Fifty years ago, on a chilly February morning in Jos, Plateau State, I stood across the main street of our family house, attempting to cross to the opposite side when I suddenly realized there was a tumultuous scene in front of my father’s house. I became afraid, I trembled out of a morbid fear of the police and I thought they had come to arrest someone in our house. I carefully approached the crowd in fear; my heart in my mouth.
I was the last but one child and a most loved child but, on this day, nobody paid attention to me. I saw my siblings falling all over the place with tears running down their faces and those who could hold back the floodgates, locked them in with grief written all-over their faces. There were even neighbours gnashing their teeth and saying “Innalillahi wa Inna iliahim rajiun”! (From Him we come and to Him we return). There was an eerie feeling in the air. I was beginning to sense that someone had died; but I would not nurse the faintest idea that it was my mother.
I became alarmed. The mantra would only be used when someone had died. I was only seven at that time but I was inquisitive and free. ‘Who died?’ I kept asking, peering into any faces that looked familiar in the crowd until one of my cousins turned to me and said; it’s Hajiya!
‘Which Hajiya, I queried further, quickly. We called my mother Hajiya. It was also common to call every female who had gone on the holy pilgrimage hajiya; I was hoping it would be someone far. Then the bombshell: your Hajiya!
The whole world turned blank, and two words escaped from the side of my mouth: my mother? And he confirmed it was hajiya, my hajiya. I started howling, and rolling on the floor, crying with deep anguish, my beloved mother, the centre of my life had left me, I became afraid of the future; what will happen to me and my brothers?
This happened on February 22, 1970. It has been fifty long years since Hajiya Maimuna Machimadzwa of Emizhigichizhi, my mother, left this sinful world to be with her creator, but not one day had passed since then that her memories have eluded me; even as I write this tribute, I have tears in my eyes.
She was a gentle, soft spoken, pragmatic, prayerful and peaceful person. She was married to Alhaji Muhammadu Mustapha Jos who later became popular as Alhaji Techno; my father. He married three others to complete his harem but the house owed its peace and tranquillity to her commitment and prayers. Even after death, everyone traces our unity and family love to her teachings and practice. She was indeed an Uwargida; the head wife.
She died on a Sunday. She was only meant to leave home for four days; Thursday and be back on Monday. When she announced that she would be leaving for Kaduna to see the eye doctor, I cried my eyes out. My mother said to me; ‘Mama, you know I have always travelled with you but you have just been enrolled in school. I will be back on Monday Inshaa Allah’, but she never came back.
I was later told that her last words on that Saturday night, was a request about me. She had left a message that I was entrusted and that everyone should take care of me and that when I grew up, I should be married into her family so that my brothers will remember her all the time. Her funeral prayer was said by thousands of Muslim faithful. She was buried in Kaduna at the Muslim cemetery.
It’s amazing to recall that my mum died in 1970 and my dad in the year 2000, however not a day passed by in those 30 years spent apart that he did not mention my mother. At her death, my dad moved from his room, into her room as a re-affirmation of their love. Everyone who knew my dad would testify to his love for his first wife. ‘My Uwargida’ as he fondly called her and everyone named after her. My father and mother were two special people; their love story is so intense that one day, bookmakers would publish my story of them.
I was my mother’s only surviving daughter and her tenth child. I would have had two sisters if Saratu and Zainab, born in 1950 and 1951 respectively, had not died at birth. Abubakar Chata (1945) and Salihu Sabo also died young while our eldest brother, Alhaji Mahmud Bako (1943) died at the age of 50 leaving behind eight children. I have five brothers now – Alhaji Sani Muhammed, Baraden Nupe (1947), Alhaji Yahaya Hayatudeen (1952), Alhaji Abdulrahman Mohammed (1958), AVM H.R Muhammed (1960) and Alhaji Awalu Muhammed (1968). I was born in 1962. Together, we have raised 36 grandchildren for Hajiya.
My birth was greatly celebrated by both my dad and mum; I was treated like a princess from day one. With the death of my mother, it was obvious that I was going to have a very rough time. My father used to wonder where I got my combative attitude from. ‘She was never combative,’ he would say to me, without putting into consideration the fact that unlike her I grew up without a mother and that I had to protect myself and my seven brothers from a wicked world.
As I grew up, I came to the realization that my mother was a virtuous woman, a most beloved daughter of her parents, a cherished sister of her siblings, an adored wife of her husband, a revered senior wife amongst her co-wives. She was a priceless mother of the whole family. She was highly respected in the whole community.
Everyone I have met in the course of my life had spoken glowingly about her. And I have rebelled against their testimonies. Once I sat and questioned myself: how can one person be so good all round? I used to doubt the testimonies and I became afraid that she was probably taken by her creator because she was too good and so I became rebellious; I did not want to die early from being too good. The testimonies remained consistent over time and my fears and doubts diminished. So, I vowed when I turned fifty that I will emulate all her good qualities. I became a prayer warrior and learnt to treat people with more respect and kindness. I learnt to be as generous as I can be and to love my relatives especially her family members religiously.
I spent only seven years of my life with my mum, but every hour spent is still imprinted in my heart. She went everywhere with me. I remember even taking my bath with her, going to the market with her, travelling on the train with her and taking my first lessons about life from her. My mum was not educated in the western way but she had a strong Islamic background. She could read and write and she painstakingly taught me my first lessons when I was enrolled in class one: I always remember her reading ‘Toma & Tani’ to me.
She also taught me my first Quranic verses and I learnt suratul IKHLAS from her uncle in Bida. A childhood friend of mine once told me that all of them on our street have memories of my mum as a prayerful person who only comes down from her room upstairs, to perform ablution.
I remember as children during the first ten days of Ramadan, we had what is called ‘Tashe’ where as children we would sing and recite the holy Quran. The most joyous song was always about Hajiya in paradise on a golden throne, we would sing it with all our hearts and a strong conviction that it is the truth. I pray that Almighty Allah has answered our prayers, the prayers of innocent children.
I believe my mother was blessed and she left us a good legacy. She was known to practice Islam to the fullest. She loved my father faithfully and with great courage. I was told of her being the rock and pillar of my dad. She also loved her mother-in-law and sister-in-law that they were always on her side. She was of impeccable character; a philanthropist, a marriage counselor and a strong supporter of her kindred. She led her co-wives like a general in the army. She laid a strong foundation that the family has remained united, even over fifty years after death and twenty years after our father’s demise.
She sacrificed her own life for our father, particularly during trying times. She held the home front and held the family as one. She was a great business woman and a serial entrepreneur. When my father had financial crises, she was able to support him with everything she had. She impacted on the life of everyone around her, both children and adults.
I must say now that I believe everything that was said about my mother. I believe if she was alive to see me grow up, I would have been a better mother, and a better Muslim. For when I read the holy book, two particular verses remind me of her. Surah Ar-Rahman (55:60): Is there any reward for good other than but good? The other verse is (55:13): Then which of the favours of your lord will ye deny? My mother epitomized the two verses. However, I am still grateful to the Almighty Allah that the good virtues she planted in me have kept me on the good side of history.
May the Almighty Allah grant her Aljanatul Firdausi – the penthouse in Paradise. We pray for her every hour; every day and we believe that God answers our prayers for her to continue to rest peacefully in paradise. Amin
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