Aquinas 'perceptions': ‘Wicked’ Mary Boat vs. the lovely one I encountered

Perception is something that people form about you, whether true or otherwise. It is that concept that you can control and yet cannot control. It’s more often than not outside your control when others impose – directly/indirectly, their views about you on others.

One of the biggest sufferers of ‘perception imposition,’ are first-year students any and everywhere. As far back as in 2000 when I stepped foot into Aquinas Senior Secondary School, there were a number of strong homemade perceptions.

That the head at the time Fr. Bacha was cruel. That even more than him, his first assistant Madam Mary Boateng was even more ‘deadly,’ among others that she masterminded most highhanded decisions in administration.

In fact, word had it that she was a ‘Mari Gyata,’ expression for a cantankerous ‘don’t bring yourself’ kind of woman. You’d hardly hear her real name in the corridors, it was ‘mari gyata’ or Mary Boat.

Another strong perception in my time was that ‘free flash’ was heavenly. It was no secret that our toilets were choked but squatting with one’s feet on either side of the big gutter and doing your thing into the flowing waters was nice and easy. Don’t ask me if I did use it.

So there were teachers who seniors made us believe where uncomparable in the subject areas, there were the lazy set, there were those that’d do everything possible to ensure you attend their extra classes etc. etc. all these positions were purely perception based for us first years’.

In my case with Madam Mary Boateng, three instances and one perception post – completion convinced me beyond doubt that there is a reality beyond perception and everyone must work to test perceptions or give others the full benefit of the doubt.

In my first year, I happened to have fallen off a bike and gone unconscious. Kwame Asante and I had helped a senior fix his bike and he offered us rides. I remember starting to ride but woke up on a desk with soiled white shirt with my cousin and others seated around.

How Mary Boateng came into the picture I don’t know but it was in her car that my cousin and I sat till the Achimota overhead – she continued to her Kwashieman residence while the two of us joined a car to Israel in New Achimota.

Fr. Batsa days to our 50th anniversary punished a group of us for overstaying in school but instead of learning opted to disturb – to us we were only releasing stress. We were to dig a trench inbetween the administration and the main form two block.

After all the hustle, Alfred Dorvlo and I were literally fooled by Kenneth Kudowu to fling each others bag into a nearby pond. Kenneth would laugh so loud (maybe at our folly), Fr. Batsa will call to ask why. Eventually the three of us are handed to Madam Mary Boateng.

Now watch this; as it was a Friday I believe, she asked that we bring your bags into her office and dry our books around. Implication, go home without our bags. Report back on Monday for the next steps. There are a few other times I’d felt so stupid in my life.

We were back on Monday, stayed at her office as colleagues studied until the verdict was out. Turn the soil in front of admin block and water the flower beds for the day. Job done, we got back our bags luckily enough no school books were adversely affected.

As someone who use the Achimota route on my way to school, I can recall at least Mary Boateng picking me twice to school along with others. And on two occasions she ‘arrested’ me for lateness and tasked me to mop her office and quickly join my colleagues in class.

It is true that you’d hardly be able to decipher what was on her mind. Her disposition is like that of Italian football great, Andrea Pirlo. The two have indifferent postures but their moves are pure delight.

In our final year (2003) she became substantive head of Armed Forces Senior Technical School, a school I’m familiar with having attended Burma Camp Basic School. At the time we called it Bucass – Burma Camp Secondary School I guess.

Overnight, the uniform I had known over my over 9 years in Burma Camp changed. There was some fresh aura around the students when you met them. Then a close friend told of how the Mary Boateng revolution had repositioned the school in all respects.

Well, for me the evolution from a ‘wicked’ soul to that level-headed, loving mother had long been ingrained in my mind. I have since taken perceptions on face-value and have worked to know the real worth of people – whoever, wherever and whenever I encounter them.

Advice to myself: impressions about who you are will by default be formed by others. Strive to be known for the right reasons, that is the part of perceptions you can influence. In any case, some people will never see any good in you. I saw way too much good in the personality and humane nationality of Madam Mary Boateng, the late.  

‘Noisy’ church (es) closed but what about the mosques, or?

The most recent case was in the Ashanti region when a regional minister caused the police to close a church whose noise levels had exceeded ‘permissible limits.’ The action had pitted political/police power against divine power. It’s not my place to declare a winner.

So a Christian caused the closure of a place of worship. ‘Caused’ for emphasis because he reported to the police who then took action on the basis of his complaint. The head pastor briefly detained and later released, thank God for our type of ‘rule of law.’

But whiles on rule of law, let’s not be detracted that the minister had obstructed the rule of (the) Lord. The church members who upped their voices after the initial complaint may have been busy interceding and breaking principalities before Mr. Minister barged in.

So it made the news headlines and the radio stations reopened for the umpteenth time the long flogged talk about how Ghanaians suffered noise pollution as laws and bylaws sat in legislations that taxpayers’ money was spent to promulgate. Me I tire seff.

Soon as the noise debate is resurrected people begin to point out at other noise providers and very often because it is the church that is a victim, you get the line that let’s not forget the Muslims also disturb with the dawn call to prayer.

It is true, very true; but it is rare to hear that a mosque has been closed anywhere in Ghana. That won’t happen in a long while all things being equal. That call (Azaan) in lexical Arabic simply means announcement. It’s just that, a call to prayer.

In context of the Muslim prayer, it is a reminder or notice to the Muslim that the time for prayer is close. The adherent is thus supposed to get ready for the particular prayer as in perform ablution and get to the mosque if they can.

So we pray five times a day at dawn, midday, late afternoon, sunset and an hour after sunset. Except for the dawn prayer, all the four others are not of too much headache. For even the dawn call, the call would barely last five minutes.

The prayer proper (salat) is a well planned and gently undertaken process that cannot produce the kind of sounds that the law will frown upon. We cannot compare that to the continuous rumble and tumble of melodious praise and worship.

Hallelujah! Throw in the elements of ministration and of tongues, spice it all up with sustained clapping of hands, stamping of feet, clanging of equipment that produces shrill sounds and tunes, is that not where the issue of noise then comes from?

Indeed for a Muslim who really wants to get to the mosque to pray, there are several measures one can put in place, majority of us have Azaan software on our phones, in effect even without the call to prayer, a Muslim serious about prayer will still be reasonably okay.

As above alluded to, another church is bound to be closed if the laws are not enforced. Mind you Islam teaches us Muslims that your mode of worship should not derange another person, whoever they are.

The Muslim call to prayer has even survived ban on drumming and singing in no mean a place as the heart of the Ga kingdom. It is because it operates within a milieu of social interest and communal integrity.

In fact, set aside the whole mosque noise argument. Check the calibre of churches that are caught in this noise pollution thingy, never the Roman Catholic, the Presbyterian, the Methodist and others like those.

So next time talk of mosques meet churches in the arena of noise and facility closure, be rest assured that the mosques have mastered the art of being diligent long before today – way back in the time of our beloved prophet, Mohammed (SAW). 1439 odd years back. Allahu Akbar! 

"Mama, my heart!" Boom to my childhood terrorist called ‘Mom’

A few words from my native kotokoli language to start with. Zeebi (dirty), chorti (wash), keeli (wash carelessly), masiti (beating) and sheege (idiot!) The fight for domestic independence started very early in life for me – don’t know about my five other siblings.

Hajia Fati Idriss daughter of Kumasi based Alhaji Kenyasi (may Allah have mercy on his soul) taught me what it meant to be a terrorist long before the West labeled Al-Qaeda, Al-Shabaab, Taliban, Hezbollah and Boko Haram as terrorist groups.

They were terrorist groups but for me, there was a terrorist soup – of course, prepared by a terrorist. It was usually a weekend drill at a time when you have played football in the gutters and the rocky stretch in front of our house at Accra New Town.

Hajia Fati: Your clothes are zeebi (dirty), come and chorti (wash) them. If you keeli (wash them anyhow) you’ll receive masiti (beating), do not be a sheege (idiot).

Rules of laundary engagement – Hajia Fati style: You wash three times in soapy water then rinse in warm water. Turn clothes inside out and place on the dry line. Any funny moves, you’ll start all over.

Truth is whenever I started washing so many of ‘my’ clothes I get very unusual palpitations. So I usually submit a humble appeal that my heart was acting up. The usual verbal complaint was ‘Mama, my heart! Mama, my heart!’

Can you believe even in my days of independence – now that I can pay people to save myself palpitations, Hajia Fati finds it convenient and a matter of mockery telling me about my ‘Mama, my heart!’ days?

Mind you, back in the day I’d get a stern warning to warn my heart same or in worse cases a hefty slap for reporting a biological incident for which I was worried. Even when I opted to finish washing before she returned from market, this woman came to inspect the output.

A young me always wondered: This is not a shirt or trouser you’ll wear, even maybe it is not you who bought it for me, so why the stressed stress. An older me insults the idiotic young me, foolish boy, you want people to target Hajia Fati through you eh?

But seriously if your mom cannot be proud of who and what you are – even you yourself have lost that right to be proud. I, however, maintain the terrorist status of Hajia Fati (no going back), if Allah grants us long life – I’d enroll them kids in her terror training school. Boom!!!

Aquinas boys and commute hustle: Danquah, 37, Circle, Tema station etc.

St. Thomas Aquinas Senior Secondary School – that was the name when I was a student. We belonged to the ‘High’ strata long before the ‘Senior High School’ thingy. Yes, we did and we got zero explanations for that.

We strategically call ourselves a ‘boys day school’ but many boys were actually full-time boarding students who travelled the length and breadth of Ghana to reap the benefits of belonging to the fraternity.

I schooled in the days when Father Batsa (bless him) ruled that you are either in at 7:30 am or remain out for the day. That rule forced me to use the "illegal route" for the first of two occasions. Could not miss Senyo Damali’s Core Maths test on surds. Eventually I failed that paper.

On another day the 7:30 am rule caught me but there was a complication. I’d been spotted by WO – the security chief. If I entered and he saw me, it means I used an illegal entry point. WO at the time will ‘chook’ you for all it’s worth. Dull boy, I went home and cried.

To cut a long story short, the hustle to get to school on time thrusts into limelight the hustle that boys go through in different parts of Accra to get to school – to have an education. Headache, the school was in a residential part of town.

Long before Osu trotro started plying the route ‘limited’ number of boys picked the expensive taxis at 37 station or opt for the usual – walk through a gutter to Italian Embassy and pass the Switchback road estates.

Those that connected via Nkrumah Circle will drop at Danquah Circle and begin the walk in front of or through the prisons offices and residential complex. Most of those that went through were chasing early morning waakye or kenkey.

Two groups of commuting students were privileged to say the least. Those that connected from Accra Tema Station and from Achimota station. The Tema Station car had Aquinas as its bus stop. It was a kingly ride for a friend of mine like Kwame Asante – a.k.a. B Banku.

Then the Labadi cars at Achimota also passed right in front of the school and so those who came from New Achimota, Nsawam, Ofankor and other outskirts of Accra were that fortunate.

And how can I forget, I cannot and would not. That some of the Nima and Mamobi folks crossed Kanda and used CIA and FBI routes to arrive at Cantonments. Those hustlers of Osu and Labadi also did same. Vintage survivors, yeah?

And of course what were you thinking, that none of us came with private cars. We get plenty such. Those that lived behind the school but were dropped in flashy air-conditioned, washed cars. Those guys were nice eh, they’ll even pick a sweaty dude galleying his way in.

We were that family that came to love and appreciate each other for who each one was. The rich kids, the poor guys, the sandals wearers and the foot slayers. The sticking point is when it came to studies – all of that was left outside the door.

But is that really not the essence of this life? That when you put in the right type and amount of effort into something – many other considerations do not matter. At the heart of being a student was studies – but we learnt ‘so much more’ (like DSTv) during our time in Aquinas. 

Aquinas in ‘Temple Run’ mode: Illegal route, prisons, wall jumps

Location: Google play store or iOS store, that’s where you can find the ‘Temple Run’ application. Remember I said Aquinas was life in the fast lane and a place for hard knocks? Yeah, at Aquinas you had to be constantly on the move.

In temple run, if you stop, you are toast. In Aquinas even if you decided to misbehave, you had to be consistent with it. Being lax was at no point an option. You run from the blast of whistle through your period there. Tough terrain shine or rain, but we made it!

This was a school that had an illegal route that incidentally was directly opposite ‘prisons.’ If you opted for that option, you just had to come out of prisons and take the illegal route or take the route and enter prisons.

Prisons, in this case, being the residential and office complex of the Ghana Prisons Service. The waakye joint in their market and their basketball court is another story for another day but surely a story that needs to be told.

Petit confession: I was too ‘correct’ to jump walls, maybe not that but that I was too cautious a ‘fearooo’ to get myself entangled in voluntary nonsense. But many boys had mastered the art and skill of jumping walls into and out of the school.

And then there were the days of ‘hide and seek’ with teachers within the parameters of the school. I remember when Father Batsa once effected an arrest with his vehicle. That man was not only religiously savvy he had almost perfected ‘busting’ boys.

He drove into a number of students and guess what, he managed to drive them back to campus. They walked gallantly in front of his car as he brought them back to the godly precincts from their ungodly sojourn.

He, however, admitted at one assembly session that he had lost his race speed of years back. Relating to us how he thought he had arrested some boys only for them to indirectly say to him ‘catch us if you can,’ boys just run off.

It was in my lifetime as student that Aquinas hired a retired soldier ‘WO’ as security chief. The lanky man was smart, oh yes, he was if not smarter. But boys did prove beyond doubt that they – or do I say we – were the smartest.

The relationship turned out to be a match made in heaven but before WO and his lieutenants could savor one of their rare victories, boys would have cooked a fresh broth of headache and hustle. It was their professional duty but boys didn’t shirk our ‘creative’ capacities as well.

But at every point when we look back, there are a set of people that impacted on us but would hardly be mentioned. The two bus drivers – boneshaker and resource bus, the food vendors at the bush canteen – Ayi ny3 and Auntie Maggie.

And oh ‘Amaliya’ – that old woman who sold bananas, corn and groundnuts under the big tree. The ‘sell out’ vendors at the school canteen, the waiters at the snack bar, the caretaker of the animal farm. The cleaners of the washrooms amongst others. 

With humility and steadfastness we tread the footsteps of our patron saint.
Aquinas, St. Aquinas, from victory to victory, from victory to victorrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrry!!! – Fathers Batsa and Ben Ohene will understand.

God is NOT an old tom, 'heaven' has never been at Cantonments

Me eh, I believe blasphemy more that science and logic was behind our 2017 Science and Maths Quiz loss to Prempeh College – at a time when we were coasting then ‘God is an Old Tom’ surfaced. I haven’t and won’t understand how that was, is or will be – never!

So eventually we lost, but those two boys and whoever played a role in their exploits MUST 100% be proud of them. If for nothing at all, they beat Kaneshie High Spoof boys (Accra Archaic) I mean and ‘sentenced’ Presec Legon to go play with Lego bricks.

I can’t talk for everyone – in fact that’d be too much work even for a lazy writer like me. But life in St. Thomas Aquinas was defined within two contexts – it was life in the ‘fast lane’ and a school for ‘hard knocks’ – these are my views, I haven’t asked for yours.

Eventually, we would come up with classifications like D-bee (pampered boys), hard core (tough guys), fearoo (easily intimidated boys) – truth be told I proudly belonged to this bloc, then there were chookers (sell out gang) amongt others. I dare say, however, that every Aquinas boy at a time or the other landed in some headache.

Whether in their individual capacity or when a group decided to smear ‘em with some mud. I witnessed how a school prefect at the time (Charles Torgbor – 2000) and his mates were made to carry cement blocks by Father Batsa. School prefect ooooo but he carry the distin some ….

That day eh, science one and science two boys forgot about all the heat that our classes generated and gave Togbor and co the mockery of their lives. If it were today, photos and videos of the ‘manual seniors’ would have been roaming whatsapp and other platforms.

Weeding, kneeling down in the sun, watering plants across the school field courtesy Larloku, watering plants in front of the administration block etc were are military engagements that boys had to endure for a reason or the other.

Me, all I’m saying is that Cantonment’s was not a heaven, no where near it. When did God come through aaaa and then became an Old Tom, I mean how and when did that happen. When school pee transports blocks and God can’t intervene, oh naaa.

We didn’t and no one walks into those walls to get trouble but someway somehow the system managed to knacker you so nice when you look back, you cannot but admit that it was all for the better – aucun doubte (no doubt!)

And oh ‘God is an Old Tom,’ reminds me of English class – of Madam Nelly with all her adjectival clauses and phrases and figures of speech. Did I hear defenders of the sacrilegious statement calling (God is an Old Tom) a figure of speech?

Beeb3 – ‘There’s no time’ to delve into the nitty-gritty and the to iron out the fine details of what clearly is a hanky-panky if you want jiggery-pockery of a claim. I repeat insofar as Cantonments was not heaven, God is not, was not, will not be an Old Tom.

Point of note: God was always with Aquinas boys as we walked amid EMIT boys at Interco, as we miraculously qualified for some Super Zonals and last year when ‘protractor’ ensured our progression in the Science and Maths Quiz. Me, Hajia Fati’s son – I’m an Old Tom!

A Muslim-Roman Catholic and my ‘holy’ days at St. Thomas Aquinas

‘Hail Mary full of grace, our Lord is with you. Blessed are you amongst women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb Jesus, holy Mary – mother of God, pray for us sinners now until the hour of our death. Amen.’

It did not take me too long to memorize the above prayer because it was at the heart of our daily devotion in St. Thomas Aquinas Secondary School. I’d just joined in 2000 from Burma Camp Basic School. Felt like leaving the barracks for church – in my case ‘Vatican Annex.’

Aquinas was my second choice – don’t bother about the other two, the reality is; all three were Christian schools. By implication, the makaranta (Islamic school) attending son of Hajia Fati was surely going to wind up with pastors – in Aquinas, they were priests – did I hear you say Roman Fathers?

On the occasion of 50th-anniversary celebrations in 2002. We were there some - Science 3 class a.k.a Agric

On my first day I saw a white-robed man on the compound, I muttered to myself ‘wow, so there are Imams in this school,’ it did not take me too long to know the particular man was Father Batsa – the then headmaster, a boss player in every respect.

Mass was a big deal for two reasons – everyone had to attend irrespective of name, age, sex, status, religious persuasion etc. the other reason was even more thrilling, it was more often than not a ‘no – school’ day right after mass.

To wrap up on my first day before entering ‘mass’ let me recap how all first years’ had to wear nominal identification tags – crudely referred to as ‘dog chains.’

You wear it on entry into the compound and it’s the last thing you remove outside the gate. The cardboard tags bore your name and course of study – crazy tradition that I think must NEVER be allowed to go!

Back to mass, the major components of which were singing hymnals thanks to Torgbor’s projector and ‘professional’ conducting, there was the singing, sitting, standing and kneeling stages. There was the praise and dance bit, collection and taking of ‘bread and wine.’

Except for the ‘bread and wine,’ I had zero qualms fully participating in the other processes. At least not till a teacher at makaranta said I should refrain. Simple reason, my presence was enough and no one chastises you for not being ‘active.’

Then on, I substituted ‘Hail Mary’ with Faatiha – the opening chapter of the Quran or prayer unto the prophet. I still paid collection sung hymns, clapped and kneeled. Some of us had joined Aquinas knowing well that we had to respect the ‘minimum’ rules.

For a school that many would have thought was going to impose Roman Catholic teachings, guess what, mass was the only BIG difference. In the first year we had a course – Religious Knowledge (RK) and it was the essence of its name.

It was via notes by our tutor Brother Pius Dogodzi (bless him) that I first got to know about the Islamic Schools of Thought – Maliki, Hanafi, Hanbali and Shafi’i. Again it was from him that I learnt about some major Islamic sects. Now, that’s what’s up!

As Muslims, we had a prayer place – close to the biggest gutter, nestled in a bush, few meters from the incinerator and the urinal block. It was not cemented and we failed to secure permission to make it more comfortable despite Metro TV’s preparedness to help out.

It’d have been tough navigating if we had been a few Muslims but the community known as the Aquinas Muslim Students Association (AMSA) was a fairly big one of which I served as secretary in my final year – one of my proudest achievements within the walls of that school.

Aquinas gave me an education – but that one seff my parents paid so no hustle. But it also left me with a sense of respect. Despite our motto – Veritas Liberat (The Truth Shall Set You Free), most boys were professional lairs especially in the letters they wrote to girls.

And mind you, we lost a sizeable amount of contact hours because of noise from aeroplanes that flew past a number of times daily. But with all that loss, we have ALWAYS risen to the academic pedestal and hosited with pride our accomplishments.

We are going back to Cantonments, where lives were moulded. Where we fine-tuned our gentleman-ness, where we cooked trouble and served the headache on teachers and of course where we have our names written boldly as former students – OLD TOMS!

Next blog: "God is NOT an old tom, Cantonments was not heaven." still writing it ..... 

Disclaimer: Searched but didn't find the unedited photo, me - am the faceless man standing

The Rainbow, 'ROYGBIV' and Trump's Twitter 'thumped'

Another week drawing down, the previous ended with a visit to nature - I enjoyed walking the sands of the Wharf beach (Congo, Pointe Noire) doing two things - reflecting on any and everything and at a point settling on a 'parked' canoe to read. Felt good, was all fun.

Tell you what was more fun barely 24 hours later, for the first time in a long while had the joy of seeing a rainbow. Yup, a coloured sky as nature lit the usually whitish and ashy or is it grey skies.

T'was after the day's work this Monday as I headed home, a head lift and I wowed at the colour mix in the distance. Of my exclamations: "Allah Akbar, Mashaa Allah, Subhaanal Laah," words of praise to the creator of the weather, the Lord and master of the rainbow and the rains that had fallen earlier.

Throwback to high school days when man had to memorize the colours of the rainbow in a particular order. That was when I gave birth to the acronym "ROYGBIV." ROYGBIV = Red - Orange - Yellow - Green - Blue - Indigo - Violet.

Spent better part of that night laughing to myself about ROYGBIV whenever I flipped my phone gallery looking at the photos I'd captured of the 'moment'

Now to social media issues. microblogging site Twitter this week doubled its character limit which formerly stood at 140. They, however, made headlines after Donald Trump's account was temporarily suspended.

Here was the reason they gave: "Earlier today @realdonaldtrump’s account was inadvertently deactivated due to human error by a Twitter employee. The account was down for 11 minutes, and has since been restored. We are continuing to investigate and are taking steps to prevent this from happening again."  

Now, this is the social media some people can't do without. Yet, it technically is in the hands of some people who could "black you out" without hustle. See, even whatsapp had challenges earlier this week. For me, it's a signal to chill out with this whole social media thing.

It should perhaps spur us on to question ourselves over our deeds and the time we spend on social media. What will become of all the things you did because of social media if today, the platforms don't exist?

Maybe we should learn to live off it at least once in a while. Switch off the data, if you can; employ the extreme measure of deleting the apps. Slide back into the days of phone calls and person - to - person chat. It's refreshing, trust me.

Thanks as always for reading my mind. I'd be back next week - insha Allah. May HE keep and bless us all. Aameen.

Normal death, ‘abnormal’ death prayer plus normal ambulance

T’was one of those days when I managed to get to the mosque in time for the statutory post-midday prayer. Typical Monday and I was working on my preferred afternoon shift despite having to close at midnight.

A major indicator of a ‘death’ at the Sunnah Mosque of Pointe Noire, Republic of Congo is of the ambulance/hearse being parked in front of the mosque.

‘Wai Allah! Someone has died,’ I muttered to myself. Effectively, we had two prayers to offer. One being the statutory version called Dhuhr and then the other for the deceased fellow – the Janaa-izah.

There, our ambulance

As I entered the mosque I looked at a room where the deceased is usually deposited, it is located at the back of the mosque. I saw people gathered there and inferred that they were fellas of the departed waiting to carry him to the front for the ‘last respect.’

I was wrong. So wrong. When we finished the statutory prayer – may Allah accept it from us. The usual announcement was made. It was not the death of so and so. It was of a father who had asked for prayers for his four-year-old son.

Then it was time to sink in properly. A pictorial summary of proceedings: one man walked into the Imam’s office and appeared with a shrouded body of the little man. That single image lives on in my head and heart.

Ordinarily, the deceased is fetched from the room behind the mosque with a minimum of six men carrying it to the front and out after the prayer is offered. In the case of Mohammadu Traore, the same man carried him off after the prayer.

He died on Monday morning (October 30, 2017) so we were told and his father Seidou prepared the young man to be deposited later that afternoon. I could feel for his dad and mom, his family even friends.

I have joined about a score of Janaa-izah since arriving in Congo in February 2016. This was the second youngster to pass on. In the case of the first boy, his dad was absolutely inconsolable. Who would be seeing that young man of his being carried off lifeless?

But such is the reality of the lives we continue to live. Mohammadu came close to November but spent it elsewhere. I pray he is admitted into the school of prophet Ibrahim and that Allah grants his parents patience and the blessings of being patient. Ameen.

Tick – tock, tick – tock, man is not but a collection of time. Yes, we know how much of it is spent but know not how much of it is ahead of us. May Allah have mercy on the soul of all our departed – my dad Abdur Rahim Shaban and all others. Ameeen.

Photo from the last time that I joined the burial of one brother - may Allah have mercy on his soul. Ameen