By Dada Ahmed.
Until the morning of the fateful day that the accident claimed his life, two years ago,Malam Musa was the neighbor everyone wished for. Humble, ever-smiling, and ever-helpful, his presence in Arigo, a quiet community in Okene Local Government Area of Kogi State, was a gentle breeze of kindness. The 45-year-old was the kind of man who would offer his last loaf of bread to a hungry child, volunteer to fix a leaking roof for a widow, or sit quietly with an old man just to keep him company and learn from his wealth of experience. In a world growing increasingly selfish, Musa was a rare light, not loud, not flashy, but warm enough to leave footprints on many hearts.
His death came like a thunderclap on a sunny day. A fatal crash on the Lokoja–Okene highway cut short the life of a man who had much more to offer. Word spread fast, first disbelief, then tears. In the mosque, at corner shops, even among children, his name kept dropping from trembling lips. “Musa was a good man. He never raised his voice, never passed without a greeting,” they said. His friends, colleagues, and even strangers he once helped in silence gathered not just to mourn him, but to celebrate a soul who gave so much and asked for so little.
The funeral drew a crowd that overflowed the community, people from far and near. Some confessed they hadn’t seen him in years; others who barely knew him felt the weight of the community’s loss. Each eulogy peeled back a layer of his simple but impactful life, a peacemaker and a brother to all,they reflect.People were seen embracing one another, many in tears, whispering how life is nothing but a mist that disappears at dawn. In death, Musa taught one final lesson, that we are remembered not by the cars we drive or the money we leave behind, but by how we make others feel.
As the dust settled over his grave, the air remained heavy, not just with grief, but with reflection. Death, once again, reminded us of life’s vanity: how titles, wealth, and pride dissolve in a moment. Musa, with all his humility, left behind a legacy no mansion could match. His tragic end became a mirror to the living, calling us to love more, serve more, and judge less. For in the end, it’s not how long we live, but how deeply we touch others that truly counts.
Basically, life begins with a cry and ends in silence. Between these two extremes lies a journey many live as though it will never end. We hustle, scheme, conquer, cheat, pray, fast, and sometimes even kill — all in pursuit of a better today, a brighter tomorrow. Yet we often forget the undeniable truth: one day, we shall take nothing with us but our deeds, to a destination from which no man has ever returned. That destination ,a six-foot room with no windows, no doors, no fans or comforts, becomes the final apartment for kings and servants alike.
In our cities and villages, structures of worship rise like mushrooms after rainfall. Nigeria, statistics show, has one of the highest concentrations of churches and mosques in the world. At dawn, we call on God. At midnight, we cry to Him. The streets echo with “Amen!” and “Allahu Akbar!” Yet we live in a nation bleeding from the wounds of injustice, greed, and cruelty. It is a paradox that mocks reason to know that in a land so religious, wickedness flourish like weed.
We call ourselves believers, but our actions often betray a hollow faith. We fast, yet oppress. We pray, yet lie. We tithe, yet steal. From all phases of life, public and private,impunity has become culture. Our conscience, that sacred judge within, has been gagged by the noise of materialism and self-interest. The soul of our nation suffers, gasping for air in a society where being good is mocked and being corrupt is rewarded.
It is not that we do not know the truth. We do. Deep within, every man knows that this life is not forever. We attend funerals and return to our daily hustles as though we are immune to death. We bury others in fine coffins but forget that the ground beneath us waits patiently. No matter how long the journey, the final bus stop awaits each of us. And when that day comes, titles, wealth, and fame will vanish like mist.
What, then, shall we be remembered for? Our cars? Our designer clothes? Our connections? These things fade quickly. But a kind word, a helping hand, a voice for the voiceless, a refusal to join evil, these endure. It is not how much we amass that matters, but how much good we do with what we have. Our greatest gift to this world is not what we leave behind, but who we become before we leave.
There is a haunting silence in cemeteries that preaches more than a thousand sermons. The dead do not argue. They do not boast. They do not seek revenge. They teach us, if we listen, that life is not to be lived selfishly. Our community, our society, our Nigeria groans under the weight of our collective irresponsibility. And unless we choose a different path, we may be heading towards a future that will be even darker for our children.
Let us pause and ask: Am I contributing to the light or to the darkness? Am I a peacemaker or a fire-starter? Do I make life better for those around me, or worse? These questions must haunt us, not just in church or mosque, but in our homes and daily dealings. This is because experience teaches us that true religion is not in the rituals, but in righteousness. It is also not in noise, but in conscience. What more,not in labels, but in love.
The time has come for us to wake up,not with fear, but with resolve. To stop living as though life is endless. To start valuing others as we value ourselves. To repair what we have broken. To humble ourselves before the reality that death is the great equalizer, and legacy is the true measure of a life well lived.
Let the final apartment remind us of what truly matters. Let it whisper to our hearts: “Live right, for you shall not live forever.” If every Nigerian can embrace this truth, then perhaps, just perhaps, the prayers we say might match the lives we live, and this nation may finally breathe again.
Ahmed is the publisher of The Reporters.
