His death is a personal loss beyond measure. My life is marked by the time I shared with him. I will carry his words, his laughter, his lessons, and his love wherever I go. And when I face moments of choice, I will ask myself not only what he would have done but how he would have felt, what he would have thought, how he would have weighed the consequences. He lives on in my memory, in my prayers, and in the habits of mind he left with me.
On 17 September, in the holy city of Madina, Saudi Arabia, the life of Mallam Mouftah Baba-Ahmed came to an end. His passing has left me with a grief that words struggle to contain. To many people he was a mentor, a wise counsellor, and a man whose presence brought calm and authority. To me he was far more than all of these. He was Baba Mouftah, a father figure who opened his home and his heart to me, who treated me with a love I never once doubted, who called me his son, and who became part of my own family in the truest sense. His death feels like a hole torn in the fabric of my life, but his memory shines so brightly that it continues to comfort me even in the darkness of loss.
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The last message I received from him still lingers in my mind as if it were written only yesterday. On 19 August, in the early afternoon, he sent me a note from his hospital bed in Suleiman al-Habibi Hospital in Jeddah. “Assalamu alaikum. Greetings from my hospital bed in Suleiman al-Habibi Hospital, Jeddah. AlhamduliLlah, I am stable, undergoing treatments, and being prepared for surgery in about ten days, in sha Allah. AlhamduliLlah, alhamduliLlah, alhamduliLlah. JazakumuLlahu khairan.” I read it with trembling hands. My reply, sent an hour later, was filled with prayers that Allah would ease his pain, grant him healing, and lift his rank through this trial. I quoted the Prophet (PBUH) about illness being a source of cleansing, and I reassured him that I would check in regularly through his sons, Umar and Nur.
I forwarded the exchange to my family WhatsApp group, asking everyone to pray for him. At first, his children told me that he was doing better, and I wanted so much to believe them. But whispers soon reached me that his illness was more serious than I had been told. That knowledge gnawed at me, and my nights grew restless. There were evenings when I lay awake unable to sleep, and one night I broke down completely, sobbing loudly, repeating his name as though clinging to a lifeline. My wife tried to comfort me, but the pain was raw. What weighed most heavily on me was not only the possibility of death but the thought of never again sitting with him, never again hearing his laughter or listening to one of his endless stories. To imagine the world without his presence was unbearable.
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The first time I met Baba Mouftah, back in 2018, did not hint at the closeness we would later share. I was in Abuja, attending a meeting in the private office of Dr Aliyu Modibbo Umar. The session was chaired by the late elder statesman Baba Ahmed Joda and was about the plight of the Fulbe people and how the elites might help uplift them. I had just returned from my doctoral studies in the United Kingdom, still carrying with me the excitement of academic accomplishment. During the meeting, as we sat around the table eating fruit while we spoke, a man entered late. He was elegantly dressed, dignified, with very intense eyes. That was Baba Mouftah. He sat opposite us, watching, and I sensed immediately that he disapproved of our casualness.
After the meeting, when Baba Ahmed Joda offered us a handshake, Baba Mouftah declined. To me this seemed disrespectful, but I later learnt from my friend, Dr Ahmadu Shehu, that in Hausa culture it was sometimes considered more respectful not to extend one’s hand in that moment. I remained puzzled, for in my Fulbe culture, the opposite was true. When introductions were made, I realised I had heard the name before but never met the man himself. Instead of greeting us warmly, he scolded me and Ahmadu, calling us disrespectful, saying that though we might be intelligent, we were not yet prepared for leadership. His words stung. On the way home, I felt humiliated and judged unfairly. That was my first impression of Baba Mouftah: stern and hard to like. But first impressions are not always the whole truth.
Nearly three years later, he reached out to me directly on WhatsApp. He apologised for intruding and said he had followed my conversations in a discussion group and wanted to be closer to me. That message was the doorway into a friendship that would grow into something larger than friendship. He congratulated me when I achieved milestones, no matter how small, and encouraged me at every step. When I moved to Abuja in 2021, thanks to a job opportunity with PwC facilitated by Rukaiya el-Rufai, he welcomed me by hosting a small Walimah in his home in Maitama. From that moment, he became part of my daily life.
His house on Lake Chad Crescent became like mine. He told me to treat it as my own, to feel free to sleep there, to wander anywhere. His home was elegant but simple, and every detail carried his touch. Once, curious about the design, I asked if Julius Berger had built it. He laughed and said it was the work of “Julius Baba,” meaning himself, and explained how he had chosen every fitting and fixture personally. He was trained as an economist, but his grasp of architecture impressed me. That was who he was: A man of knowledge in almost every field, always eager to learn, always eager to share.
He was a living library himself. His knowledge stretched across politics, literature, history, culture, and economics, and he could speak with authority on each. When I realised the depth of his learning, I introduced him to my father. They became friends, speaking for long hours about ideas and life. Later, Baba Mouftah told me he considered my father his teacher, saying he would remain his eternal student. He teased me often, asking if I was not embarrassed that my father knew so much more than I did. He laughed at my protests and encouraged me to keep striving.
He loved to remind people that there is a book inside each of us. He repeated this to young people, urging them to see themselves as capable and valuable, able to take responsibility for their lives and their country. He was a living library himself. His knowledge stretched across politics, literature, history, culture, and economics, and he could speak with authority on each. When I realised the depth of his learning, I introduced him to my father. They became friends, speaking for long hours about ideas and life. Later, Baba Mouftah told me he considered my father his teacher, saying he would remain his eternal student. He teased me often, asking if I was not embarrassed that my father knew so much more than I did. He laughed at my protests and encouraged me to keep striving.
He spoke often of his own mentors, especially the late Dr Hamza Zayyad, who he described as his guiding light. When faced with difficult decisions, he said he asked always himself what Dr Hamza would have done in such circumstance. That simple question guided him through life. It was not theory for him but a way of living; a compass for choices.
Baba Mouftah loved stories. He told me about his friend, Waziri Kyari Mohammed, who died in a plane crash, and how that loss changed him. He remembered their student days, their long drives in Lagos traffic, their laughter over gala and soft drinks, their taste for neatness and clean socks. He told me of his love for suya, especially ram suya, and how he was never tired of it, so long as it came without yaji. He trusted me to bring him suya from a place I had discovered. Once, he reminded me twice on the same day, to confirm that I would not forget, and the smile on his face when I arrived with it remains with me still.
Our conversations spanned the world. He gave me lectures on John DeLorean and the US auto industry, told me stories of the Italian mafia as though he had studied them all his life, handed me books with old letters tucked inside, and spoke passionately about colonisation, economics, history and philosophy. He encouraged me to read The Abubakar Imam Memoirs, edited by Abdurrahman Mora, which he said were filled with wisdom. He lent me books from his shelves without hesitation, sometimes laughing when he discovered notes or letters he had forgotten were there.
Despite his knowledge and network of powerful friends, he lived quietly. He avoided recognition, even declined honorary degrees, while preferring to nominate others. But he maintained relationships with presidents, bankers, and leaders of industry, chatting with them casually, sometimes in the middle of the night. He handed me his phone to read their words, as if to remind me that true influence lies not in power displayed but in respect earned.
He introduced me to many people, always calling me his son. He gave me a place of honour that sometimes felt larger than I deserved. He encouraged me to nurture relationships and maintain ties of kinship and friendship. I did not always succeed, but now that he is gone, I feel the urgency of that duty. His voice echoes in me, urging me to do what he wished, to keep alive the bonds he valued.
His career was extraordinary. Born in Zaria on 28 February, 1962, he studied at Ahmadu Bello University, University of Lagos, Harvard Institute of International Development, and London Business School. He worked as Turnaround Manager at Aksen Textiles in Lagos, then became Secretary of the Committee on Development Finance and International Trade of the Nigerian Industrial Development Bank. He served as Special Assistant to the Chairman of the Technical Committee on Privatisation and Commercialisation, later as Executive Director of Finance and Administration at the National Electric Power Authority. He chaired NAL Bank, became Executive Vice Chairman of the African Investment Corporation, and held directorships in multiple companies.
As I look at my own life, some of the choices I have made, and the dreams I still hold, I see how much of it has been shaped by Baba Mouftah. He was a steady presence in my moments of doubt and a voice of encouragement in my times of achievement. He reminded me to be firm in principle but soft in judgment, to remain curious, and to keep learning no matter how much I thought I already knew.
But for me, the details of his career are only part of the story. The larger story is the countless hours I spent in his home, the nights that turned into mornings, the car rides where wisdom spilled with conversations, the meals we shared, and the laughter that filled ordinary days. Even in his final days, he kept me close, sharing recordings of his conversations with the doctor and family. One day, I listened and realised from the physician’s words that hope had slipped away. I broke down, unable to continue, devastated by the knowledge that time was ending. But even then, in his pain, he did not forget me.
I did not know that day would be the last time I would meet Baba Mouftah in person. It was on Friday, 6 June, during Eid al Adha at the National Mosque. I had gone there for the afternoon prayer. After the prayer ended, I saw him and walked over to greet him, taking along my younger brother, Umar Faruk. I introduced Faruk to him, and as always, Baba Mouftah’s eyes caught every detail. He looked at my brother, noticed that he was frowning, and in his gentle way told him to smile. He said that one must always smile, that a cheerful face is a gift both to oneself and to others. Then, with his familiar humour, he teased Faruk, saying he looked too slim, as if he was not eating enough, and he urged him to eat well. We all laughed at his words. At the time, it felt like one of many ordinary moments with him, simple and lighthearted. I never imagined that those would be the last words I would hear from him in person, and that this small exchange at the mosque would remain etched as my final memory of being with him. Now, as I look back, I thank Allah for granting me that encounter, for allowing me to see him one more time, and I hold myself to the duty of keeping in touch with his family as he himself would have wished.
His death is a personal loss beyond measure. My life is marked by the time I shared with him. I will carry his words, his laughter, his lessons, and his love wherever I go. And when I face moments of choice, I will ask myself not only what he would have done but how he would have felt, what he would have thought, how he would have weighed the consequences. He lives on in my memory, in my prayers, and in the habits of mind he left with me.
He is survived by his wives, his children, and by those of us who became family to him in spirit. His life was long enough to influence many, but too short for those of us who still needed him. He left behind not only achievements but a way of living, a way of thinking, and a way of caring.
For me, there will never be another Baba Mouftah. He was my father in spirit and my friend in life. He was also a teacher, a confidant, a critic, and at times a mirror reflecting me back to myself. He was stern when I needed correction, gentle when I needed comfort, and playful when I needed joy. My heart breaks at his absence, but I give thanks that I was blessed to know him, to sit with him, and to share in his light. His influence will never fade. May Allah forgive his shortcomings, multiply his good deeds, and grant him Aljannah Firdaus.
As I look at my own life, some of the choices I have made, and the dreams I still hold, I see how much of it has been shaped by Baba Mouftah. He was a steady presence in my moments of doubt and a voice of encouragement in my times of achievement. He reminded me to be firm in principle but soft in judgment, to remain curious, and to keep learning no matter how much I thought I already knew. Whatever I become in the years ahead will carry traces of him. His guidance is now stitched into the fabric of my journey, and though he is no longer here, I walk forward with his memory as a compass. That is the closure I hold on to, not an end but a continuation of his influence in my own story.
Mohammed Dahiru Aminu ([email protected]) wrote from Abuja, Nigeria.
