This is not merely a question of temporal logistics; it is an existential reality that every believer must confront before spending a lifetime amassing wealth and properties. When we observe the world around us, the transience of human legacy becomes strikingly visible. Consider the estate of Alhaji Mai Deribe, who built a legendary $100 million gold-adorned palace in Maiduguri, Borno State, that took 10 years to complete; owned a private jet and a fleet of luxury cars. Despite being thought to be the richest man in Nigeria in the 1980s, he lived in the mansion for only 12 years before passing away in 2002. The estate and his collection of luxury cars later sat empty and fell into severe decay – an unspeakable ruin that speaks to our helplessness.
Similarly, the sprawling estate of Chief Samuel Ládòke Akíntolá – once Aare Ona Kakanfo XIII of Yorubaland and Premier of the Western Region – recently circulated on social media. Despite being survived by an accomplished lineage and extended family, his historic home lies abandoned, deteriorating into a safety hazard for its community.
Even at the grassroots level, this phenomenon persists. The story of one Pa Yusuff, a devout Muslim cherished by his neighbours, mirrors this exact fate. Shortly after his death, his children sold his house, and it was promptly demolished. The structure that once defined his identity within the neighbourhood vanished virtually overnight.
These instances are not anomalies; they reflect an unyielding metaphysical truth. How descendants or time treat physical inheritances is ultimately no fault of theirs – it is the nature of the dunya (the material world). Indeed, humanity suffers from an ontological illusion: the belief that acquisition equals permanent possession. We toil for decades to build structures, yet the Qur’an constantly reminds us of the temporary nature of earthly holdings:
‘And to Allah belongs the inheritance of the heavens and the earth.’ Surah Ali ‘Imran (3:180)
We are not true owners; we are merely brief trustees. The decay of grand estates serves as an empirical demonstration that ownership reverts to the Creator, while our physical structures inevitably succumb to entropy. In other words, whereas the philosophical weight of building an earthly legacy often blinds us to its fleeting duration, the transient nature of the legacy should open our minds to the reality of our temporality. This indeed was aptly described by the Prophet Muhammad (SAW), who framed the human condition not as permanent settlers, but as transient travellers:
‘Be in this world as if you were a stranger or a traveller along a path.’ Sahih al-Bukhari (6416)
As such, when a home transforms from a sanctuary into a ruin or a sold lot, it emphasises that material assets possess no intrinsic permanence. Investing solely in bricks and mortar is an investment in a vessel that is bound to decay. One may then reflect: if material structures crumble, what truly survives the individual? Such a person may find succour in the Islamic paradigm, which shifts the definition of an ‘estate’ from physical real estate to spiritual assets. This is as nuanced by the Prophet (SAW) that:
‘When a man dies, his deeds come to an end except for three: Sadaqah Jariyah (continuous charity), knowledge by which people benefit, or a righteous child who prays for him.’ Sahih Muslim (1631)
While physical houses, like that of Pa Yusuff, could be demolished, even by those supposed to continue the legacy, any significant impact, beneficial knowledge shared, or continuous charity established remains untouched by bulldozers or time. What appears axiomatic from this is that the urge to erect monuments, which often leads to over-accumulation, comes to zero, and it is a psychological trap highlighted in Qur’anic grammar:
‘Competition in [worldly] increase diverts you, until you visit the graveyards.’ Surah At-Takathur (102:1-2)
This implies that the abandoned mansions of leaders and commoners alike stand as silent witnesses to wasted effort – wealth accumulated through stress and sacrifice, only to become a burden or hazard for generations to come.
In sum, the physical decay of grand homes is not a tragedy to mourn, but a sign (ayah) to reflect upon. It compels us to ask: Are we spending our finite time building structures that will outlive their usefulness to us, or are we constructing an estate for the Hereafter? True legacy is not measured by square footage, architectural prominence, or land titles that will eventually be contested, abandoned, or sold. It is measured by the righteousness cultivated in our heirs, the beneficial knowledge left in our communities, and the ongoing charity that continues to light our graves long after our physical dwellings have turned to dust.