In the name of Allah, the Most Gracious, the Most Merciful.
TODAY, my world stands still. My heart is heavy. The sun has set on an era of grace, wisdom, and profound kindness. My grandfather – our grandfather, our patriarch, the towering tree under whose shade generations found peace —Alhaji Aminu Dantata—has returned to Allah.
Baban Mamah, as we fondly called him, was more than just a billionaire philanthropist, more than the icon the world knew – he was my grandfather, my father, my counsellor, my friend, my first call every morning. He was my safe place, my source of wisdom and warmth.
To me, he was everything.
From the moment my dear mother – his beloved niece and favourite – passed away, Baban Mamah stepped into every gap, filled every void, and carried every burden with selfless love. He didn’t just care for us; he raised us. He nurtured us with the same love, attention, and discipline he gave his biological children. Never once did we feel like anything less. In his eyes, we were his children – no question, no condition.
He sponsored my education from the very beginning through university, not as a favour, but as his duty. He took me around the world – Dubai, London, Malaysia, and of course Saudi Arabia, which became a second home because of his enduring love for the city of the Prophet (SAW). On every journey, his priority was not luxury for himself but comfort for us. He gave us the best life had to offer and taught us humility and generosity alongside.
In the silence of early mornings, our routine was sacred. His call would come at 6 a.m. sharp, and we would meet quietly between 7 and 9 a.m., just to talk—about family, faith, community, and often just to laugh. These weren’t just conversations. They were life lessons. I will miss those dawn meetings more than words can ever say.
Even in grief, his heart was unshakeable. When my sister Umma was battling cancer, I saw my grandfather weep like a child. He was the most broken, the most anxious, the most loving. And he did everything possible to ensure she received the best care. That’s who he was – a lion with a soft heart, a man whose empathy could melt the hardest soul.
When I told him about my diabetes, he joked as only he could, “Your husband should handle that.” I laughed and told him, “But Baba, we are all your responsibility.” And he simply smiled, as he always did when love disguised itself in responsibility.
I remember the time my grandmother reported me for something I had done. He called me in and said just one sentence: “Your mother was never reported for anything. It is the love I had for her that I transferred to you and your siblings. Please leave.” That was it. No harsh words, no anger—just love and quiet correction. That was the Dantata way.
There was a time I withdrew from our meetings, hurt by a decision he made. Yet, without any confrontation, he sponsored my trip to Saudi Arabia. I bumped into him at the hotel elevator. He looked at me, smiled, and said “Madiga”, the nickname only he used for me. That one word melted every distance between us. That was the Dantata way.
His support for my NGO was monumental, yet he insisted it be silent. “Do good, but don’t announce it,” he often said. About 70% of our donations came from him and Dangote Foundation—money that paid hospital bills, built homes, empowered families. He believed in giving without noise, healing without praise, building without credit. That was the Dantata way.
Even in his final wishes, he remained faithful. He longed to be buried in Madina, the city of Rasulullah (SAW), which he loved with an unmatched passion. Allah honoured that wish. He passed away in Abu Dhabi, but his body rests today in Madina—the resting place of the righteous. What a noble ending for a noble soul.
He wanted the same for his beloved sister. Plans were made for her to be airlifted to Madina, but Allah had a different plan then. Today, though, Allah fulfilled Baba’s own longing—a mercy we can never thank Him enough for.
Baba, you were our compass, our leader, our physician, our bridge to the past, and our guide to the future. You were the pillar on which this family leaned. Without you, everything feels different. Empty. Still.
But we are grateful.
Grateful to Allah for blessing us with you for 94 impactful, purpose-filled years. Grateful that we were yours, and you were ours. Grateful that your life touched millions and that your legacy is woven into the fabric of time.
May Allah, in His Infinite Mercy, forgive your shortcomings, accept your sacrifices, and admit you into Aljannatul Firdaus. May the light of your good deeds never dim, and may we, your children and grandchildren, live to honour your name with our actions and our hearts.
Sleep well, Baban Mamah.
You are gone from our sight, but never from our hearts.
- Nana Gwadabe a journalist based in Kano, is Late Dantala’s granddaughter and a member of Nigerian Guild of Editors.