Aisha Abba Kyari, eldest daughter of the late Chief of Staff to President Muhammadu Buhari, pens a memorial tribute
Last Thursday marked exactly five years since my world came crashing down–five years since I lost my daddy, my best friend, known to most people as Mallam Abba Kyari but to his friends, simply as AK. And yet, words still fail me. I have been unable to rebuild the world I knew, and truthfully, I no longer try. I’m now quite comfortable in a place of grief because it keeps me connected to him. Anyone who has spent more than 15 minutes with me will tell you I talk about my father all the time, unprovoked, and unapologetically. Whether you want to hear it or not! He’s simply the bar for everything I do. Somehow, I have taken the phrase ‘keeping his name and memory alive’ to another level.
People often ask where my nickname ‘AK’s Daughter’ came from. After daddy passed, I remember the day I broke down in tears while in the presence of some of my best friends. I told them I felt completely stripped, like I had no idea who I was anymore. All my life, I had just been ‘Yar Mallam Abba’ in Hausa and ‘AK’s Daughter’ in English to many people. So, who was I now? A nobody? I asked. One of them paused, looked at me and said, “That is exactly who you are. AK’s Daughter. And what an honour that must be.”
That struck me. And deep down, I knew she was right. Aisha is my name, but ‘AK’s Daughter’ is my title, and I wear it with pride. Daddy was the gift that kept on giving. He gave me, my mum and my three siblings everything we needed. And somehow, he still does. He was a force. A man of quiet power. He didn’t speak often, but when he did, you listened. I inherited that quiet assertiveness from him, the ability to walk into a room and make my presence felt without raising my voice. My father didn’t need to dominate to command. His presence was enough.
For a man who hardly spoke and kept to himself, my God, did he make a huge impact and leave behind an incredible legacy? In a world where noise often passes for influence, he moved mountains silently. His principles, intellect, loyalty and generosity were unmatched. His ethics, wisdom, and quiet dignity were disarming. He wasn’t loud. He wasn’t flashy. But you felt his presence, always.
Loyalty. That word defined him. I recently reread some of the tributes written about him after his passage, both the kind and the not-so-kind ones. Across them all, the word loyal was used 123 times. That can’t be a coincidence. That’s who he was. To his friends and cherished principles, he was fiercely, almost stubbornly, loyal. In today’s world where people are quick to betray, quick to abandon values, and obsessed with self-interest, daddy stood apart. He was deeply rooted in something so rare it felt sacred.
I sometimes wish he could read all that’s been written about him. Even the critical pieces because I know exactly what he’d say: “Don’t worry, Ammi. I wish ill will towards none.” This was always his standard response to me when I shared certain things with him. But I especially wish he had seen the headlines from ‘The Economist’ and ‘The Financial Times’—his two favourite publications, which he always had under his arm. The Economist called him “the man who tried to clean up Nigeria.” The FT described him as a “self-effacing intellectual whose fierce loyalty and attention to detail unsettled his opponents.” If that’s not spot on, I don’t know what is.
My friends often tease that I’m not just an alpha female, I’m an alpha male. And they’re probably right. I was trained by the ultimate alpha. How could I not be stubborn, walk with confidence, question authority, and hold myself to the highest of standards?
After daddy passed, I wrote a tribute that gave people a glimpse into the man behind the white kaftan and red cap. Not the Chief of Staff, but the father, husband, and friend. That piece travelled far beyond what I imagined. Fathers I didn’t even know reached out saying it opened their eyes to the kind of dads they wanted to be. Men who were yet to have children told me that tribute was now their parenting blueprint. For a man of few words, what a ripple effect he had. What a man!
The last five years have been painfully empty without him. Yet overwhelmingly full because of him. My mum, my siblings and I continue to walk-through wide-open doors, doors he smashed down long before we even reached them. We continue to receive love and support, not just from those who knew him, but from those who didn’t. Truly, we inherited all his friends, his entire network and more. What a blessing it is to be his family. Through it all, the bond between my mum, my siblings and I has only deepened. Our mum’s love and quiet strength have been the anchor holding us steady through the grief we all share.
They say grief is the price you pay for love, and we are paying a steep, steep price. But what a privilege to have been loved by a man like that. I write this today not just for us to remember AK, but to pray for him, and to strive to reflect the values he held dear – integrity, loyalty, humility, and service.
One final point, daddy: You will forever be the head of my own cabal!
Aisha Abba Kyari writes from Abuja
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