It was on our way to the airport to pick Farooq Kperogi, her husband, who arrived from Atlanta, US, that morning. Together with Mrs Okolo, our mutual friend and very much Zainab’s, we stopped over at her house to pick a few dresses and toys for her children who had been staying in Kaduna since June 4, when she passed on after a car crash on her way to Kaduna. Instead of Zainab’s broad smiles, charm and effervescent warmth to welcome us, blankness stared us in the face. Well, we betrayed our emotions, as everyone did intermittently in the last few days, any time she was discussed.
We, as Muslims, must take solace in God’s words that all souls must taste death and that He alone has the power to give and take life. All the same, writing and talking about Zainab in the past tense has been difficult for me. Though I know I have a responsibility to do this, the question is: where do I start to describe, without flattering, the dead, which is second nature to us in Nigeria? But it is a testimony that I must share, no matter how awkwardly relayed which, in itself, is a reflection of my confusion.
Zainab’s death is a personal loss, having been together for the past 11 years. We got close gradually, quite frankly, through understanding and by accepting each other’s differences, strengths and failings. The other day, Garba Deen Muhammad, another former editor of Weekly Trust, asked for my recollections of Zainab in a few words. I told him that a few words would not be enough and that his request depended only on the kind of encounters that one had with her. Was it her kind disposition, her generosity, fellow-feeling, large-heartedness, good spirit for the common good or concern for others? If you were showy, hypocritical and overtly affectatious, then you may never get close to Zainab. Her beauty lay in her innermost goodness; hidden but truly inspiring. She joined us at the Weekly Trust in 1999, the very week that I started my maternity leave. But, to my surprise, and in company of my then deputy, Onah Iduh, she came to visit me! I was humbled, because I hardly knew her, to deserve that magnanimity.
So, over the years, we worked together and became close, despite my constant harassment. Then, production stretched into the night and, because nature would always take its course on us, sometimes, the urge to sleep would creep in. But I devised a way out; I would give each of us – Onah, Zainab and myself, one hour off to sleep. When it was time for Zainab to wake up, I had to harass her to do so. I thought she would hate me for it as some people almost made her feel- when they told her I was too domineering and with a tendency to control and subdue her- but, to her eternal credit, Zainab remained constant in her appreciation of my slave-driving attitude in our modest contribution to then-fledgling newspaper.
Years later, she told whoever cared to listen how she admired my hard work and team spirit – without taking offence for the intimidation and disturbance she got from me, until routine internal redeployments took me to the daily title. By the time I returned to the weekly title as editor, Zainab had gone back to the daily as an assistant editor.
She had a way of connecting with people and spent endless hours talking to old colleagues and friends, always making out time to visit them. Such was the pillar of support she was in my hour of distress when, recently, my son was diagnosed of brain stem glioma. She spent hours searching the web and returning with loads of information on foods, fruits and vegetables that could stem the growth. She always ended with prayers that, ‘God forbid that we should bury our children’ and that ‘Iman (my son) will live to appreciate the parental care and endless love offered him’. That was vintage Zainab, always praying, consoling, counseling and offering her last kobo to the needy. Six days to her death, I called to ask when she would return to work from maternity leave so I could visit her. I also requested her to give me a former colleague, Dan Halilu’s number. Dan Halilu works at the American Embassy. Before I could reach out to him, Zainab had called to inform him that I needed information about green card and visa for my niece. It was when I broke the news of Zainab’s death to him that I realised that she had contacted him, while I was yet to do so.
I might have been Zainab’s senior colleague but, I learned much from her. Her proof-reading skill and capacity to spot errors is unrivalled. That probably was due to her voracious reading habit and mastery of the English language. She read anything under the sun but because she had lost confidence in our political elite -whom she accused severally of squandering the country’s riches – she was never really interested in political issues and politicians and hardly bothered to read about them except it was in the line of duty.
On our way back from Kaduna after the 7th day fidau prayer on Friday June 11, 2010, and riding in the same car with some of my colleagues in Media Trust Ltd, publishers of Weekly Trust, Daily Trust’s precursor, (where, then, a semblance of a close-knit family developed due to the small size of the company,) I had the opportunity to ‘dissect’ and remember Zainab once more. Her impeccable taste was one that we all identified. She had it, but not in terms of clothes, shoes and jewelry as many women do. As a matter of fact, she was not concerned about fashion. Her taste was for good food. Her spick and span environment- from her room to the kitchen to the toilet; was an expression of sparkling flavour, and those things that make life enjoyable and comfortable.
To say Zainab was well-organised would be an understatement. Was it her prayer items or her plates (which she washed and rinsed by herself) or her clothes which she rinsed until the lather disappeared even if it meant doing so over and over? There was so much of her innate good attitude that it would be difficult to chronicle them. Perhaps, her physical and pristine appearance reflected her inner purity. May Almighty Allah make aljanat firdaus her eternal abode. Amin
Zainab was former editor of Weekly Trust. She wrote in from Abuja
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