By Maryam Idris Bappa
There is a Hausa proverb that says: Ka bawa makwabtaka ya fi ka bawa na nesa. It means that it is better to give to your neighbor than to someone far away; that giving is most effective when it is done with an intimate understanding of people’s way of life and when there is proximity and relevance. The Hausa people value proximity in philanthropy so much that they have a critical idiom for people who would rather give to those far away at the detriment of those closest to them. Such people’s act of giving is described as Inuwar giginya, meaning the “shadow of the palm tree” that benefits not those closest to it but those farthest from it.
In my undergraduate university class at Ahmadu Bello University, Zaria, there were silent but noticeable social divisions among students. There were differences in confidence, academic standing, and socio- economic backgrounds that shaped my colleagues’ attitudes towards group activities. One Ramadhan, my friend, Aisha, proposed a class iftar. A simple gathering that would bring all of us together and dissolve all the divisions. She herself came from a wealthy background, but what defined her was the incredible ease and attentiveness with which she regarded people, which always felt in contrast to my more reserved nature.
During the planning of the proposed class iftar, Aisha moved across these social divisions with ease, weaving all our efforts into an inclusive, participatory philanthropy within the classroom. Students who might ordinarily remain on the margins of group activities were seen getting involved, not because they were compelled, but because the initiative felt open and accessible. Aisha’s influence was central to this dynamic. Her ability to relate across differences meant that participation did not feel like obligation or exclusion, but like shared ownership. She did not simply organize an event; she enabled a form of giving that cut across informal social divisions.
It was from this same relational ease that the idea of a class Iftar took shape again during the following Ramadhan, this time as something Aisha encouraged us to carry forward collectively. What started as a simple initiative to bring the class together beyond academic formalities began to take on a larger shape, with more coordination and contributions. Giving was invited in different forms, and suggestions for the food menu were collectively considered. The openness and informal participation, which created early ownership, formed the bedrock for the formal organization that came after.
As planning progressed into a more defined structure, contributions became more organized across financial, material, and physical involvement. Budget constraints that limited the initial plan to outsource food preparation were mitigated by opting out of catering and instead having female members of the class, myself included, do the cooking collectively.
The end result of the iftar was the preparation and distribution of meals at a nearby mosque. But the process itself carried great significance, too. It revealed to me how collective action is often structured by everyday social relationships and how limitations can be an opportunity for grounded forms of participation. As an architecture student, it is also suggested that design thinking extends beyond physical structures into lived systems of care and coordination shaped by human relationships
The Passing of Aisha Mahmoud Umar
In a twist of fate, the lessons we learned from the class iftar, inspired by my friend Aisha, became a posthumous act of honor that the class continued to perform for our beloved friend.
After graduation, we stayed connected through our class WhatsApp group. It was there that we received the news of Aisha’s successful delivery of a healthy baby boy. The message was met with joy and celebration by all members of the group. But our joy was short-lived as a few hours later, we received news of Aisha’s passing due to complications that arose post-partum.
The shock was indescribable. Two opposing realities had collided in the same moment: life and death, joy and loss. For a while, the group fell into silence, all of us trying to process what had just happened. When the initial wave of grief settled into a quieter mourning, we began to reflect on what could be done in Aisha’s memory. We thought of something that would not only honor her life, but also continue the spirit of giving she embodied.
The Initiation of Sadaqatul Jariyya
In Islam, Sadaqatul Jariyya refers to a form of ongoing charity. It is an act of giving whose rewards continue even after one’s death. It reflects a belief that certain contributions, such as building a mosque, digging a well, supporting knowledge, or raising righteous children, extend beyond a single moment and continue to benefit others over time. In this sense, charity becomes not just an act, but a legacy.
Guided by this understanding, we began to deliberate on what form of Sadaqatul Jariyya we could undertake on Aisha’s behalf. At first, we considered contributing to the completion of a mosque that had already been started but left unfinished. However, as we gathered resources, it became clear that our contributions would not be sufficient to complete the building project. This forced us to reconsider.
Instead of directing our efforts toward distant institutions, we looked closer at our own neighbourhoods. A colleague, Nafisa, reasoned that there are families around us whose struggles we see, but often overlook. Nafisa identified three families within her community that were not the most visibly destitute, but among the most vulnerable. People striving quietly, without drawing attention to their difficulties.
The first house we visited was modest in size. There was a quiet dignity in the way the space was maintained, despite its simplicity. We entered with greetings of Salam alaikum, and a woman responded. She looked at us with curiosity and mild confusion, trying to place who we were. Her eyes moved from our faces to the polythene bags in our hands, unsure of our purpose. Were we visitors? Strangers? Or health officials that regularly come for Pollio Vaccinations?
We greeted her warmly, and she invited us to sit. She was seated on the veranda, with a child lying beside her. It did not take long to notice that the child was unwell. We began by acknowledging the unfamiliarity of our presence. We explained that she might not know us, but that one of us, Nafisa, was her neighbour. We told her about our late friend and classmate, and that we had chosen to visit and offer these items as charity on her behalf. She immediately uttered a prayer for the deceased. As she prayed, I felt a deep stillness and a realization that what we were doing had already begun to carry meaning beyond the physical items we brought.
When we asked about the child, she explained that he had a broken bone and was being treated at home with herbal remedies. We gently asked why they had not gone to the hospital and her response was simple: they could not afford it. As she spoke, she broke into tears. This was no longer an abstract idea of need. It was immediate, visible, and deeply human. And suddenly, what we had brought with us began to feel insufficient. I found myself wishing we had more to give, not out of obligation, but out of a genuine awareness of what was required. It was in that moment that I began to understand the true weight of proximity in giving. When you are close enough to see, to listen, and to feel, generosity is no longer measured by what you plan to give, but by what you realize is needed.
As we approached the second house, I was still carrying the emotional weight of the first. Yet, at the same time, I felt an unexpected desire to experience again the connection, the gratitude, and the meaning we had just encountered. We were received by a man and a woman seated in their courtyard. Like in the first house, there was initial confusion, followed by curiosity. We introduced ourselves, explained our purpose, and waited. Their response was warm and immediate. The man, in particular, expressed profound gratitude, offering prayers for our late friend with an intensity that stayed with me.
At the third house, the atmosphere felt different even before we entered. The compound was larger, less orderly, and carried a visible weight of social strain. We had been told it was a polygamous household, with two wives and many children, and I found myself quietly reflecting on how responsibility and hardship can intersect in complex ways. We were received by one of the wives, and shortly after, the second joined. There was a noticeable alertness in their expressions as they observed the items in our hands. When we explained our purpose, they informed us that their husband was not present and suggested that we could leave the items with them. With multiple households within one family, we felt it would be more appropriate for the head of the household to oversee the distribution, to avoid misunderstanding or unintended quarrels. We politely insisted on waiting. We were led into a room in the compound. It was sparsely furnished, with a worn mattress leaning against the wall, brought down only when needed. The walls were darkened by the the soot from firewood used for cooking, and the floor worn signs of a space well lived in.
As we waited, the children came in one after another, greeting us with curiosity and visible excitement. Eventually, after Maghrib prayers, their husband returned. He greeted us warmly and apologized for the delay. When we explained our presence and why we insisted on waiting, he affirmed that it was the right decision.
There was a quiet relief in that moment, confirming that we had acted with sensitivity to the social dynamics of polygamy. We introduced ourselves properly, and the connection through Nafisa as a neighbor became clearer. Then we began to declare the items and the cash support.
As we spoke, the man broke down in tears. His reaction was unlike anything we had encountered before. It was deeper, heavier, almost as though it carried the weight of accumulated strain. We found ourselves consoling him, even as we were moved. In that moment, the roles of giver and receiver blurred. What I saw was not just lack but the weight of responsibility for a man burdened by the inability to meet his family’s needs, yet still present, still trying. The man reminded me of the men I had seen in public spaces, often silent in their struggles, less visible than women in expressions of need, yet equally affected. After some time, he gathered himself. He offered heartfelt prayers for us, for those who contributed, and for Aisha. We thanked the family and took our leave.
What Proximity Taught Me About Giving
When we returned home, we shared our reports and documentation with the group, completing the process with accountability. On the surface, the project had come to an end. But in reality, something had just begun. What we experienced reshaped my understanding of giving. Charity is often seen as an act defined by intention and completion, but proximity disrupts that simplicity. It reveals that need is layered, contextual, and deeply human.
From a distance, it is easy to question or generalize. But when you step into people’s lives, those assumptions begin to fall away. Proximity does not just make giving more effective; it makes it more honest. It is not only about what is transferred materially, but about what is exchanged emotionally and spiritually. The prayers we received, the trust extended to us, and the dignity with which people received even the smallest support revealed dimensions of philanthropy that cannot be measured.
Most importantly, I realized that such acts do not end in the moment. The meaning and impact continue. In this way, what we set out to do for Aisha did not end with our visit. It lives on, in the prayers of those we met, in the lives touched, and in the understanding we carried forward.