Ibrahim Chatta is broken again, Another child. Gone.

By: Akinde Oluwaseun

He posted it on Instagram Saturday. Just a photo. No details. No cause. Nothing. Just silence wrapped in grief.

Under the picture, he wrote: “Inna lillahi wa inna ilayhi raji’un.”
Then, softly—like a prayer whispered into the dark—
“Ya Allah, You are the Knower of all things. Rest on, Dear son, champ.”

Rest on.
Not rest in peace.
Rest on.
Like the pain never really stops. Like he’s still carrying it.

He didn’t say how old the boy was. Or what happened. Maybe he can’t. Maybe it’s too fresh. Too raw.

But we remember June.
Just a few months ago. He spoke up—voice trembling—about losing his daughter. Years back. When he was poor. Struggling. Just another actor trying to make it.

He said he couldn’t afford proper medical care.
Couldn’t afford a coffin.

So they buried her in a wooden Coca-Cola crate.
Can you imagine that?
A child. In a crate.

And now this. Another son.

How much can one man lose?

Chatta is 54. A veteran in Nollywood. Respected. Seen it all. But this—this is different. No script. No director. No take two.

Just a father. Again. Saying goodbye.

No one should go through this. Not once. Definitely not twice.

We don’t know the details. And maybe we shouldn’t. Some wounds don’t need an audience.

But still.
You can feel it.
The weight. The silence. The quiet scream behind those words.

Rest on, indeed.
And may the father find strength somewhere. Even if it’s just to get through the next hour. The next breath.