Dr. Abubakari Sidick Ahmed was a mentor to many.
But to me, he was simply a friend.
A friend I could speak to without rehearsing my fears.
A friend who saw me for who I was.
A friend who rooted for me, passionately yet quietly, to become the best version of myself.
I never had the privilege of being mentored by him directly.
Instead, I was shaped by those he had shaped,
mentored by those he mentored.
And even then, his touch was unmistakable.
His wisdom travelled through them.
They became his hands.
They became his impact.
They became his legacy.
Every Wednesday, he hosted Research & Innovation Agenda on Radio Univers.
And on days when I hosted Campus Exclusive just before his show,
He would walk into the studio with a beaming smile.
A smile that always carried the unspoken words:
“Good job, Klenam. I’m so proud of you.”
Radio Univers held a send-off ceremony for him on the 6th of June, 2025.
Just before his grand entrance into the Great Hall,
I had the rare opportunity to speak with him.
He spoke endlessly—not of himself, but of gratitude,
Of how blessed he was to see people he had mentored over decades
gather to celebrate him in such splendor.
He spoke of the quiet rewards of giving,
Of pouring into people without expecting anything in return.
That was who he was.
A man who gave much and expected little in return.
A man who somehow knew that his work would speak louder than his voice ever could.
A man certain that legacy, when rooted in love, would outlive the body.
Later that night, I had the extraordinary honour of introducing the Guest of Honour.
As I stood at the podium, ready to introduce Prof. Kwesi Yankah,
I looked towards Alhaji.
Written across his face was pride.
Joy.
Approval.
And once again, the smile that said:
“Good job, Klenam. I’m so proud of you.”
In December last year, a colleague was taking photos of me on the road just in front of the School of Communication Studies.
As fate would have it, Alhaji drove by.
He stopped in front of us,
smiling that classic, reassuring smile.
After exchanging pleasantries, I told him I had a special request.
He leaned in, eager to hear.
I told him I wanted a memorable photo with him.
Full of warmth, he said he was on his way to a meeting,
but he promised that the next time he came around, he would let me know.
We would take the photo then.
I held on to that promise,
waiting in hopeful anticipation for that day.
The Friday before he passed, I found myself in the Radio Univers newsroom,
remarking to a colleague that I hadn’t seen Alhaji in a while.
He told me Alhaji was unwell.
And I responded with hope,
the kind that refuses to imagine finality.
“He’ll be fine”, I said. “We’ll see him soon.”
Then came that Monday morning.
I was seated in a lecture when the notification appeared:
“Alhaji of Radio Univers dies aged 63.”
Shock.
Confusion.
Disbelief.
For real?
How?
When?
Why?
The moments that followed that day are too heavy to recount.
Sometimes grief does not need narration.
It only needs silence.
Alhaji,
I have never been so deeply impacted by a man who stood afar but astonishingly so close.
Your smiles always carried the encouragement I didn’t know I needed.
Your presence warmed every room you entered, like sunlight that asked for nothing but gave everything.
I am heartbroken to know you are gone.
But I am comforted—so deeply comforted
by the truth that you never really left.
You live on in the people you believed in.
In the voices you nurtured.
In the paths you quietly redirected.
In the version of me that stands a little taller because you once said:
“Good job, Klenam. I’m so proud of you.”
We never took that photo, Alhaji.
But somehow, you framed yourself forever in my memory—
smiling, proud, luminous.
And that…
that will last a lifetime.
–
Story by Klenam Joachim | univers.ug.edu.gh
