My Quintessential Nephew, Samaila Yakubu Sulei, Has Gone – A Tribute
By Idris Umar Feta
When I first attempted to write this tribute, I found myself at a complete loss for words. It was an immense struggle to put my thoughts into words. Every time I think of it, I’m overwhelmed with emotion, and tears start streaming down my face, leaving me utterly drained. Yet, I find myself compelled to gather the strength to do so.
You passed away on the morning of Monday, August 12, 2024, and was buried at Gudu Cemetery later that same day, in accordance with Islamic rites. Your funeral prayer was held at the Abuja Central Mosque after Zuhr. This day will forever be etched into our collective memory.
The day before you fell ill remains as vivid as the morning light. We were all together at Kaka’s house, chatting and laughing. I left around 10 pm, and even reminded you not to forget your phone.
You were hale and hearty the following morning. Your wife mentioned that you woke up without any sign of illness. You ate, took your bath, and applied cream, ready for work. Ironically, you never got to wear the clothes you had picked out for the day. As you were talking, your voice began to fade, and your last words were, “Call Mummy, I need help. Call Daddy, I need help.”
We rushed you to Dawaki Medical Center, but due to your condition, they referred us to UltraMed, another hospital in Gwarinpa. A CT scan and ECG were performed, both showing excellent results. This brought us a fleeting sense of relief and happiness. However, our joy quickly dissipated when we received a call informing us of yet another referral, this time to the Federal Medical Center (FMC) in Jabi.
You seemed to be responding to treatment at FMC, and every day we visited, there was always an improvement. Little did we know that what we were witnessing was the phenomenon of terminal lucidity—a brief period of apparent recovery before death.
I remember Abdulaziz’s call that fateful morning. He said, “Daddy, come to the hospital.” I asked him what had happened, and he just said, “Just come.” My heart skipped a beat; at that moment, I knew you had returned to the Creator, Allah (SWT). Upon arrival, my worst fear was confirmed when I saw your lifeless body lying on the bed, covered with a blanket.
We were left alone in the hospital room. I stared at your body, making du’a to Allah (SWT) to bring you back, consoling myself with the thought that you were only in a deep sleep and would soon wake up, despite the doctors confirming your death. Those were my silent prayers. I was terrified of breaking the news to anyone, especially to your Dad and Mum, but I had no choice.
My younger brother, Idris Shaibu, gave me the courage to tell them what had happened. When I called Dad, his first words were, “How is Samaila doing today?” Softly, I told him, “Baba, Samaila is dead.” The devastating news caused him to collapse, and he was rushed to the hospital. Thank God he was discharged late that same night.
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I hated myself for having to deliver such heart-wrenching news. I listened to my own words as though they were from a voice of doom and wondered why I didn’t have someone else break the news. Announcing it to his Mother was another hurdle. When I finally found the courage, she responded with “Inna lillahi wa inna ilaihi raji’un” (We are from Allah and unto Him we shall return). She repeated, “Samaila is dead?” three times before praying, “May Allah (SWT) forgive his shortcomings,” to which I responded, “Ameen.”
Baba Ila, as we fondly called him, had a remarkable relationship with people. He was open-minded and easily connected with everyone. He was full of hope, like any other person. One of our last discussions before his death was about a piece of land he had bought in Bauchi. He said, “Daddy, I bought land in Bauchi. My next target is to build a house for my father.” I asked why he wanted another house since his father already had one. He replied, “I want a befitting house for him. His comfort is my first priority.” Tragically, this dream was never fulfilled.
He had a special bond with the children in the house. He was always the one taking them out for ice cream and to leisure parks, especially during festive holidays. One day, he noticed that all their slippers were worn out and said, “I know 10,000 Naira won’t replace them all, but Inshaa Allah, next week I will.” Sadly, he never saw that next week.
After Maghrib prayer last Sunday, his three-year-old child told a friend, “Babana ya rasu,” which means “my father has died.” He said it with such seriousness that everyone in the mosque was both shocked and deeply moved.
Late last year, his closest friend, Abdulrahman Daddy, passed away after a protracted illness, leaving behind a pregnant wife, two children, and an uncompleted mosque. Samaila promised to complete the mosque on his behalf and adopted his son, becoming a father of five, including his two biological children.
Many people learned of his sudden death only through social media. Even after offering their prayers online, they flocked to the house in large numbers to offer their condolences. What really move me each time his business partners or friends visit is that we find ourselves consoling them as they continue to shed uncontrollable tears.
Samaila worked as the General Manager and Admin Manager at Mid View Housing, a property development company. He handled all forms of communication with the company’s clients. Throughout his days, both in and out of the office, no one ever complained about his conduct.
My elder sister gave birth to him, but he lived with us from his primary school days until his death. He left behind his aged father, mother, two brothers, three sisters, two wives, and five children—two biological and three adopted.
May Allah (SWT) forgive your shortcomings and admit you into Al-Jannatul Firdaus.
There is much more to say about your personality, but I’ll draw the curtains here. We will all surely miss you.
Sai mun zo, Baba Ila.
