Why Am I Anonymous?

I learnt early to hide behind quietness. To smile when people mocked me. To make jokes about myself before others could.

25 years ago, I was born.

Not into comfort, but into lessons that would take me years to understand. Life didn’t come softly; it came with tests wrapped in silence. I didn’t cry for attention; I grew into it. Somewhere between learning to speak and learning to stay quiet, I became the person who feels deeply but rarely says much.

I didn’t know then that pain could be a language, that it could teach empathy, discipline, and gratitude all at once. Every challenge I faced became a verse in the unfinished poem that is my life.

This is not a story of pity. It’s a story of becoming, of how Allah takes what breaks us and turns it into something beautiful.

My Story

I grew up learning that silence could be both a shield and a wound. From as far back as I can remember, I had trouble with speech; words never flowed easily. They stumbled, got caught between my tongue and my teeth, twisted in strange ways that drew attention I never wanted. As a child, all I ever wanted was to sound like everyone else. To say “good morning” without someone repeating it back with laughter.

But the world is not always kind to difference. I had malocclusion, a condition that altered the way my teeth and jaw aligned, and that alone was enough to make me a target. Children can be cruel without knowing what cruelty means. Teachers, too, sometimes forget that the smallest comment can wound the deepest. I remember being asked to read aloud in class. I could feel my heartbeat in my throat, the letters on the page swimming before my eyes. I read anyway. The laughter that followed stayed longer in my memory than the lesson I was supposed to learn that day.

I learnt early to hide behind quietness. To smile when people mocked me. To make jokes about myself before others could. You begin to build a world inside, one where you can exist without being stared at, without being defined by what you lack. But silence is heavy; it collects inside you like stones in a jar.

In all, I started my treatments to fix the physical parts of me I didn’t like. Then, sometime later, when I thought life couldn’t demand more from me, the doctor mentioned another word: scoliosis. I still remember the way he said it, how casual it sounded.

“If you have ten million naira, you’ll get it fixed,” he said, like it was a choice between treatments, not between hope and despair. Ten million might as well have been ten billion. I smiled weakly, nodded, left the hospital, and walked straight to the mosque.

That night, I cried like I hadn’t cried in years. Not the silent kind of crying I was used to, but the kind that shakes your shoulders and empties your chest. I couldn’t tell my friend, the one who had helped me start treatment for my speech and malocclusion, the one who was a sabab from Allah. I just went home, curled up, and let the exhaustion take me. I wanted to scream. But what good was a scream when your whole life had been spent learning how to stay quiet?

Photo by Vidar Nordli-Mathisen on Unsplash

In fact, these periods were the times when people came to me for advice and help and for me to make them laugh. I bottled it up. I smiled when people came to me with their problems. I listened. I comforted. I gave advice. I still made people laugh. They thought I was strong; maybe I was. But strength sometimes looks like bleeding quietly while still showing up for others.

But life wasn’t done testing me, lol.

Months later, after more hospital visits and medical tests, I was told another word, one I had never heard before: Crouzon syndrome, lol. I looked it up later that night. The descriptions were cold, clinical, and almost detached. But I knew what it meant. I had lived it without knowing its name. That diagnosis came just days before an important exam. I remember sitting at my laptop, pretending to study while my mind wandered into darker places.

There were nights I questioned everything: why me, why now, why this body, why this voice? However, faith has a way of whispering even when you can’t hear it clearly. Somewhere inside me, I still believed that Allah doesn’t burden a soul beyond what it can bear. I clung to that verse the way a drowning man clings to a piece of driftwood.

Looking back, I think I needed those years to understand the quiet kind of resilience. The kind that doesn’t shout or break things but simply endures. The kind that teaches you that pain isn’t always punishment and that sometimes, it’s purification.

Through it all, I never stopped believing that there was meaning in my silence, even if I couldn’t yet see it.

Falling in Love

The idea of love has always fascinated me. Love should make you feel seen, understood, and safe. It should be that space where your soul finally exhales. I used to think that if I ever found it, everything broken in me would make sense. I believed in the beauty of companionship, in the serenity of marriage, and in the sweetness of being known and still chosen.

And, Alhamdulillah, I did experience love or something close to it. It came softly, unexpectedly. For a while, it felt like Allah was granting me a moment of stillness after years of storms. I was finally seen, or so I thought. However, love, I’ve learnt, isn’t always about seeing someone; sometimes, it’s about how we want to see them.

You see, being anonymous creates a certain mystery. People fall in love with your words, your ideas, your kindness, your patience – all the fragments that they can safely admire from afar. But when the curtain is pulled back, when the story becomes real and raw, the fascination begins to fade. I became someone people admired until they met the truth. Then, suddenly, admiration turned into silence.

I’ve met people who loved the image they had of me, not the reality. They loved the calm of my voice in writing, not the tremor in it when I spoke. They loved the way I comforted others, not the way I quietly battled my own pain. And I’ve met people who were drawn to my knowledge but not my scars. Some wanted Kaatib, not the man behind the words.

When I finally let someone in—really in—the truth often changed everything. I could see it happen. The subtle shift in tone. The hesitations. The “you’re such a good person” messages that often come before distance. The quiet exits disguised as emotional overwhelm. I understood. I don’t blame them. Love asks for courage, and not everyone has the strength to love someone who lives daily with pain, surgeries, or fears of the future. Funny enough, these people would later go on to tell their friends something ele when things don’t align. Well, you will get your response at the later part of this letter.

I love the thought of early marriage. I wanted to grow with someone, to share mornings and dreams, to have a home that felt like tranquillity. I received proposals, too. Some serious, some impulsive. But I’ve always been observant; painfully so. I read meaning into pauses, silences, and tone shifts. I can tell when words are dipped in curiosity instead of commitment.

Over time, I began to question whether marriage was written for me in the way I imagined. Maybe it’s not about what we want from life, but what Allah knows will grow us best. Still, it hurt. The rejections, the misunderstandings, the subtle pity. I’ve heard people say they could never marry someone like me. Some said it to my hearing. I smiled, but it echoed deep inside.

There came a time I decided maybe love isn’t for me. I told myself I’d never marry. I’d adopt children, raise them with love, and live quietly. I convinced myself it was enough. My doctor and therapist tried to undo that wall of resignation, to remind me that my condition doesn’t define the boundaries of my future. But sometimes, pain becomes a language so fluent that even comfort sounds foreign.

Well, I’m alive. Still healing. Still learning that love isn’t always found in another person. Sometimes it’s found in accepting yourself fully. And maybe that’s what Allah has been teaching me all along: that real love begins when you stop hiding from your own reflection.

Women

There’s something I’ve learned about women. Something that time, experience, and silence have taught me with gentle yet firm hands. Women are fragile beings, not in weakness, but in the depth of their emotions. They feel deeply. They interpret gestures in layers. Sometimes, a small act of kindness, a word said softly, a gift given casually, a gesture of concern, carries meanings far heavier than intended.

Offline, I’ve always been that person who loves to give. I buy things for classmates, sometimes random gifts, sometimes just tokens of appreciation. I’ve always seen it as a form of kindness, a simple way of expressing gratitude or warmth. But I learned, over time, that not everyone perceives kindness in the same light. Some thought I was interested in them; others began to read what I never wrote, to imagine a love I never hinted at.

I had to explain myself, sometimes uncomfortably. I had to make it clear that I am a natural gifter — that giving, for me, is a language of goodwill, not of romantic pursuit. But it was a needed reminder that hearts, especially those of women, deserve gentleness and clarity. That kindness, though beautiful, must be measured with wisdom.

This is a note to my brothers. Be careful with your kindness. Be intentional with your words, your tone, your gifts. What you consider a harmless gesture might awaken feelings in someone whose heart is more tender than yours. Don’t entertain curiosity, don’t test affection, and don’t confuse attention for connection. Even when your intentions are pure, protect both hearts.

Because women, in all their strength and grace, were created with an emotional depth men may never fully understand. Respect that fragility. Honour it. Don’t misuse it.

And from personal experience, I’ll tell you this: it’s far easier to clarify boundaries than to repair hearts broken by confusion.

Gratitude and Growth

Alhamdulillah for everything. For the sleepless nights that taught me sabr. For the pain that softened my heart and forced me to grow. If there is one thing I’ve learned from all these years, it is that Allah’s mercy hides in strange places. Sometimes it comes in healing, other times in heartbreak. But it always comes.

I’m still healing. Still attending therapy. Still seeing my doctors. Some days are easy, others are not. But every day feels lighter than the last. Healing is a series of steps, not a straight path. Forward, backward, sideways, and sometimes just standing still. Yet through it all, Allah keeps me standing.

Somewhere in that long process of recovery, I found a name, Kaatib. It became my mirror. Through writing, I could speak without stuttering, cry without tears, and connect without fear. Kaatib became the voice I never had as a boy. The calm, thoughtful, compassionate version of myself that my pain had been shaping all along. Behind that name, I found a freedom I’d never known. I could finally give my silence meaning.

And from that meaning, I began to build.

I built Himaayah, a sanctuary of learning, a place to nurture hearts and minds in the light of knowledge. I built One Growth, a space for reflection, personal development, and healing. Then came Baytul Wisaal, a home of peace, born out of my longing for calmness in a restless world through marriage. And later, The Kaatib Yusuf Foundation, my humble effort to give back, to serve, to make my story a means of relief for others.

Each project carries a memory of a boy who once cried in a mosque, wondering if his life had meaning. Today, that same boy has built homes of meaning for others. Subhaanallah, what a mercy.

I’ve written books; words that travelled farther than I ever thought possible. Over 40,000 readers have read my works, reflected, written back, cried, laughed, prayed. Some said my words pulled them out of despair. Some said they finally felt understood. I don’t think there’s a greater blessing than to ease someone’s heart through what once broke yours.

Through it all, I still remained anonymous. People often ask why I choose not to show my face. Anonymity has allowed me to live without performance, to serve without expectation, and to write without noise. It protects the purity of my intention and the quiet of my heart. Well, you are going to see the face behind this today.

Taken years ago: I was thinking about my life here, lol. A lot of stories behind this picture....

This is not a reveal, just a reminder that Allah brings beauty out of every chapter, even the quiet ones. Alhamdulillah always. But I am glad you can finally seea face to this account. Maybe I ma not a ghost anymore, lol…..

A Note for a Friend

There’s one person I cannot end this story without mentioning. A friend who once stood like light in my life. She may never read this, and maybe that’s how it’s meant to be. But this is for her.

We don’t talk anymore, but that doesn’t erase what she meant to my journey. She came at a time when I was drowning in pain and confusion. When I struggled to make sense of my body, my voice, my health, she became a means through which Allah reminded me that help comes in ways we least expect. Her kindness was consistent. Sometimes, a single person can shift your world without even realizing it and she did that for me.

If she ever comes across these words, I hope she knows that I hold no bitterness, no resentment, only gratitude. I pray Allah blesses her in ways she never imagines. I pray her nights are filled with sakīnah, her days with barakah, and her heart with light. I pray that Allah rewards her for every moment she was there for me, for every kind word, for every memory that once made me smile through the pain.

Even though we no longer speak, she remains part of my du’a. Because when someone once helped you see Allah’s mercy in your darkest hours, you don’t erase them; you keep them in your prayers.

Sometimes people enter our lives not to stay forever, but to teach us that Allah sends angels in human form. And when their chapter ends, you don’t mourn their absence, you thank Allah that they existed in your story at all.

Wherever she is, I hope she’s happy. I hope she’s growing. I hope she’s loved. And I hope Allah writes her name among those He’s most pleased with.

If she’s reading this, know that I still pray for you, and I always will.

Fame: Lessons, Trials, and Take-Homes

Fame sometimes arrives quietly. Sometimes, it comes through words that travel farther than you expected, through people who begin to see you before they really know you. It begins as something innocent: a desire to share, to help, to write. Then, one day, you realize that your life is no longer entirely yours. People are watching. People are assuming. People are deciding what kind of person you are, even before you open your mouth.

I never wanted fame. I only wanted to heal through words. To make sense of pain, to show others that Allah’s mercy is not theoretical. However, visibility has a way of twisting itself into a test. It makes you face what kind of heart beats beneath your intentions. It teaches you how fragile sincerity can be once eyes begin to follow you. Fame doesn’t destroy you; it exposes what was already weak inside. It amplifies whatever you hide. If you seek applause, you’ll drown in it. If you seek Allah, He’ll refine you through it.

People often think fame brings freedom, lol. In truth, it brings weight. Every word becomes evidence, every silence an interpretation. You stop being a person and become a mirror whom everyone sees what they want to see. You learn quickly that you can’t correct every misunderstanding, nor respond to every voice. You must choose peace over defense, silence over justification. The moment you try to please everyone, you lose yourself entirely.

There’s also a loneliness that fame carries. You can be surrounded by names and still feel unseen. I battled this a lot. People love the idea of you. The voice that comforts them, the wisdom that reassures them but they may not want the whole human, with his fatigue, his stumbles, his insecurities. You find yourself retreating into small, sacred spaces: the prayer mat, the therapist’s room, the quiet du’a before dawn. Those become the only places where you are just a servant again, not a symbol.

I learned that the hardest part of fame is how it distorts relationships. You start to meet people who come with admiration instead of sincerity. Some are drawn to the light, not the lantern. Some are genuine, but even then, boundaries must be drawn. I cannot stress this enough: avoid unnecessary closeness with the opposite gender, no matter how pure or assuring it seems. Familiarity has a way of turning storms into whispers, and whispers into attachments. The heart is fragile; it doesn’t need more tests than life already gives. Keep your dignity. Keep your faith. When you feel that tug of emotional dependency, remember that peace built on disobedience is not peace at all. What begins as comfort may end in regret. I am saying tthis from painful experience.

And when things fall apart — as they sometimes will — seek your closure from Allah alone. Not from apologies, not from explanations, not from trying to make someone see your side of the story. People can never fill the void that divine wisdom leaves. Closure is not found in text messages or conversations that never end the way you imagined. It is found in sujud, in the quiet realization that Allah knew all along what was hidden, and He will judge with perfect justice and mercy. That’s where peace truly begins.

Fame, is a fleeting light. It can burn, it can blind, or it can guide, depending on what you use it for. If you use it to point people to yourself, it becomes a prison. But if you use it to point people to Allah, it becomes a path of sadaqatub jariyah; a light that continues long after your name fades. I’ve come to understand that not every story is meant to go viral, not every thought deserves a post. Some things are meant to stay between you and your Lord, unspoken yet heavy with sincerity.

The lesson is simple, yet difficult to live by: guard your heart. Let the crowd cheer; let the comments flow. But never let the noise drown your dhikr. When you feel the world pulling you outward, retreat inward. When you are praised, humble yourself. When you are criticized, return to Allah. Your worth isn’t determined by the number of people who read your words, but by the One who knows what breath you took before writing them.

I pray that Allah protects every soul walking this fragile line between being known and being lost. May He purify our intentions, keep us unseen when visibility would harm us, and make our visibility a means of guidance when He wills it. May He guard us from pride, from emotional entanglements that weaken faith, and from the illusion that people’s approval equals His pleasure. May He teach us to walk with humility even when the world bows in praise, and to smile with gratitude even when no one notices.

At the end of it all, fame is not the destination but a test. A trial that reveals who you are when no one’s watching. And the greatest victory is not in being remembered, but in being forgiven. May Allah forgive us, conceal our flaws, and make our lives — public or private — a means of mercy.

A Note of Apology

There are things I’ve said that I wish I hadn’t. Things I should have said but never did. There are people I loved deeply but lost along the way, not because I stopped caring, but because sometimes life writes its own separations. If this letter ever reaches anyone I’ve hurt knowingly or unknowingly, I pray you find it in your heart to forgive me.

I never set out to wound. But pain often speaks before patience, and sometimes silence becomes a language people misread. There are half-stories out there, fragments of me told by lips that never heard the whole truth. I’ve learned to stop chasing explanations. Sometimes, trying to defend yourself only deepens the wound. So I’ve chosen the kind of peace that comes from saying, “Allah knows.”

For every misunderstanding that painted me wrongly, for every heart that misjudged my intentions, I hold no bitterness. I understand now that everyone sees through the lens of their own wounds. And I, too, have been guilty of misreading others. We are all fragile stories, half-told and half-heard, stitched together by the mercy of Allah.

To those who turned away, I wish you well. To those I walked away from, I hope you understand that my leaving was never pride; it was protection for both hearts. There’s no need for defense anymore. No retaliation. No “final word.” I’ve buried those weapons with my ego.

I’ve learned that peace is not in proving you were right. It’s in surrendering the need to be understood and letting Allah be your Witness. Every apology, every tear, every lesson, I leave them with Him. He knows what I meant, even when I failed to express it well.

I’ve also forgiven, truly. The ones who mocked my voice, the ones who doubted my heart, the ones who betrayed my sincerity. I’ve stopped waiting for apologies that may never come. Because forgiveness, I’ve learned, isn’t setting others free but in setting yourself free from the heaviness of memory. I wish everyone peace, even those who left scars. May Allah write goodness for all of us, in the ways only He can. Because at the end of it all, none of us walk away clean, only forgiven.

The Farewell

25 years. A small number, yet it feels like a lifetime. I’ve lived through echoes, through rooms where my voice trembled, through nights that stretched too long. I’ve also lived through mercy. A mercy that found me in broken hospital corridors, in tearful sujood, in words that healed others even when I was bleeding inside.

There’s something sacred about reaching this point, not of ending, but of quiet understanding. I’ve learned that not every story needs applause. Some are meant to be whispered, to fade into people’s hearts and stay there. Maybe that’s what this is, not a goodbye, but a quiet folding of pages.

I’ve spoken about pain, about love, about growth, about forgiveness. But behind all these is one truth: Allah never left. Even when I thought I was alone, He was scripting something beautiful out of what felt unbearable. He gave me words when I had no strength to speak. He turned my private battles into lessons for strangers. He gave meaning to the silence that once haunted me.

If this is the last time you hear from me, then let this stand as a testimony, not of perfection, but of perseverance. I was never flawless; I was just honest. I stumbled. I wept. I forgave. I built things that will outlive me, not because I am great, but because Allah allowed me to serve in small, quiet ways.

And if one day someone finds my words, I hope they don’t just see the writer. I hope they see the man who tried. The man who loved deeply, prayed sincerely, and kept walking even when his body ached. The man who learned that true healing is not the absence of pain, but the acceptance of divine wisdom behind it.

To those who stayed, thank you. To those who left, thank you too. Every face, every word, every moment was a verse in my story. And I’m grateful for all of it.

Like I said, I didn’t write this to attract pity — no. This isn’t a cry for sympathy, nor is it a tale meant to soften hearts. It’s simply a revelation, an act of surrender, and perhaps, a quiet goodbye. I wrote because I needed to let my truth breathe. To give voice to what has long lived in silence. I wrote because peace sometimes comes in the form of release, and silence, though noble, can also be heavy.

I wanted to own my story. Every fracture, scar, andednnl miracle that followed. I wanted to say that Allah never left me. That He was there, through every sleepless night, through every surgery, through every quiet morning I questioned why I was still here. I wanted to remind someone out there that being broken doesn’t mean being useless, that being unseen doesn’t mean being unloved, that healing sometimes means learning to live with what remains.

If this is the last time you read from me, then let this stand as my final note that I am grateful. For the people who stayed, for those who left, and even for the silence that taught me what words could not. For the lessons fame brought and the peace anonymity restored. For the love that never found words, and for the prayers that found answers.

I don’t know what tomorrow holds, but I know Who holds it. And if you ever think of me, don’t think of pain or pity. Think of someone who tried, who fell, who rose again, and who finally found rest in surrender.

May Allah forgive us all, heal what still hurts, and guide our hearts back to Him again and again, until there’s nothing left but peace.

وَإِلَيْهِ يُرْجَعُ الْأَمْرُ كُلُّهُ
“And to Him belongs the final outcome of all affairs.” (Qur’an 11:123)