MADULU MOHAMED WAHEED: THE LAST VERSE OF A GUARDIAN
This morning—April 14, 2025—the final chapter of a remarkable book closed.
My dear friend, Madulu Mohamed Waheed, passed away at the age of 77, while seeking treatment for his illness.
He was no ordinary man—he was a living manuscript.
A towering volume in the library of Maldivian literature and journalism.
His words did more than fill pages—they stirred thought, preserved culture, and gave breath to Dhivehi language.
He was not merely a writer. He was the binding that held our language together.
In 2019, he was awarded the National Award of Honor—a bookmark in a career richly underlined by purpose.
As Special Envoy of the Dhivehi Academy, he wrote till the ink ran dry.
His dedication? Unmatched. His margin notes? Timeless.
But there’s a personal grief scribbled in the margins of my heart.
He used to call some mornings and say, “Free for breakfast?”
It was never just about eating—it was about the chapters we were both writing.
About the drafts, the rewrites, the plots half-formed in our minds.
He’d help me find the right phrase, the perfect form, the word that unlocked a scene.
And when he published something new, he placed a copy in my hands.
Weeks before illness stole his final sentences, he said to me: “Let’s meet for another breakfast soon.”
We never turned that page.
And after my father passed, I found myself in one of those breakfasts—lost.
I spilled my sorrow on the table like ink.
He didn’t edit my grief.
He told me stories— verses about my father I had never read.
He reminded me that no one truly disappears from the book of life, as long as someone remembers their chapter.
Today, I feel the same ache.
Another book I cherished has closed.
But some books never really end.
They sit on our shelves—dog-eared, beloved, often revisited.
Rest now, my dearest friend.
The nation mourns.
I mourn.
And somewhere, in the silence between sentences— your voice will still turn the page.
Thank you for every word.
Rest in peace.
Mahdi Ahmed 
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