Everyone has a friend – or some friends – who become siblings of a sort, and Binta was one of them. While I still can’t get over the reality of referring to her in past tense (forgive any errors related to tenses, please), it remains very real that she has passed on, after a sudden illness roughly a week ago now. As is always the case with the demise of shining bright young people, it hurts deeply. It wasn’t a prolonged illness, or even that she’s middle-aged (she’s not), but that all the sunshine and happiness she has been bringing to the lives of her family and friends, is no more.
Binta was actually a Superwoman (a nickname I’d always tease her about, because she loved the ‘S’ insignia of the iconic superhero Superman, ironically her own nickname for me. She began a career in tech, working for a rising firm. Her talents for the culinary arts saw her branch into a catering business, where she quickly became a celebrity chef, going on to host delightful cookery shows for Maggi and other notable brands. She was also a passionate giver, year-in year-out joining extensive Ramadan feeding programmes for IDPs, widows, and orphans.
For one who makes a living from stringing words together, among other things, I am oddly at a loss for how to describe how it feels. But I have for the past few days been observing, and listening, to her family and friends who have an abundance of striking memories to weigh them down in mourning, but to also lift them up by way of inspiration. It is particularly difficult to comfort – or try to comfort – her mother, Mrs. Susan Ishaku Mshelia, with whom she shared a strong bond. A bond which made sense, really, because Binta’s large, welcoming heart is a duplicate of her mother’s when you think about it.
In her warmth and kindness, Binta was also a reflection of her father, her siblings, her aunties, her uncles (including Major Babangida Bittinger Mshelia, an uncle who is practically her twin brother), her cousins, and even her friends, all of whom she had a legion of. She also found perfect pairing in her equally warm and welcoming husband, Chima Uba, with whom she has three lovely children, all of them too young to truly grasp what loss means even in the most basic sense. All these make it a difficult task to write about losing a friend who also became a sister. Where does one start? How do you end it? Will it do justice to the incredible human being she was?
Luckily, there are more than enough people who loved her, who agreed to speak about her, even in their pain. I will begin, fittingly, with her mum, Mrs. Mshelia: “There are no words to express the pain and grief in my heart, but still, I choose to be thankful for the 35 years that God gave you to me as a daughter, confidant and friend. It seems like yesterday when I held you in my arms at your birth, my bundle of unspeakable joy and jewel of my heart.
A few short years ago, when I buried two younger brothers, two other sisters, and both my parents. You were always at my side to comfort, console, pray and make sure I was okay. And now this! They say time heals all wounds. Not this one. Not this time. The void you leave in my heart, nothing can ever fill. I guess it’s true what they say: ‘We do not own anyone. We only experience them. For no matter how much we long to cling to them, sooner or later they are taken from us.’ Thank you for beautifying our lives with your smile and laughter, even when you’re in pain. Mummy will miss you forever.”
Mr. Ishaku Mshelia, Binta’s father, said while his dear daughter has slipped the surly bonds of earth to touch the face of God, “She leaves a huge emptiness in the hearts of all of us who loved her, many who were her friends, and even more who just had a glimmer of her through our family. My dearest daughter, I will miss you forever and can’t wait for the day when we can be together again to laugh, share, hold each other and say I love you. [She] has gone into the light, and is now free.”
Binta’s younger sister Zarah said she’s short of words. “I never thought I’d be writing this to you, my only sister, my everything. You left me without saying a word. I don’t know what else to say; I refused posting your pictures on social media, because I was expecting to hear this was all false, but I have to come to terms with reality. I love you so much, and you’ll forever be in my heart.”
One of her close friends, Ummi Bukar, said of all the people she went to [secondary] school with, Binta was the one person who kept in touch with everyone. “I don’t know how she did it; I think it was her super power to not just be there for everyone, but to be there with a big smile and lots of encouragement. All my colleagues at the office can attest to her kindness and generosity, as exactly a week before she died she came to the office with food donations for the IDP communities we serve as she has done for three years now, and she also gave gifts to everyone at the office. That’s just the kind of person she was.”
There’s much more to say, but no space left. May almighty Allah, in his infinite mercies, guide and protect the family she left behind, and may we always remember her sterling qualities, even as we try to live by them. I will remember her for the kind of person she effortlessly was, which is the kind of person many of us spend a good chunk of our lives trying to be. Rest in peace, Binta Mshelia Chima Uba.
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