Those were the words Yusuf said to me on the night of Mohamed’s funeral. In that moment, they passed me by. I heard them, but I didn’t feel them. Not yet.
But as the days went on, those words began to settle in. Slowly, painfully, they started to break me down piece by piece. And with that came the realization of just how much I am going to miss him — and the true weight of what those words really mean.
For the past six years, the three of us — Mohamed, Yusuf, and I — shared something special. Wednesday nights were ours. No matter what was going on in life, we made time. Sometimes it was supper, sometimes just coffee and dessert, our group grew beiges reuniting all our old friends, but it was never just that. It was consistency, brotherhood, and a space where life felt balanced.
We traveled together at least once a year, and on those trips, I always shared a room with Ahmedie — Every morning, without fail, he would wake me up for Fajr. As a Hafiz of the Qur’an, he would lead the prayer.
He prayed beautifully — with a calmness and depth that stayed with you. Most of the time, all three of us would stand together in prayer. Those moments… they meant more than we probably ever said out loud.
He was the best of us.
Mohamed had a way of keeping us grounded. He kept us on the straight and narrow, not by force, but by example. When life became difficult — and it does for all of us — he was the one who brought comfort. He always reminded us that Allah is in control of everything, that our faith must remain strong, and that help will always come.
What stands out most is that he didn’t just say these things — he lived them. Even in his own moments of hardship and loss, he held onto that faith. He reminded himself before he reminded anyone else. That was the strength of his Imaan.
And yet, alongside that strength, he had the most incredible sense of humor. Quick-witted, sharp, and playful in the most innocent way. He could lift a room without even trying. Being around him just felt good — whether you were young or old, he had a way of drawing people in.
He was the kind of person you wanted to share news with. If something good happened, he celebrated it like it was his own. His hugs were tight, sincere, and full of warmth. And when things weren’t good, he stood even closer — offering reassurance, courage, and perspective.
Beyond our friendship, he was everything a man should strive to be.A devoted husband.A loving father.A dutiful son.
After losing his father a few years ago, Mohamed stepped up in a way that defined who he was. Even before his father passed, he cared for him tirelessly — taking him for treatments, sitting by his bedside, and even taking over his work when he no longer could. And after that loss, he continued to care for his mother with the same devotion and love.
He leaves behind his beautiful family, his wife, his three daughters, and his young son — as well as his mother and brother. A family that he loved deeply and served selflessly.
And now, we are left here, trying to make sense of it all.
I don’t know what to feel. And I speak for both myself and Yusuf when I say that we feel lost without him. He left us so suddenly, without warning, and the space he has left behind cannot be filled.
We can only pray.
We pray that Allah elevates his status in Jannah.We pray that Allah grants his family strength, ease, and protection.And we pray that one day, by Allah’s mercy, we will be reunited again — in a place where there is no loss, no pain, only happiness.
“Our trio is down to two…”
What now?
Your friend and brother, Ebrahim
