For Danjuma.

I think we all have a Danjuma in our lives.

Someone who comes into your life quietly. He helps with the things that need doing pulling weeds from the ground, washing the car, clearing up around the house, whatever work is available. You pay him, he does his job, and life moves on.

You may not really know where he goes after. You may not know much about his family, his worries, or what his life looks like when he leaves your gate.

But you know him.

You know that when Danjuma says he is coming, he comes. You know you can leave him to do his work without watching over your shoulder. You know he will finish what he came to do and leave without giving you a reason to wonder if something has gone missing.

He was hardworking. Quiet. Dependable.

And somehow, without any grand introduction or important position in your life, he became familiar. Part of the everyday.

Then Danjuma died.

And his death made me notice something about grief how strangely it can arrive and how you can mourn someone whose life you only knew in fragments.

That is a conversation for another day.

But this is for Danjuma.

I hope that wherever you are, you have finally found the rest that life did not always give you here.

I hope you have found peace.

I hope you have found love.

And I hope, after all the work your hands did in this life, you finally get to rest without having to earn it.

Rest well, Danjuma.