Yes, she was here

I left home the moment I got over the shock of the news Tahir told me. I had to, because there is only one person I know, in this town, for whom this news will be more devastating than it is to me; and she needs me now. I drove through the gates to Aisha’s house with trepidation. What condition will I find her in? I wondered.
Her son let me in after I rang the door bell. ‘Welcome Aunty’ he said to me and simply moved aside to let me in. His mother was sitting on the carpet, flanked on both sides by her daughters, his younger siblings. The atmosphere of grief was palpable. I walked over and said ‘Assalamu alaikum,’ Aisha raised her tear-stained face and answered ‘Wa alaikumussalam, wa rahmatullah wa barakatuhu’, then she rose to hug me and we both burst into tears that instant.
For a while she was inconsolable, as she continued to cry on my shoulder, strong heart-ending sobs. Then she calmed down a bit and said. ‘She called me “A’i mai taragu” because I always moved around with my first two children and her grandnephew Abba.” Aisha recalled, her eyes looking distant, as if she was picturing those days again in her mind. “You know taragu is the Hausa word for the cabins of a train. She said the way I moved with the three kids trailing along was just like a train with three cabins. One day, when I showed up with them at a meeting in her office, she looked up and said ‘You are the only person I know who goes to a meeting with a group of kids.’ And though it was meant to be a rebuke, she said it in such a neutral, unaffected way that I wasn’t offended. I smiled and quickly assured her that I won’t let the kids disturb our meeting because I had warned them to remain in the reception room and not make any noise. And so it happened.’ Aisha concluded, wiping the tears from her eyes, ‘And why were you moving around with the three of them.’ I asked gently, aware that her grief seemed less when she was recalling the past.
‘When she invited us to move next door to her because her Sudanese neighbour was leaving, Aunty Bilkisu’s grandnephew Abba and his mother were living with her. Because it was a house full of adults, Abba automatically made himself a part of my family since, at last, he had found other kids to play with. As soon as he returned from school, he barely had time to remove his uniform before he will be with my two kids. There he will be till he was summoned to get ready to go to islamiyyah school. So whenever I returned from work and had to go out, my passengers were always my two nursery school kids and their next-door neighbor. And that was how I won my nick-name from her.’
Aisha explained.
‘She must have been a humourous person.’ I observed.
‘Oh yes she was. She had a quiet kind of humour that will convey the joke without being offensive or loud. I remember the time I had a house-help who told her colleague that she was once a cultist who ‘donated’ her father to a secret cult in school. She said she was found out before her father died and he kicked her out of the house when he got cured. I told Aunty Bilkisu the story and she didn’t seem to have taken it seriously but she suddenly stopped coming to my house. I didn’t even notice it because I knew she could be very busy sometimes and hardly had time for a chat. But one day she came through our adjoining door and stood some distance away from my house and called out my name. I peeped in through the window and said, ‘Why don t you come in Aunty’ and she replied ‘No, you come out and join me here’ and I did. The moment I joined her I asked why she wouldn’t come in and she replied ‘Because you have a cultist in your house’ she replied matter-of-factly. I laughed and said ‘She is an ex-cultist Aunty Hajiya, an ex-cultist’ I emphasized. ‘Is there anything like an ex-cultist?’ she queried, ‘Anyway, God said feed your eyes with what is good, I will not come into your house and feed my eyes with the view of a cultist.’ She replied, and soon bade me farewell and walked back to her house. I laughed after her, knowing full well that that was the whole point of the exercise, to make light of the whole situation.’ Aisha narrated, a nostalgic smile on her sad face.
‘You have to stop crying Aisha, we have to accept the will of Allah and continue to pray for her and the others affected. In any case they had a good end, death during Hajj, a day after Arafat, when all sins were forgiven, what more can a sincere Muslim ask for?’ I asked, rhetorically.
‘Yes, one can almost say it was the perfect end to a good life. For as long as I knew her Aunty Bilkisu fasted on Mondays and Thursdays. No amount of meetings or assignments will alter that routine. We’ve often been to meetings in which she will not eat throughout without announcing her state of fasting. When I insist on her serving her something she will gently remind me by saying ‘You know it is Thursday, I am fasting.’ And wherever Aunty Hajiya was around the world, and whatever she had to do, she planned her life in such a way that her last ten days of Ramadan were dedicated to Almighty Allah.
Except when she was away at Umra, Aunty Bilkisu will see no one from the night of 19th Ramadan till the morning of 1st Shawwal because she remained in her room for her private I’itikaf. At first I thought she really went to a mosque to observe it but I found out from her life-long house-help, Iya, who eventually died living with her, that she was actually locked up in her room, in devotion. It was not that Iya deliberately set out to reveal Hajiya’s secret but someone sent me with a message to her just days after she began her seclusion. I went to the house and told Iya to send it to her. And Iya innocently said
‘We will put your message on the tray before we push her iftar meal into her room at Magrib.’ And that was how I got to know the particular ‘mosque’ she went to for her annual seclusion.’ Aisha declared.
‘She must have been very self-disciplined. I mean some of us can’t keep away for two days before some family demand will drag us out of that room.’ I lamented.
‘Oh yes she was very self-disciplined. And it’s not just in her spiritual life, no, even in her worldly pursuits. Whenever she started a thing, she saw it through to the end. What she couldn’t do herself, she delegated someone else to do because she could never say ‘no’ to a good cause. She was so organized that she had time for anything she felt was worth doing.
And she had this boundless energy that allowed her to jump from one task to another almost effortlessly. I’ve often wondered how she managed it and she used to answer by showing me her diary. She would say ‘My diary is my life, if I miss it, I will be lost.’ And so she led her life in such a way that her husband, her two children, her extended family and her numerous good causes, all had the piece of her they deserved. Aunty Bilkisu made sure they didn’t find her wanting.’ She eulogized.
‘What a remarkable woman’ I said.
 ‘Yes she was remarkable and generous too. Do you remember that Senegalese kaftan I once told you she gave to me? I never told you how it happened. The first time she wore it, she crossed over to my house to say hello before going to work. That time I had just had my third child, Ruqayya and was on maternity leave.
I complimented her on her dressing, you know she had this simple elegance and liked to wear things that nicely fit her tall slim frame.
The moment I said the kaftan was beautiful she asked me whether I liked it. I said I did and she said “Ok then, I will send it to you.”
But how can you send it to me just because I said I liked it? It’s brand new, you are wearing it for the first time, why should you give it out? I protested. “Because I have two of them.” She replied and explained that her husband had bought the two for her, one blue and one green and since I liked the green one I must have it. That was how I got to have that lovely kaftan.’ Aisha ended.
‘May Allah reward her kind and generous soul with aljannah firdaus’ I prayed and added ‘I want to know when you are going to condole her family so I can go with you.’ I added.
‘I hope to leave for Kaduna first thing tomorrow, I can come round and pick you up. But It’s still so hard to believe that she is gone, Aunty Bilkisu always seemed so alive. Now we can only see her through her endless legacies. But we have to be grateful to Almighty Allah for her accomplished and inspiring life. At least we had her, at least she was here.’ Aisha rhymed.