Ya Sheikh, Can You Hear Us Weeping? Your Lessons in Love Outlive You
Ya Sheikh Hubdein Yahya,
The minarets tremble with our sobs today. The pages of our Qurans are damp with tears we cannot control. Could you see us gathered at Kanjedza Cemetery in Blantyre? Could you hear how your children cried for you? The orphans whose heads you kissed, the students whose dreams you funded, the broken souls you pieced back together—we stood there clutching the fragments of our hearts, wondering how to breathe in a world that no longer has you in it.
Ya Sheikh, your absence is deafening. Bashir’s microphone trembles today. The voice you polished to perfection can barely recite “Inna Lillahi” without breaking. Mallick finds himself clutching his phone, waiting for a call that will never come. That familiar “Ya Mallick!” that always felt like coming home.
The Albarakah hallways are too quiet without your laughter. The community meetings lack your wisdom—that special way you made everyone feel like the most important person in the room.
When news of your passing spread, Mallick whispered: “Ya Allah, grant him a comfortable space in the best of places in paradise.” This simple prayer echoes across countless hearts today—hearts that bear the imprint of your kindness, wisdom, and unwavering faith in human potential.
Your First Lesson: Love Like It’s Your Last Day
“Spread peace, feed the hungry, and pray at night when others sleep – you will enter Paradise in peace.” (Ibn Majah)
Sheikh, you loved with an urgency that scared us.
You saw something in people that they had yet to recognize in themselves. You measured life not by years lived but by lives transformed. Where others saw limitations, you recognized hidden talent.
When Mallick Mnela was drowning in 2008, jobless and depressed, you didn’t offer “thoughts and prayers”—you handed him a lifeline wrapped in dignity: “Write your job description. Set your salary.” You sent him transport fare from Lilongwe to Blantyre and gave him money for furniture and rent before he even started working.
When Bashir Amin hesitated about radio, content in his role as Assistant Administrator at IZF, you didn’t gently suggest—you commanded his destiny into existence: “I want this boy in Radio Islam!” Even when his boss shook his head saying, “No, he stays here—he is my boy,” your vision for him remained unshakable.
“Can you be a presenter?” you asked Mallick that fateful day in May 2004 at Agason House. Such a simple question that concealed your profound insight.
You loved like the Prophet (ﷺ) loved—not in abstract, but in action. Not tomorrow, but today. As if you knew your time with us would be shorter than any of us realized.
Our Tear-Stained Homework: We’ll try, Sheikh. Trying to love without calculation. To give without waiting. To see people’s potential before they see it themselves. But Ya Rabbi, it’s so hard without your example walking among us.
Your Second Lesson: Give Until It Heals You
“The believer’s shade on Judgment Day will be his charity.” (Tirmidhi)
Oh, how you shamed us with your generosity!
Who pays tuition then slips extra for rent? Who furnishes homes for those who never asked? Who gives promotions before they’re earned?
You did, Sheikh. Always you. Not only to Mallick, but many others as well.
Your bank statements must have been love letters to Allah. Every receipt a testimony: “This was never mine to begin with.” You understood the divine math—that what you gave away multiplied in barakah while what you kept rusted in your account.
Our Trembling Attempt: Today, as we try to follow your example of generosity, Sheikh, we find our hands shaking. We struggle to match how you gave—not from excess, but from sacrifice. Not for recognition, but purely for Allah’s sake. Your standard of selfless giving challenges us all.
Your Final Lesson: Leave a Legacy, Not Just a Memory
“When the son of Adam dies, his deeds cease except for three…” (Muslim)
Sheikh, your janaza was the most beautiful funeral ever witnessed. Not because of flowers or speeches, but because of who showed up. The orphan you sponsored now a doctor. The shy girl you encouraged now a teacher. The “nobodies” you believed in now leaders.
Not all of them though because many of your children you mentored were outside the city pursuing their dreams and carrying your legacy. But although not everybody could make it, prayers are pouring in, and we hope you can hear them.
You weren’t an expatriate in Malawi—you were family. As Bashir said, “He was one of our own, he lived with us and for us.” Your presence wasn’t that of a visitor but of a pillar—steadfast, reliable, deeply woven into the fabric of our community.
Like the Prophet (ﷺ), you didn’t just leave mourners—you left successors. Your life was a continuous sadaqah jariyah, and today, the dividends are pouring in through every life you touched.
Your investment in journalists created a lasting legacy. Now you have joined Seifdeen Sande, Suleiman Matola, and McPherson Maulana who departed long before you. Meanwhile, others like Bashir Amin, Mallick Mnela, Suzgo Chitete, Clement Chinoko, Aisha Adams (now second deputy speaker of parliament), and Siphat Msusa continue to carry your torch in this world. You understood that empowering others is the highest form of leadership.
Our Choked Promise: We’ll keep your legacy alive, Sheikh. Through every story published, every truth defended, every soul lifted in your name. We’ll love like you taught us—not perfectly, but persistently.
This Isn’t Goodbye
“Do not say about those killed in Allah’s way that they are dead. Rather, they are alive with their Lord, receiving provision.” (Quran 3:169)
We know you’re not really gone.
When a student you helped graduates… that’s your voice whispering “MashaAllah.” When a journalist you trained reports the truth… that’s your hand steadying theirs. When we hug someone the world has forgotten… that’s your embrace reaching through us.
Wait for us at the Highest Gardens, beloved Sheikh. Save a place for your spiritual children. And when we meet again, let your first words be the ones we all ache to hear: “Ya habibi… you passed my test.”
Inna Lillahi wa Inna Ilayhi Rajiun.
We belonged to Allah then, we return to Him now.
May the soil rest lightly upon you, our Sheikh, and may your soul find eternal peace in Jannat Firdaus.
Ameen.
