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<p>By Sanusi Bature Dawakin Tofa</p><div class="12shQzSa" style="clear:both;float:left;width:100%;margin:0 0 20px 0;"><script async src="https://pagead2.googlesyndication.com/pagead/js/adsbygoogle.js"></script>

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<p>Fifteen years have passed since I last held my son, Sadiq Modibbo, in my arms. Even now, the memory of his laughter and the warmth of his tiny hand remains vivid in my mind. There was something remarkable about him, a light that shone through even in moments of fear or pain.</p>
<p>I remember the first time I realized how deeply he loved the simple things that connected him to me.</p>
<p>Whenever he cried, I would gently remove my cap, and just like that, his tears would stop. It was as if the gesture spoke to him in a language only he and I shared—a language of love, trust, and comfort.</p><div class="PiHa7Njo" style="clear:both;float:left;width:100%;margin:0 0 20px 0;"><script async src="https://pagead2.googlesyndication.com/pagead/js/adsbygoogle.js"></script>

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<p>Sadiq was often unwell, and our visits to the hospital were frequent. Yet, despite his fragile health, he carried himself with an unusual courage. The doctors, nurses, and other caregivers grew to know him well. They would smile at his little jokes, or nod knowingly when he quieted at the sight of me.</p>
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<p>In those hospital rooms, I learned to see him not just as my son, but as a symbol of resilience. Every day, I watched him endure injections, treatments, and long hours of discomfort, yet he faced it all with a quiet strength. Even then, the cap—the small, unassuming piece of cloth—became a tool of love, a reminder that he was never alone.</p>
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<p>Sadiq’s love for Kwankwasiyya was another remarkable part of his personality. It was a fascination that seemed larger than his years, and it sparked countless conversations between us. I would watch him with wonder, seeing how a young boy could find joy and meaning in something so vibrant, even in the midst of illness.</p>
<p>I often imagined what he would be like today if he were still alive. Would he be arguing with me as passionately as ever? Would his laughter fill our home in the way it did when he was a boy? The “what ifs” are endless, but in my heart, I carry the certainty that his spirit lives on in every memory, every smile, every small gesture of love that he shared.</p>
<p>Birthdays were special for Sadiq. He would light up at the smallest celebration, reminding us all of the beauty in simple joys. Even as a child who faced health struggles, he found light in each day. I can still see him running toward me, his eyes shining, his cap slightly askew from excitement.</p>
<p>Mourning him has been a lifelong journey. The world continued around us, but I learned that grief is a quiet companion. It is in the small moments—the empty chair at the table, the quiet hospital rooms, the cap that no longer needs to be removed to stop tears—that his absence is most felt.</p>
<p>Yet, even in sorrow, there is comfort. I tell myself that Sadiq’s courage, his love, and his laughter have left a lasting imprint. The lessons he taught me—about patience, joy, and unconditional love—remain guiding lights in my life. Every time I see a child comforted by a parent, I am reminded of him.</p>
<p>Today, I remember Sadiq not with despair, but with gratitude. The cap that stopped his tears symbolizes so much more than a simple gesture; it is a testament to the bond between father and son, to the small acts of love that shape a life. May Allah grant him eternal peace, and may his memory continue to inspire those who knew him—even for just a moment.</p>
<p>Sanusi Bature Dawakin Tofa is the Director General Media and Spokesperson to Governor Abba Kabir Yusuf.</p>
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