You Plan to Return Home.

Friends I Lost, Lessons We Ignore.

Today was a terrifying day.

I woke up to news I did not expect.

I lost a friend.

Umar Adamu Santali.

A car accident.

Innā lillāhi wa innā ilayhi rājiʿūn.

And what shook me was not only the news itself—but the ordinaryness of our last interaction.

I had spoken to him.

Briefly.

April 16.

Nothing dramatic.

Nothing that felt like farewell.

Just a normal exchange.

Not knowing it would be the last.

And that is what death does.

It enters ordinary moments…

and turns them into final ones.

A conversation you thought would happen again—won’t.

A person you assumed was still part of tomorrow—is suddenly part of memory.

And that hurts.

Especially because this is not the first friend I have lost this way.

Yusuf Taha.

Aliyu Abubakar.

Umar Santali.

And others whose names people post until the world moves on and they are quietly forgotten.

But those who knew them do not forget.

And every time this happens, the same thought visits me:

“What if I am next?”

Not in a dramatic way.

In a real way.

Because that is the question death forces on the living.

Not if.

When.

And in what state?

That is the heavier question.

Because sometimes I do not even fear death itself.

I fear meeting it while heedless.

While sinning.

While delaying repentance.

While assuming I still have time.

That thought is frightening.

And maybe it should be.

And let me make something clear here:

I am not saying those friends I mentioned died because of careless driving.

Not at all.

As far as I know, what happened to them was from the decree of Allah — He willed for them to return to Him in that manner.

And we may not even know the full circumstances of how some of these accidents happened.

Perhaps someone was hit.

Perhaps another driver was at fault.

Allah knows.

So this is not me blaming those who passed.

Never.

This is simply a separate warning about a dangerous culture many of us have witnessed.

Because there is another thing that keeps disturbing me.

This culture among some youth— especially the Abuja boys—treating reckless speeding as a flex.

As if danger is masculine.

As if recklessness is style.

As if speed is status.

YARAN TA NEH.

ABUN BA WAYE WA BANE.

This is not a joke.

This is not aesthetics.

People leave home intending to return.

Many of those who died left that morning expecting dinner with their families.

Someone was waiting for them.

Someone expected them back.

And they never came back.

Sit with that.

And to those who drive like invincibility has been written for them—while saying:

“Allah ke tsare wa.”

Yes.

Allah protects.

But do not use tawakkul to excuse recklessness.

If you throw yourself into destruction and harm comes…

do not pretend you played no role.

As I would tell any young man driving 200km/h thinking he cannot be touched:

“Whatever happens, then you caused it.”

Hard words.

But necessary.

Because too many people treat death like something far away.

Especially when young.

As though youth itself is a shield.

It is not.

Ask the graves.

Ask the mothers who buried sons.

Ask those who received “he had an accident” calls.

Ask those who kissed someone goodbye not knowing it was goodbye.

Death does not negotiate with youth.

And this is where the heart softens.

Because beyond the warning about speeding…

this is really about something bigger.

We are all leaving.

Whether through accident.

Illness.

Old age.

Or ways we cannot imagine.

We are all going.

And the tragedy is not merely dying.

The tragedy is living unprepared.

This is why every loss shakes me first with shock…

then with reminder.

Ākhirah.

What have I sent ahead?

What would I wish I had done if I were already in the grave?

Because one can only imagine the wishes of those who have gone before us.

One can only imagine what they would give for another prayer.

Another sajdah.

Another tawbah.

Another chance.

And here we are—still breathing.

Still postponing.

Still distracted.

As though we are owed tomorrow.

We are not.

Imām Ibn al-Jawzī said:

“Look into the state of life which you are currently upon; if it is suitable for death and the grave, then continue upon this way. And if it is not suitable for death and the grave, then repent to Allah from it and return to that which is suitable.”

(Bustān al-Waa’ithen 192/1)

ARE YOU READY?

That question is not poetry.

It is a confrontation.

A pause.

A reminder.

Slow down.

Repent.

Go home safely.

And remember—you may plan to return home.

But death does not ask about your plans.

May Allah have mercy upon Umar Santali, Yusuf Taha, Aliyu Abubakar, Hadiza Black, Hadiza Kollere, and all our Muslim brothers and sisters who have returned to Him.

Āmīn.