In the dead of night on a desolate stretch of the A46 near Banbury, Oxfordshire, a high-speed nightmare unfolded that would shatter lives and grip the nation. It was February 11, 2022, when a Skoda Fabia, packed with desperation and deceit, erupted into a fireball after being relentlessly rammed off the road by a convoy of pursuing vehicles. Inside the twisted wreckage lay two young men—Saqib Hussain, 21, and his best friend Mohammed Hashim Ijazuddin, also 21—their dreams incinerated in an instant of cold-blooded fury. What began as a twisted tale of forbidden love, blackmail, and maternal protectiveness had escalated into a meticulously plotted double murder, orchestrated by a glamorous TikTok influencer and her devoted mother.

Fast-forward to October 25, 2025, and the saga takes another jaw-dropping turn. Mahek Bukhari, the 24-year-old social media sensation once known for her flawless makeup tutorials and lifestyle vlogs, has had her life sentence slashed by the Court of Appeal. Originally condemned to a minimum of 31 years and eight months behind bars, Bukhari’s term has been reduced to 26 years and 285 days—a cut of nearly five years that has ignited outrage among victims’ families and sparked furious debates about justice, youth, and the perils of digital fame. As Lord Justice Warby delivered the ruling in London’s Royal Courts of Justice, he acknowledged Bukhari’s “immature” age at the time of the crime but stopped short of absolving her of the “disproportionate” savagery that claimed two innocent lives. For the families left in the ashes, this feels less like mercy and more like a slap in the face—a wicked killer’s get-out-of-jail-free card in a story that reads like a thriller scripted by the darkest corners of the internet.

This is the chilling chronicle of Mahek Bukhari: from viral videos to vehicular homicide, a plot laced with lies, lust, and lethal consequences. As the appeals court peels back layers of this tragedy, one question burns brighter than the crash site flames: Has true justice been served, or has the allure of youth and online stardom softened the blow for a remorseless influencer?

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: Mahek Bukhari, the TikTok star whose glamorous online persona masked a deadly plot.

Forbidden Flames: The Affair That Ignited the Powder Keg

To understand the inferno that consumed Saqib and Hashim, we must rewind to the summer of 2019, when Ansreen Bukhari, a 45-year-old married mother of three, first crossed paths with the charismatic Saqib Hussain. Ansreen, living a seemingly idyllic life in Stoke-on-Trent with her husband and children, including the ambitious Mahek, found herself drawn into a whirlwind affair with the 21-year-old Saqib. He was young, handsome, and intoxicatingly attentive—showering her with lavish dates, gifts, and whispered promises that made her feel alive again after years in a stagnant marriage.

What started as stolen moments soon spiraled into obsession. Saqib, a delivery driver from Banbury with dreams of entrepreneurship, spent over £3,000 on their rendezvous, from hotel stays to romantic getaways. But as Ansreen’s guilt mounted and she attempted to end the liaison in late 2021, Saqib’s affections turned toxic. He began recording their intimate encounters without her knowledge, amassing a cache of explicit videos and photos. When Ansreen rebuffed his pleas to continue, Saqib unleashed his arsenal: blackmail demands for money to keep the tapes private, threats to expose her to her family and community, and relentless harassment that left her terrified and trapped.

Enter Mahek Bukhari, the golden child of the family. At just 21, Mahek was already a TikTok darling, boasting over 130,000 followers on her account @mahekbukhari, where she dished out beauty hacks, fashion hauls, and motivational mantras. With her long dark hair, striking features, and effortless charisma, she embodied the aspirational influencer dream—sponsored posts, brand collabs, and a feed full of sun-kissed selfies. But beneath the filters and facades, Mahek was fiercely protective of her mother, viewing Saqib not as a lover but as a predator preying on family honor.

The turning point came on January 4, 2022. In a flurry of frantic WhatsApp messages, Mahek took the reins. “I’ll get him jumped by guys and he won’t know what day it is,” she texted Ansreen, her words dripping with vengeful resolve. To Saqib, she was more ominous: “I am sorry that this year you’ll be gone, Saqib.” What followed was a chilling conspiracy, hatched in the quiet confines of their family home. Mother and daughter, bound by blood and betrayal, devised a plan to lure Saqib under the false pretense of repaying his £3,000 “investment.” It was a trap wrapped in temptation—a promise of closure that would instead deliver death.

Ansreen’s husband, Mahek’s father, remained oblivious, working long hours as a taxi driver. The Bukharis’ close-knit Pakistani heritage added layers of cultural pressure; honor killings and family scandals were whispered taboos in their community. Mahek, ever the strategist, recruited a cadre of accomplices from her social circle—friends and cousins eager to prove their loyalty. Rekhan Karwan, 29, a mechanic; Raees Jamal, 38, a family friend; Natasha Akhtar, 23, Mahek’s bestie; Ameer Jamal, Raees’s son; and Sanaf Gulamustafa, 27, another associate. They were promised cash incentives and sworn to secrecy, transforming a personal vendetta into a vehicular hit squad.

As the plot thickened, Mahek’s online life continued uninterrupted. Days before the murder, she posted a bubbly video lip-syncing to a pop track, her smile radiant against a backdrop of fairy lights. “Living my best life,” the caption read. Little did her followers know, her “best life” was about to claim two others.

The Lure and the Chase: A Road to Ruin

February 10, 2022, dawned cold and unremarkable. Saqib, still clinging to hope, received a message from Ansreen: Meet at a McDonald’s in Leicester at 11:30 p.m. The £3,000 would be waiting—no strings, no more threats. Desperate for resolution, Saqib agreed, bringing along his loyal pal Hashim, a 21-year-old engineering student described by his family as “the gentle giant with a heart of gold.” Hashim, from Banbury, had no inkling of the drama; he was just there for moral support, cracking jokes to lighten Saqib’s mood during the 100-mile drive north in his silver Skoda Fabia.

Unbeknownst to them, the trap was set. Mahek and her mother coordinated from separate vehicles: Ansreen in a silver Audi A6 with Karwan at the wheel, Mahek in a Seat Leon Cupra driven by Raees Jamal, flanked by Akhtar, Ameer, and Gulamustafa in additional cars—an Audi A4 and a Seat Arona. Five vehicles in total, a predatory pack primed for pursuit. As Saqib and Hashim pulled into the car park, the handover never materialized. Instead, the chase ignited.

What ensued was a 25-mile, 100mph gauntlet of terror along the A46. Saqib, sensing danger, floored the accelerator, his Skoda weaving desperately as the convoy closed in. Balaclava-clad figures in the pursuing cars rammed the rear bumper repeatedly, sparks flying like warnings from hell. At 23:34, Saqib dialed 999 in a final, frantic bid for salvation. The call, played in court and seared into the nation’s memory, captured his raw panic: “I’m being followed by two vehicles and they’re trying to block me in. I can’t get to a police station—I need help right now. There’s guys following me. They’ve got balaclavas on. They’re trying to ram me off the road. They’re trying to kill me—I’m going to die.”

The operator’s calm queries were drowned by the roar of engines and Saqib’s escalating pleas: “They’re hitting into the back of the car very fast. Please, I’m begging you, I’m going to die.” A blood-curdling scream from Hashim echoed as the Skoda veered off the carriageway, smashing into a tree near Fosse Park. The impact split the car in two, igniting a ferocious fireball that lit the night sky. Saqib and Hashim perished instantly, their bodies charred beyond recognition. Firefighters arrived minutes later, but it was too late—the scene was a smoldering testament to vehicular vengeance.

In the chaos, Mahek’s convoy scattered. She later claimed to police it was a “road rage incident,” spinning a web of lies about being attacked first. But dashcam footage, mobile pings, and incriminating texts unraveled her facade. “We’ve done it, Mum,” she messaged Ansreen post-crash, a chilling confirmation of their “success.” The accomplices, too, crumbled under interrogation—Karwan admitting he rammed the Skoda three times, Jamal confessing to leading the pursuit.

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: Victims Saqib Hussain (left) and Mohammed Hashim Ijazuddin, whose lives were cut short in a blaze of betrayal.

Courtroom Reckoning: From Influencer to Infamy

The trial at Leicester Crown Court, commencing in July 2023, was a media circus, dubbed “TikTok Murder Trial” by tabloids hungry for scandal. Prosecutor Christopher Millington KC painted a damning portrait: “This was no ordinary traffic accident. It was a story of love, obsession, extortion, and ultimately, cold-blooded murder.” Evidence mounted like a digital autopsy—over 300 phone records, GPS data tracing the convoy, and Mahek’s own videos where she bragged about her “loyal squad.”

Mahek, once poised for the camera, cut a defiant figure in the dock, her long lashes and designer tracksuits a stark contrast to the grim proceedings. She denied intent to kill, claiming the chase was meant to “scare” Saqib into deleting the tapes. Ansreen, tearful and remorseful, echoed her daughter’s pleas, insisting it was “self-preservation.” But the jury, after 32 hours of deliberation, saw through the smoke: Guilty on two counts of murder for Mahek and Ansreen, with Karwan and Raees Jamal convicted of murder, and Akhtar, Ameer, and Gulamustafa of manslaughter.

Sentencing in September 2023 delivered hammer blows. Judge Timothy Spencer KC lambasted Mahek as the “driving force,” her “vanity and arrogance” fueling the fatal folly. “You chose violence over vulnerability,” he thundered, imposing life with a 31-year-8-month minimum—meaning she’d be 53 before parole eligibility. Ansreen received life with 26 years 9 months; the murderers 26 and 21 years minimum; the manslaughter trio 14-11 years. Mahek’s TikTok empire crumbled—her account suspended, followers fleeing in droves.

Yet, whispers of appeal began almost immediately. Mahek’s legal team, led by Peter Joyce KC, argued the sentence was “wholly disproportionate,” citing her youth, lack of prior convictions, and “manipulative influence” from her mother. Behind bars at HMP Drake Hall, Mahek penned remorseful letters to the families, but skeptics dismissed them as performative—much like her videos.

Mercy in the Appeals Court: A Slashed Sentence Sparks Fury

Two years later, on October 25, 2025, the Court of Appeal in London handed down a verdict that reignited the embers of public outrage. Presided over by Lord Justice Warby, Mr Justice Lavender, and Judge Sylvia De Bertodano, the panel scrutinized the original tariffs with forensic precision. For Mahek, the centerpiece, they ruled her immaturity at 22 warranted leniency. “The judge did not make enough allowance for the fact that this appellant was an immature 22-year-old at the time of these offences,” Warby declared, reducing her minimum to 26 years and 285 days—effectively shaving off four years and 11 months.

The manslaughter convicts fared similarly: Akhtar’s 11 years 8 months cut to 9 years 8 months; Ameer’s 14 years 8 months to 12 years 8 months; Gulamustafa’s 14 years 9 months to 12 years 9 months. Warby emphasized their “minor roles,” noting the chase’s inherent risks but faulting Judge Spencer for overemphasizing culpability. “The minor role played by each should have had a powerful downward impact on the sentences,” he explained. “The sentences for all these appellants were manifestly excessive. They could and should have been substantially lower.”

Mahek’s barristers hailed it as a “vindication of fairness,” with Joyce arguing her client’s “disproportionate” response stemmed from “youthful naivety” under maternal pressure. But the ruling wasn’t unqualified praise; Warby condemned the plot’s brutality: “It seems to us indisputable that the car chase carried a high risk of death or really serious harm and that this should have been obvious to all those in each car.” He also dismissed any direct link between Saqib’s blackmail and the murders, calling Mahek’s actions a “hard to see” overreaction.

The decision, detailed in a 50-page judgment released hours later, has divided opinions. Legal experts like retired judge Michael Levi praised the appeal’s “measured mitigation,” citing precedents where youth mitigates severity—echoing cases like the 2011 riots sentencings. Yet, for many, it’s a bitter pill. Saqib’s mother, Rukhsana Hussain, 52, broke her silence outside the court: “My son begged for his life on that call, and now his killer gets years shaved off like it’s a spa day? Where’s the justice for Hashim, for Saqib? They were boys with futures, not footnotes.” Hashim’s father, Mohammed Ijazuddin, 58, a retired factory worker, added through tears: “Hashim was innocent, just along for the ride. He loved cars, dreamed of being an engineer. This reduction mocks his memory—it’s blood money for a TikTok tantrum.”

Social media, Mahek’s former kingdom, erupted. #JusticeForSaqib trended with over 50,000 posts, users sharing the 999 call audio and decrying “influencer privilege.” One viral thread by @TrueCrimeUK dissected her pre-murder posts: “While planning a hit, she was hawking lip gloss. The duality is diabolical.” Conversely, a sliver of supporters—mostly young women—argued for rehabilitation: “She was 22, manipulated by love and lies. Prison breaks people; reform builds them.”

Ansreen’s appeal, filed alongside, was denied; her 26-year-9-month term stands, a small solace for the grieving. The full murderers, Karwan and Raees, didn’t appeal, their 26- and 21-year minima intact.

Echoes of Agony: The Families Left in the Wake

The human cost of the A46 atrocity extends far beyond the crash site. Saqib’s family, devout Muslims from Banbury, buried him in a simple ceremony attended by hundreds, his coffin draped in green silk. Rukhsana, who heard the 999 call played in court, suffers nightly flashbacks: “His voice… ‘Mum, they’re going to kill me.’ I wake screaming.” The Husseins, once a tight-knit unit with Saqib as the eldest of four, now navigate grief’s labyrinth—counseling sessions, support groups, and a void at family iftars.

Hashim’s loss hit harder for its innocence. The Ijazuddins, pillars of their local mosque, remember him as the boy who fixed neighbors’ bikes and aced exams. “He was our light,” his sister Aisha, 19, told The Independent. “Wrong place, wrong time—because of her vanity.” The families bonded in tragedy, co-founding the Saqib & Hashim Foundation, raising £150,000 for road safety awareness and anti-blackmail campaigns. Their annual memorial drive along the A46 draws crowds, headlights honoring the fallen.

Mahek’s family fractures too. Her father, heartbroken, divorced Ansreen post-trial, telling reporters: “I raised daughters to uplift, not destroy.” Mahek’s siblings, shielded from media glare, grapple with stigma in their Pakistani-British community, where whispers of “honor gone wrong” linger.

The Dark Side of Digital Darlings: Lessons from a Livestreamed Life

Mahek Bukhari’s fall from grace spotlights the shadowy underbelly of influencer culture. In 2022, TikTok’s algorithm propelled her to micro-fame, but it also amplified her impulsivity—quick fixes for real-world woes. Experts like Dr. Emma Short, a cyber-psychologist at the University of Bedfordshire, warn: “Social media fosters a god complex; likes become lifelines, dissent becomes danger. Mahek’s plot was performative violence, scripted like her videos.”

The case echoes others: the 2023 “Snapchat murder” of Brianna Ghey, where online grooming led to stabbing; or the 2021 “Instagram killer” Jaden Moodie, rammed and stabbed over gang posts. Bukhari’s appeal reduction fuels calls for sentencing reforms—should “digital natives” get youth discounts in analog crimes? Parliament’s Justice Committee debates it, with MPs like Stella Creasy pushing for “online accountability clauses” in murder statutes.

Yet, redemption flickers. From her cell, Mahek reportedly mentors young inmates on digital literacy, warning of “the filter’s false freedom.” Whether genuine or gambit, it underscores the saga’s core: In a world of curated chaos, one wrong swipe can spark an eternal blaze.

As the Court of Appeal’s gavel falls, the A46 falls silent once more. Saqib and Hashim’s ghosts demand more than reduced terms—they crave closure. For Mahek, 26 years stretch ahead, a sentence shortened but a soul scarred. In the end, no algorithm can edit out the ashes. Justice, like love, burns hot and leaves scars that time alone can’t fade.