Sir Ahmadu Bello, the Sardauna of Sokoto and Premier of Northern Nigeria, was widely revered as a nationalist, a statesman, a visionary. Yet, on January 15, 1966, he was assassinated in a military coup. Just like that—his story was sealed. A legacy, interrupted by the unrelenting force of death.
History has a peculiar way of repeating itself: kings and commoners, saints and sinners, all are eventually swept away by time’s indifferent tide. Death does not discriminate. Every day, good people, bad people, young and old alike, exit the world through illness, accident, violence, or quiet sleep. And no amount of virtue or villainy seems to offer immunity.
Science has tried to explain it. We link long life with quality of life. We search for formulas, for secrets in DNA or diet or geography. Yet none are foolproof. How does one explain the beggar on the street outliving presidents? The child surviving a war while the general dies in peace? Even Buhari, despite long periods of ill health, outlived many who were younger, stronger, and seemingly fitter. Longevity, it seems, is not a reward for good behavior.
Some believe that to live long is a divine blessing, a rare privilege granted to a chosen few. And indeed, many of Nigeria’s former leaders—Babangida, Abdulsalami, Gowon, Obasanjo—have crossed the threshold of 70 and beyond. But to assume there is a moral logic behind their survival is a dangerous comfort. Life doesn’t always reward the righteous, and death doesn’t always punish the wicked.
I’ve seen men of faith—revered clerics and gentle souls—perish in fire, fall in road accidents, or suffer brutal attacks. Their prayers, their goodness, their piety—none of it shielded them. If virtue guaranteed life, the world would be more predictable, but also less profound. The mystery of death is what makes life so fragile, so precious.
So again, I ask: why do we pity the dead?
Do we mourn because they died young? Because we imagine they were snatched too soon from a life worth living? Or do we pity them simply because we are still here, breathing and afraid, projecting our fears onto their silence?
Let me tell you something plainly: pity is not for the dead. Mourning, celebration, eulogies, tears—all these are for the living. The dead are beyond sentiment. The dead are beyond need. Death is not the worst thing that happens to us—it is the most certain.
The dead are our teachers. In their stillness, they remind us of the limits of power, the vanity of pride, the futility of hate. They humble kings, silence tyrants, and equalize all beings. There is no medicine, no army, no money, no plea that can negotiate with death. In its finality, it offers one great gift: perspective.
So when we gather to mourn, to light candles, to bury or burn, we are not doing it for them—we do it for ourselves. To find peace, to make meaning, to confront the terrifying mirror of our own mortality. Even when we dance at funerals, we do so to calm our souls, not theirs.
Whether we honor the dead or desecrate them, they are gone. What remains is the impact of their lives, and the lessons their deaths leave behind. We must not reserve empathy only for saints. Even the worst of criminals—once they are dead—pose no threat. In that moment, we are called not to justify their lives, but to reflect on our own.
Death should not breed hatred. It should not ignite revenge. It should bring clarity, not chaos. It should remind us of our shared fate, our shared fragility. When we treat death with reverence, we remind ourselves how to live—more kindly, more justly, more selflessly.
Because in the end, death is not just a loss for a family or a tribe. It is a reminder to humanity. A signal that one day, we too shall exit, and if we haven’t laid a foundation of love, of dignity, of respect, then even in death, we may leave behind only bitterness.
Pity not the dead. Pity the living, who still have choices to make, wounds to heal, and hearts to mend. Civilization reveals its soul not just in how it lives—but in how it honors the dead. For that honor echoes back to the living, shaping the legacy we’ll leave behind when it is finally our turn to be remembered—or forgotten.
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