A flame extinguished

On May 29, last year, I travelled to Jos for his wedding. At a point, we became worried that there might be something wrong with Sani. In all our years together, none of our friends had heard Sani talk about a girlfriend, nor express admiration for a woman. We did taunt him about it but Sani would only smile and say, “When the time comes…”

The time did come. It took me by surprise when he announced that he had found love with a lovely woman, Sariya. She would later become his widow just seven months after they wedded. When I first met her, I was pleased. She was fit for him – humble, quiet, unassuming.

Their love blossomed and then the wedding. I hardly saw a happier couple, Sani and Sariya. Each time I saw them, they seemed so sparkling together. Now, death has crept in and parted these two; Sani and Sariya,

He had taken ill several weeks ago – his health has always been on and off, way back from the first time we met. I had, at a point, thought he had sickle cell but he told me otherwise. It was just a tribulation he bore very well, falling sick so often, skipping school for that reason. But all through his lifelong health battles, his intellect stunned many. Those not drawn to his monochrome personality, could not understand how someone who missed school so much turned out to be one of the best graduating students. I would have been surprised too if I had not seen beyond his mask of humility at the keen mind that lay beneath. But for one so intelligent, Sani was unusually self-effacing. Even when he went off to ABU, Zaria, to study law, he did not come back cocky. He seemed immune to the infectious pride of lawyers. He was certainly immune to peer pressure. Sani would not change his ways because someone thought less of him, he would not fall for fads. He would not even change the angle at which he placed his cap because we, his friends, thought it unfashionable. Sani was immune to all and so we branded him a comrade.

We, his friends, perhaps felt his name was too short for one with so much to offer, so we had to call him by his full name: Sani Datti. But ironically, we ended up calling him something much shorter. We called him CJ because we believed he would be the Chief Justice. We all thought he would live long enough to stake a claim to that title. My brother called him Sani Abacha because of his semblance to the late strongman. But all these names never got to his head.

But what he was not immune dto was Sariya’s love. She swept him away and left him singing love songs, dreaming dreams only love could make a man dream. And then, they got married, one fine Saturday at the end of May.

I remember how we teased him, on that wedding day, about delaying his Rakiya, about uniting him finally with this woman he loved so much. We said we will take him the next day. He was adamant; it must be done that day. We laughed as we made him plead and coerce. We had a good laugh that day and finally took him to Sariya. They laughed, they loved and they dreamed. And then the tears came, when he died.

He was also not immune to the illness. The last time I went to Jos, I met him ill. Sariya was nursing him. I didn’t think much of it. He had grown strong after we left secondary school and his health crises grew less frequent. He really never looked ill, was never thin and even added weight. At a point, he started growing a potbelly. I never thought that was the last time I would see him. We talked; we bandied jokes and made fun of Isa and his many mischiefs. Sariya made a fuss about us not staying to eat. We were in a hurry because I was leaving town the same day. I prayed for his quick recovery and felt pleased I had made time in my tight schedule to see him. I never thought it was the last time I would set eyes on him. We never thought death was lurking.

His health deteriorated. The last time I spoke with him on phone, he said he was getting better, even though he was not. His liver was in a bad shape. It got me worried.

And then the call came, one Thursday morning, (January 6) that Barrister Sani was no more. I wept because I could not help it. I wept because a friend had passed on, because a flame had been extinguished, because love-embellished dreams have faded so suddenly. I weep still. We weep still.

He was at my wedding last October. He came with our other friends. He was so full of life. He even made me laugh. Sani, the one who was never known to have had a girlfriend lectured me on the ways of matrimony. He made me laugh, Sani, with his advice, his subtle humour, his serious ways of looking at things. But now, he makes me weep because he is no more.

Last January, he bought his first car. He did it quietly, without pomp. I had just lost everything in the Jos mayhem then and he was driving to commiserate with me in Abuja. The car engine suddenly went up in flames, the car he was driving to show me. He never came that day; just called and said they were having car troubles. He never told me then that it was his car. When he eventually got to tell me, he explained that he didn’t want to add his troubles to mine. And that was Sani Datti.

I remember now those gilded fragments of our lives we shared; those indolent days spent on the mattress, chatting, dreaming, thinking about what the future held for us; those days that crawled into nights. I remember now all those conversations on the bridge on his way home. I remember also all those little favours we did for each, favours only you and I know about. Yes, I remember these fragments now very well and each recollection makes it more painful to bear the loss. I remember those fragments of our lives because now, I know they will never be complete, because Allah has other plans.

And as we grieve this inevitable loss, we seek words that will console us and find solace in the good life he lived. People always speak well of the dead, they say. But even if I had wanted to speak ill of Sani Datti I would quickly run out of steam. He may not be a saint but he was a damn good man. And as The Prophet (SAW) said, the testimony the living give on the dead will hold true. Sani Datti was a good man and he was my friend.

We have prayed for the repose of his soul, that Allah admits him to Aljanna, that He bless all his endeavours and whatever he has left behind. We have prayed also for the strength to bear this loss. We pray still. We pray still.

But for his lovely Sariya, widowed at this young age, what comfort can one offer? What words can one say to ease the pain? How can one look into your eyes now and tell you to be strong? What can we tell this woman who became one with the best of us and then, lost him?