Abass Kaboua

Abass Frédéric Essokowo Kaboua left this world on April 11, 2026, just a day after his 64th birthday, and the quiet hum of his favorite jazz records still lingers in the rooms he filled with laughter. Those of us who knew him best remember a man whose smile could turn a crowded market stall into a gathering of friends, and whose handshake felt like a promise that everything would be alright. I first met Abass at a neighborhood football match in Lomé, where he spent the entire afternoon coaching the kids, shouting encouragements in a mix of French and Ewe, and then, when the game ended, inviting everyone to share the modest feast he’d prepared at his home. He never missed a chance to bring people together, whether over a pot of spiced millet or a spirited debate about the future of our country. Family was the heart of Abass’s universe. He was a devoted husband to his beloved wife, Afi, whose laughter still echoes in the garden where they planted mango trees together. Their children—Mariam, a budding doctor, and young Kofi, who inherited his father’s love of music—were the light of his life. I recall a rainy afternoon when Abass surprised his family with a kite he had built himself, insisting they fly it despite the drizzle. The kite rose, wobbling at first, then soaring steady, just as his love steadied us through life’s storms. He taught us that perseverance isn’t about never falling; it’s about always getting back up, hand in hand. Beyond the family table, Abass’s passions painted the world in brighter colors. He was an avid reader of history, often quoting lines from African philosophers while walking the streets of Lomé, and his love for traditional drumming was legendary—he could coax a rhythm out of any surface, turning a simple kitchen table into a concert hall. When he wasn’t debating policy in the Senate, which he joined in 2025 with the Movement of Centrist Republicans, you could find him in his modest workshop, carving wooden figurines that he gifted to friends and strangers alike. Those little sculptures, each unique, reminded us that beauty resides in the details, a lesson he lived every day. Abass’s impact stretched far beyond the walls of Parliament. As a senator, he championed education and rural development, insisting that every child in Togo deserve a school within reach of their village. He visited remote schools, sat on the floor with students, and listened to their hopes, promising to be their voice. Many will recall his habit of slipping a handwritten note into a child’s textbook, a simple “You matter” that sparked confidence in countless young minds. Colleagues speak of his calm, steady presence during heated debates—a reminder that true leadership is rooted in empathy, not ego. His legacy is not just in legislation, but in the countless lives he touched with kindness, humility, and an unwavering belief that love, in its simplest form, can move a nation forward. We will miss his warm hugs, his storytelling, and the way he could turn a quiet evening into a celebration of life. As we say goodbye, we carry forward his spirit—living with generosity, laughing loudly, and always making room for one more at the table. Rest in peace, dear Abass; your light continues to shine in every heart you’ve lifted.