TRIBUTE: For Mutalib, My Late Brother, and Other Sickle Cell Warriors By Tahir Ahmad
Last July, I held the hand of my younger brother, Abdul Mutalib Hussein Tahir, as he slipped away—silently, painfully—from a battle he had fought all his life. A battle too many Nigerians know, yet too few truly understand.
It was a cold day in Abeokuta, and another sickle cell crisis had come knocking. But calling it a “crisis” feels like an insult to the agony I watched him endure. His joints screamed.
His spine locked in pain. His body, again, was turning on itself. I sat beside him, massaging the pain away with ointments, whispering comfort I was not sure he could hear, and laughing when he cracked a dry joke—his way of softening our sorrow.
That night, Mutalib lost the fight. But not his dignity. Not his humour. Not his courage. He was only a boy, but one who taught me what bravery really looks like.
The kind that does not wear medals or boast of victory, but shows up daily—on a hospital bed, in the middle of the night, breathing through pain, smiling through suffering.
Today, as the world marks “World Sickle Cell Day”, I write not just to grieve my brother, but to honour him—and the millions like him who carry a pain hidden from view, but not from life.
This year’s theme, “Hope Through Progress: Advancing Sickle Cell Care Globally,” could not be more urgent. Because for families like mine, hope is not a poetic idea. It is a necessity.
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It is what kept Mutalib fighting. It is what keeps countless others from giving up. But hope alone is not enough. We need understanding. We need policy. We need proper care.
Sickle cell is not a curse. It is not divine punishment. It is genetics. Science explains it. Culture, sadly, still shames it. And this shame has consequences. Too many young Nigerians fall in love without asking questions about genotype.
Too many churches and mosques marry couples without proper testing. Too many children are born into lives of pain, simply because someone thought “God will make a way” was enough.
Faith is beautiful, but it should never be used to excuse ignorance. Silence has become deadly. Nigeria bears the world’s highest burden of Sickle Cell Disease. Over 150,000 babies are born with it every year.
Some survive. Many do not. And those who do—our warriors—carry an invisible weight most of us cannot fathom. To everyone reading this: your genotype is not a private detail. It is a civic responsibility.
Know it. Share it. Talk about it. To our leaders: the warriors need more than sympathy. They need access—to healthcare, to early testing, to affordable drugs, to trained doctors, and to policies that protect them.
To the warriors: You are the reason we fight. Your strength is not invisible. It is legendary. You deserve love, care, and a life free from shame. I wish I could still hold my brother’s hand. But I cannot.
What I can do, and what I have done here, is tell his story—not as a tragedy, but as a call to action. Let this World Sickle Cell Day be a turning point. Not just for awareness, but for change. For courage.
For care. And most of all, for those still fighting. In honour of Abdul Mutalib. In honour of all the warriors.
