On the early morning of Thursday, 27 February 2025, my wife, Shukri, called me with heartbreaking news: my beloved sister, Fowsiya Abdullahi Hussein, had passed away just moments before. At the time, I was in Nairobi, far from Mogadishu, where she took her last breath. The news overwhelmed me with grief. As I turned on my internet, I saw numerous missed calls from my mother and siblings. The painful reality set in—I had to plan her burial alongside other family members in Mogadishu. That same day, we laid her to rest.

Foos was only 37 years old—just one year older than me. Her passing came far too soon. For many years, she battled illness, and recently, we discovered she had breast cancer. After undergoing an initially successful surgery, the cancer returned without her knowledge and spread to other parts of her body.

Her health took a sudden turn for the worse when she began vomiting and was admitted to the hospital. When I visited her, I reviewed her diagnostic reports and spoke with her about the pain she was experiencing. I sensed that the cancer had returned and that her condition was grave. The lack of adequate cancer treatment facilities in Mogadishu added to our pain and helplessness. I searched tirelessly for oncologists and treatment options, but resources for cancer care—both specialists and diagnostic technologies—were scarce. For instance, we could not find a PET-CT scan, which had been recommended.

I had to travel to Nairobi for a week of meetings and work while her condition was relatively stable. Before leaving, I asked my nephew, Mohamed Adam, to stay by her side and monitor her condition. Tragically, her health deteriorated further while I was away. After several days at home, we admitted her to another hospital with better facilities. New tests revealed that the cancer had spread to multiple parts of her body. An oncologist at another hospital we consulted with recommended chemotherapy, but before we could proceed with treatment, Foos passed away on 27 February—even before we had the chance to fully share the extent of her condition with our family.

Foos’s struggles with illness began years ago. In 2007, after she married and moved to Addis Ababa, she fell seriously ill. We sent my brother, Ahmedweli, to bring her back home. At the time, I was a secondary school student in Beledweyne. When they arrived, I was devastated to see her condition. She recognized me and called my name, but she seemed disoriented. I showed her pictures, asking her to name them, but she couldn’t. The pain of seeing my once vibrant and healthy sister in such a state was unbearable. From that moment on, she lived with constant illness, and the cancer only added to her suffering, ultimately shortening her life.

Despite her struggles, Foos and I shared countless beautiful memories. We attended Quranic school and regular school together, as we were so close in age. Later, we both moved to Mogadishu. In 2020, she spent several months at my home while pregnant with her now five-year-old son. She had promised to name him Mahad if he was a boy, and she kept that promise. Her sons, Mahad and Mohamed, will carry her memory forward.

The last time I saw her was on 17 February 2025, just days before my trip, when I visited her at the hospital. She asked about my children, naming each one and asking me how they are doing. She told me that she would visit them once she got better. Sadly, that day never came—Allah had other plans for her.

Writing her obituary on Facebook to inform relatives and friends of her passing was overwhelming. As I typed, I was consumed by grief, crying alone. Each condolence call from relatives and friends intensified the pain. Foos left us too soon, but the memories we shared will forever remain etched in my heart.

May Allah grant her the highest place in Jannatul Firdaws Al-A’laa. Aameen.