My mother was unique in all respect. Call her a Prophetess, you won’t be wrong. There was nothing she said to us or to anyone that did not come to pass. From the 80s up till her death, she woke up at midnight to pray to God. She did that on a daily basis, just as she kept religiously to the Monday and Thursday voluntary fasting, weekly. Readers who are Muslims will understand better the point I am trying to make.
If I was going on any trip, I would call her. She would pray for me. Once I reached my destination, she was the next person I usually called after speaking to my wife. And every time I called, the first question she asked was “Have you called your wife?” Next, she would say “We give God the Glory for the journey mercies.”
For the first week after her death, I was crying every day. And till date, there is no day I remember her influence in my life that I don’t cry. And I am not too sure, I will ever stop.
My mother, I would have wished you were still alive, especially because you even told me a week to your death that you were not going to leave us now after that hug on your hospital bed. It turned out to be my last hug from you. Exactly one week after making that promise you left me. You left us. We became orphans. But I take solace in these words of the Holy Prophet (SAW): “What has reached you was never meant to miss you, and what has missed you was never meant to reach you.”
Taking part in lowering you to your final abode was for me a dream come true. You had always said it, that none of us would go before you. To God be the glory. It came to pass.
One incident that will continue to linger on my memory till eternity is your desire to see my younger sister, who had been married for six years, as at 2017, without a child, put to bed before you passed on. You were consistent and firm in your belief that she will put to bed in your lifetime.
You said it repeatedly, “Khadijat a bi omo lo ju mi se. Mi o ba ti omolomo je, o da mi loju wipe Olohun a gbo ebe mi (Khadijat will be delivered of a child in my lifetime. I have never visited evil on anyone’s child, I am certain, God will grant my plea).” Thank God, she did. You said it would happen. It also came to pass. You saw the baby, the second Hibatullah (God’s Gift) in the family. But the baby will only come to know you through pictures.
In spite of your age, and the distance, you travelled all the way by road from Otukpo to Gusau, in Zamfara State for the naming ceremony. You only returned to Otukpo a day to Eid-el-Kabir. And that became the last naming ceremony of any grandchild you will ever attend. O ma se o. That you graced the event was heart-warming for me.
I hope I will one day stop weeping over your demise as I can no longer continue this tribute because tears is already flowing freely again. Any time I am going to Otukpo, I always have the feeling that I will see you. But I have been there six times since February 17 last year without seeing you.
I will be in Otukpo today again for your first year remembrance prayer. I wish you were still around to serve me my favourite food. Interestingly, my wife has since taken over your role. She bribes me with it whenever necessary.
My mother, Iya Musili, Iya Gbogbo aiye o d’igba. May Allah continue to grant you and my late father Al-Jannatul Firdaus.