Muhsin Ibrahim
@muhsin234 (Twitter)
Many people welcome April with playful pranks, but since 2012, the family and friends of Alhaji Muhammad Lawan (Alhaji Abba) of Gwale LGA, Kano, remember it differently. On 1 April that year, tragedy befell the family when his 20-year-old daughter, A’isha, was killed just weeks before her wedding.
This is the first written tribute I have paid to anyone’s life. This is not because no one significant has died before—I have lost my mother, an elder brother, a sister, and others deeply dear to me. I miss them profoundly and never forget to beseech Allah to have mercy on their souls. However, A’isha’s death was unique because of how unnatural and preventable it was.
Her murder demonstrates the uncertainty Nigerians live with daily, especially during the turbulent period of Boko Haram attacks. Whilst soldiers deployed as Joint Task Forces (JTF) were meant to protect civilians, they sometimes became predators themselves, incompetently and freely harming the very people they were sworn to safeguard.
A’isha’s life was cut short by a JTF personnel at a checkpoint in Panshekara, Kano. The soldier, reportedly drunk, shot aimlessly at a motorist attempting to flee the checkpoint. Bullets fell like rain on nearby vehicles, including A’isha’s car. One bullet struck her abdomen. Though rushed to the hospital, it was too late. A’isha left this world that fateful night, free now from all the struggles that characterise daily life in Nigeria.
She was travelling with her family—her twin siblings, her nursing mother, her younger brother (who was driving and survived by providence), and her younger sister—to visit a sick, pregnant aunt. The Prophet Muhammad, peace be upon him, taught that Allah raises a person on the Day of Resurrection in the manner in which they died. A’isha will be resurrected whilst performing an act of kindness: visiting a relative in need.
A’isha was my student, though I never taught her directly. She studied at the college where I worked. Since her uncles are my friends and we lived in the same neighbourhood, she showed me considerable respect, which endeared her to me. She began calling me “Uncle” fondly. Once I told her, “A’isha, I’m not your uncle; I teach the Junior Classes, and you’re in the Senior Class... you’re graduating this year.” Her response was memorable: “Whoever teaches in your school is equally your teacher.”
A’isha loved her studies and wished to pursue them further. She was beautiful, friendly, respectful, and obedient. She loved everyone, especially her family. I remember when she sat for the Hausa language exam during WAEC in 2011. Writing about an unforgettable moment, she composed a sombre, nostalgic piece about parting with her younger sister, Zainab, who had died years earlier. When asked why she chose such a painful topic, she said it was what she could never forget. Today, dear A’isha, I write the same about you.
May Allah grant justice for every innocent life lost to violence, whether by insurgents or those meant to protect us. May He forgive all your sins and admit you into Al-Jannatul Firdaus. May He grant your parents, siblings, friends, and all who loved you the fortitude to bear your irreplaceable absence.
Rest in peace, A’isha.
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