She died, and the earth opened and covered her in a permanent embrace—sealing the end of a life lived with patterned intentions. While she lived, she left dotted lines of mercurial order; Professor Ladi Sandra Adamu lived a life of thoroughness, defined by regimented schedules and an unyielding sense of purpose.
She inherited and exhibited orderliness in every facet of her existence—from her dress sense to her hairdo and even her choice of cars. She weaved her life with precision, a teleguided lifestyle of discipline and grace.
When she walked, you could almost count her steps—measured, majestic, and purposeful. A striking black African beauty, she embodied the essence of a proud Arewa woman, wearing her Arewanci like a badge of honour.
To call her a patriot would be to diminish her zeal. She was more—a nationalist who believed profoundly in the green identity and the promise of Nigeria.
A daughter of a soldier, Ladi was herself an academic general. There was hardly a lecture or public engagement where she didn’t extol the virtues of the military—her admiration often spilling into affectionate advocacy. She inspired her students to imbibe discipline, courage, and excellence. Her teaching style was firm, commanding, and unapologetically direct—she lectured as though issuing drills at a parade ground.
Many misunderstood her as harsh, brash, or haughty. But those who came close discovered a woman driven by passion for others’ growth and greatness. She hated laziness, detested indolence, and had no patience for cowardice. To win her respect, you needed to be diligent, courageous, and consistent.
I remember my own encounter with her as an undergraduate—it remains etched in memory. It was during a broadcast class at the BBC Studio in Zaria, an early morning session. While waiting for the class to begin, I picked up a newspaper in the studio. She arrived moments later and waited in her car until class time. Just before 8 a.m., I joined my classmates. When she walked in, she looked around and said sharply, “Haruna, leave my class! This is a broadcast class; I don’t tolerate people reading newspapers here.”
I was stunned. I tried to explain politely: “Ma, I was reading before your class began, besides, we need the newspaper to enrich our awareness on what to broadcast.” My response only infuriated her further. She threatened to leave the class if I didn’t step out. It took the intervention of my classmates to get me to yield.
After the class, my friend and class rep, Salma Gawu , advised me to go and apologize. Reluctantly, I did—and to my surprise, Madam Ladi received me warmly. She said, “Much as I wasn’t happy you disobeyed me, I’m impressed by your boldness to explain yourself. I like students who aren’t easily cowed. Even if you must die, don’t die a coward.”
That encounter marked the beginning of our mentorship journey. She urged me to major in broadcast journalism, convinced that my voice tone and confident gait were made for the microphone. Ironically, I had already chosen public relations as my focus. Still, even from our divergent fields, she kept in touch—always checking in, always guiding.
Our last meeting was in 2023 during the Mass Communication International Conference, where I served as the anchor. When she was invited to speak, she smiled and said, “No one has ever introduced me like this. I am humbled and proud that this comes from my ex-student.”
It was a fleeting moment, but her words cut deep—almost prophetic. Today, here I am, working behind the microphone she once urged me toward, still echoing her lessons in confidence, excellence, and conviction.
Professor Ladi Sandra Adamu lived as she taught—disciplined, proud, and purposeful. Her life was a study in order and intention, her legacy an indelible pattern on the sands of academia and the hearts of her students.
The earth may have covered her, but her voice—commanding, assuring, and enduring—still echoes in our memories.Good night madam Ladi – the proud daughter of Adamu Pankshin.
Solemnly musing