Mahdi Ahmed

My dad was a man of simplicity and discipline, shaped by over three decades of military service. That discipline wasn’t just a part of his routine; it was who he was, woven into every fiber of his being. If he had to be somewhere, like a hospital for tests or leaving for a trip at 7:00 AM, you could count on him being ready by 6:00 AM sharp, dressed and prepared, as if he were about to march into the most important mission of his life. I’ve inherited that trait, though in a more relaxed form—if I need to be somewhere by 7:00 AM, I’m ready by 6:01 AM. It’s a small nod to the way he lived his life, always a step ahead, always prepared.

He held a special place in his heart for his grandchildren, a deep, quiet love that revealed itself in small, tender gestures. I can still picture those afternoons when he would sit patiently, his fist clenched, waiting for my son, Taqi, to come home from school. The anticipation in his eyes was unmistakable, a mix of excitement and affection. The moment Taqi walked through the door, my dad would call him over, that same clenched fist now outstretched toward him. Taqi, with his curious and trusting nature, would reach out and hold that hand. And when my dad finally opened his fist, there it was—a rolled-up five Rufiya note, a small gift, but one that carried so much meaning for him.

For my dad, giving Taqi, or any of his grandchildren, that little bit of money wasn’t just about the money itself. It was his way of showing love, of feeling connected to his grandchildren in a way that words couldn’t capture. The smile that would light up his face as he handed over that small gift was priceless, a glimpse into the deep joy he found in these simple acts of kindness. And Taqi, being the generous soul that he is, would thank him for that money, never holding onto it too tightly, just as my dad would have wanted. It’s a memory I hold close, a reminder of the quiet, profound ways my dad expressed his love.

Happy birthday, dad. I miss you every day.