By Mallam Shamsuddeen Suleiman Kibiya
In the long and complex story of Islam in Nigeria, the tension between Salafi reformists and Sufi traditionalists has never been merely a clash of doctrines. It is, more often than we care to admit, a clash of tempers—of the tone one uses, the suspicion one bears, and the verdict one passes on those who practice religion a bit differently. What should have remained a quiet intellectual disagreement has, over time, metamorphosed into an extremism that thrives not on knowledge but on rhetoric.
When Dr Idris Abdulaziz Dutsen Tanshi passed on, the reaction from certain Salafi circles betrayed this peculiar tendency. His admirers saw his death as the painful exit of a righteous man who had lived his life fighting against innovation in religion and straightening the Umma along the path of Tawhid. On the other side, some Sufi-leaning critics responded not with mercy but with long-stored resentment—reminding the public of his “harshness,” his “excessive criticisms,” and his uncompromising, even combative sermons. The atmosphere felt less like the departure of a scholar and more like the settling of old, bitter scores.
And when Shaikh Dahiru Bauchi passed a few days ago, the pattern repeated itself, but this time in reverse. Sufi adherents elevated him beyond scholarship—into sainthood, into miracle, into myth. The outpouring was understandable, but in some corners it crossed into something else: a triumphalism that painted all those who disagreed with his spiritual path as misguided, cold, or spiritually weak. Some Salafi commentators, instead of exercising solemnity, used the moment to revisit old doctrinal disputes—reminding audiences of “bid’ah,” “ghuluw,” and “un-Islamic practices.” Even in death, the walls between both camps seemed eager to echo old hostilities.
What is common to both episodes is that the extremists on either side were saying the same thing without even realising it: that Allah’s mercy is exclusive to their camp; that the Ummah is too big to be shared, but too small to contain disagreement. And this, in its essence, is the extremism of our time—not the extremism of bombs and guns, but the extremism of the tongue.
The Salafi hardliner tends to imagine himself as the last defender of pristine Islam, wielding a vocabulary of denunciation: shirk, bid’ah, dalala, and ghaflah ad infinitum. Every disagreement becomes a deviation, every deviation a threat, and every Sufi becomes a suspect. Meanwhile, the Sufi extremist believes himself to be the custodian of spiritual truth, seeing the Salafi as spiritually blind, stone-hearted literalist, deprived of the inner sweetness of faith and to stretch it even further, an enemy of the beloved prophet SAW himself. Each side constructs a convenient caricature of the other —and then fights that caricature as if it were real.
The danger, however, is that rhetorical extremism does not remain rhetorical over the long run. It shapes communities. It hardens hearts. It turns mosques into enclaves, scholars into partisans and differences into hostilities. What begins as doctrinal rigidity becomes social fragmentation. And what should have been an Ummah becomes a map of feuding camps.
Yet, there is something instructive about how both Dr Idris Abdulaziz and Shaikh Dahiru Bauchi were remembered by their true students—not those who fight for them online, but those who actually sat with them. I mean, their real students, across divides, spoke about their scholarship, humility, discipline, and service. They remembered their knowledge—not their polemics. They recalled their character—not their controversies. This is a reminder that the extremists on both sides, loud as they are, do not represent the whole story.
Nigeria’s Muslim community must now decide what it wishes to inherit from its scholars: the softness of their manners or the sharpness of their debates; their mercy or their anger; their wisdom or their polemics.
To insist that disagreement must lead to division is itself an extremist position. To insist that every scholar must resemble one’s preferred tradition is another. And to pretend that Islam is too fragile to survive multiple approaches is perhaps the greatest of all.
In the end, the Ummah does not collapse because its members disagree. It collapses when disagreement becomes hatred, and hatred finds a pulpit.
May Nigeria’s Muslims learn to argue with knowledge, to differ with dignity, and to remember that Allah, in His infinite mercy, did not create only one path to Him—and certainly not only one temperament.