By Abdoulie Mam Njie
In a world that rushes past its reminders, we forget that life itself is only borrowed. Every sunrise is a loan; every breath, a trust waiting to be returned. In this reflection, drawn from a life of service, I explore the mercy hidden in mortality and the truth that one day, the reminder will be us.
Life sends us reminders — a funeral, a song, a silence. In these moments, the soul is called to attention, stripped of illusion, and invited to remember what truly matters. Each reminder tells the same truth: death is certain, but legacy is a choice.
It happened on a dusty Gambian road. My vehicle spun, flipped, and rolled three times. The world turned into dust and noise, metal groaning, glass shattering, and then silence. When it cleared, I was alive — shaken, humbled, and acutely aware that life can change in a heartbeat. That day, death whispered directly to me. It was not merely a warning but a mercy — a reminder that time is never truly ours.
Since then, I have seen many reminders: the funerals of friends, the tears of families, the silence that follows every goodbye. As we grow older, the reminders grow louder — each one a call to reflect, forgive, and live more gently. We walk as if time were infinite, yet every passing day is a silent subtraction. It is in forgetting death that we lose the meaning of life.
But death humbles not only men, it humbles empires. I remember a journey to Blantyre, Malawi, in 1989, for a National Technical Cooperation Assistance Programme workshop with my friend Sola Mahoney. The city declared a holiday for President Hastings Kamuzu Banda’s arrival. The air throbbed with drums and celebration at Kamuzu Stadium, where crowds bowed, heads low and bodies bent, before Banda. Revered. Feared. Obeyed without question. In that moment, his power felt eternal. Yet today, Banda, like all of us, is gone. In his grandeur, I saw the illusion of permanence; in his grave, the truth of time. History reminds us further: Mansa Musa, once the richest man on earth, could not buy a single breath when his time came. The Pharaohs, kings, and conquerors, all now dust beneath the sands. The Qur’an reminds us gently yet firmly: “Wherever you may be, death will overtake you, even if you dwell within towers of lofty construction.” (An-Nisa, 4:78).
And yet, we live as though death will never find us. We fight over land, money, and power. We bury the living with envy and lies long before their bodies touch the soil. Why? Who are we trying to impress? Certainly not Allah, who sees through every mask. In Banda’s shadow, I saw the peril of unchecked power — a mirror for every nation that forgets how fleeting authority is.
Life itself is a trust. The Qur’an reminds us again: “He created death and life to test you as to which of you is best in deed.” (Al-Mulk, 67:2). Our wealth, power, and prestige cannot follow us into the grave. Only our deeds remain.
I have faced death not only in that accident, but in moments that arrived quietly — unexpected turns, close calls, and nights when the distance between breath and eternity felt thin. Some storms passed without announcement; others left marks only I could feel. Beyond my own brushes with mortality came the deeper wounds — the loss of my parents, my son, my sisters, and my friends. I have also seen death up close — the lifeless bodies of students during the April 2000 riots, and the haunting tragedy of the Le Joola ferry disaster. I remember the silence after the shouting, the endless list of names read on the radio. Each encounter was a wound upon the heart — yet also a reminder that life is fragile, fleeting, and sacred.
From private loss to public tragedy, the lesson is the same: life is temporary, and service is sacred. Each departure whispers the same truth — forgive, serve, live with purpose, and leave something good behind.
I first drafted these reflections after attending the funeral of the late Demba Ngaje Ndow, a moment that stirred a deep awareness of how quietly and suddenly the chapters of our lives close. Mr Moussa Bala Gaye himself attended that funeral, and as he was leaving, I fetched his driver and led him to his vehicle, as one would naturally do for a senior colleague, a big brother, and a former boss. There was nothing remarkable about the moment then, yet in hindsight it lingers with meaning. Shortly after, following his passing, and after reading the deeply moving eulogy delivered by Abdoulie Touray, I felt compelled to bring these reflections into the open. Bala’s life and death reaffirmed a truth that runs through faith, history, and service alike: dignity is revealed not in how high one rises, but in how quietly one walks toward the end.
There were other, quieter ways in which Bala revealed his character. I recall one instance during my service when the Minister then overseeing the Ministry of Finance instructed me to write a letter approving a duty waiver for a particular company. My immediate supervisors were not around, and uneasy with the implications, I sought Bala’s guidance. He listened carefully and insisted that before any such letter was issued, I should first send a formal minute to the Minister, clearly stating that the instruction to proceed had come directly from him. Only then, he said, should the letter be released. More than that, he assured me that should the Minister decline to put that instruction on record yet still expect compliance, he would personally defend me at every level. In that moment, Bala did more than give advice; he shielded the institution, protected a junior officer, and demonstrated that true authority lies in standing between power and principle.
I must also record a personal word of gratitude to Pa Lawrence Mendy, who stood as a sincere and dedicated friend and younger brother to Bala. In his constancy, loyalty, and quiet support, he embodied the kind of friendship that does not seek recognition but offers strength when it matters most. Through him, one saw how Bala inspired not only respect but genuine affection and trust across generations. Such bonds remind us that character is often reflected in the company one keeps and the friendships nurtured in silence.
In our own traditions, the Ojeh masquerade once reminded us of this same truth. At a burial play, a long white cloth would be spread upon the ground — pure, silent, eternal. The masquerade would slowly wrap himself within it before disappearing. It was more than ritual, it was a sermon without words. The cloth was the earth, the body, and the shroud all at once — showing that in the end, every life returns to silence. The drums fade. Only memory dances on.
Even music carries this wisdom. Listening to SonaJobarteh’sSaya, one hears both lament and counsel — a mother’s melody teaching her child that to live well is to die prepared. Her strings do not mourn death; they remind us that remembrance is mercy, and memory, worship.
The Prophet Muhammad (peace be upon him) said: “Take advantage of five before five: your youth before old age, your health before sickness, your wealth before poverty, your free time before preoccupation, and your life before death.” Death is certain. The only uncertainty is when. So why waste our brief lives on envy, greed, or hatred? Pulling others down never lifts us higher; it only exposes the rot within.
And time itself testifies: “By time, indeed mankind is in loss, except those who believe and do good works, and encourage truth and patience.” (Al-Asr, 103:1–3).
Every accident, every funeral, every loss is not just pain — it is mercy. A call to wake before it is too late. To forgive before we are forgiven. To plant goodness before we are buried in it. We are tested not by how long we live, but by how well. Serve while you can. Love while you can. Repent before the soil becomes your bed, your pillow, and your blanket.
And so, the reminders will keep coming — until one day, the reminder will be you. When that day arrives, nothing will remain but your deeds. Life is fleeting. Power fades. Wealth vanishes. Only goodness endures.
May our reminders not end in fear but in faith, and may what we leave behind shine like a candle lit for those who come after us.
