Art and Culture

By Fatima Badawi

The Department of English and Literary Studies at Bayero University, Kano (BUK), successfully convened a two-day National Conference to critically examine and celebrate the prolific, well-grounded and giant literary works of the literary guru, Professor Aliyu Kamal, one of the Northern Nigeria’s most influential literary figures.

Held at the University’s Main Campus under the theme “Interdisciplinary perspectives on the works of Aliyu Kamal,” the conference attracted a diverse gathering of academics, writers, students, and family members of the prolific English author.

The event served as a significant platform to re-evaluate Kamal’s contributions to Nigerian literature and his unique portrayal of the socio-cultural dynamics of Northern Nigeria, which some view as Islamic genre.

The opening ceremony was chaired by the Vice-Chancellor of Bayero University, Professor Haruna Musa, who was represented by the Deputy Vice Chancellor Research and Development, Professor Amina Abubakar. In his address, the Vice-Chancellor commended the department for its initiative, stating that “Aliyu Kamal’s works are not merely stories; they are cultural archives that document the complexities, the joys, and the challenges of our society. This conference is a vital step in preserving our intellectual heritage, and it will pave way to getting a Nobel Laureate, starting from home.”

The keynote address was delivered by the renowned literary scholar, Professor Sani Abba Aliyu, mni. In a compelling presentation were he maintained that
Kamal possessed an uncanny ability to weave intricate tales that are simultaneously local and can equally be regarded as universal. His characters grapple with issues of modernity, tradition, governance, religion and personal identity in a way that resonates deeply across the Northern Nigerian landscape. He gave a distinct voice to the Northern Nigerian experience, ensuring it was an integral part of the national literary conversation.

Over the course of the conference, multiple lead papers featured presentations from scholars from various universities across the country. Papers explored diverse aspects of Kamal’s oeuvre, including feminist readings of his female characters, post-colonial interpretations of his narratives, stylistic and metaphorical analyses of his use of language, the Islamic genre and the philosophical underpinnings of his themes.

The Head of the Department of English and Literary Studies, Dr. A’isha Umar, in her remarks, described the conference as a resounding success. “Our objective was to ignite a renewed scholarly interest in Aliyu Kamal and to introduce his rich legacy to a new generation of students. We expect an overwhelming participation and the quality of discussions today and in the remaining days of the conference. This is not an end, but a beginning of a more sustained engagement with his works.”

Some of the participants urged that the papers presented should be compiled and published in an edited volume, ensuring that the critical insights generated would contribute to future scholarship on Nigerian literature. The event firmly re-established Aliyu Kamal’s position as a cornerstone of the nation’s literary canon.

The conference is still ongoing and it is expected to finish next Thursday.

By Prof. Abdalla Uba Adamu 

Let me start with a context. It happened on June 27, 2024, Gabon’s Show on YouTube.

“Zarmalulu no work” was an expression uttered by TikTok influencer Sayyada Sadiya Haruna, describing the state of her marriage to another TikToker, Abubakar Ibrahim, a Hausa Rapper based in Kano, northern Nigeria, and known by the stage name G-Fresh Alamin. She used the expression during her interview with Hadiza Aliyu Gabon, a Kannywood (Hausa cinema of northern Nigeria) film actress, in an episode of Gabon’s YouTube Show, “Gabon,” on June 27, 2024. Haruna used the expression to inform Gabon and her viewers that G-Fresh was impotent on their wedding night, using ‘Zarmalulu’ as a social code for his non-performing reproductive organ.   

The expression, which quickly became a meme referring to the male sexual organ and its (dis)abilities, became a trending term in Hausaphone social media counterculture, and G-Fresh, usually full of swagger and macho posturing, was highly ridiculed and his swagger deflated, as it were. In this process, Haruna has provided males with an easy way of explaining their erectile dysfunction to either their partners or their healthcare provider in a less embarrassing and amusing way. The use of the term openly reveals a growing vocabulary of erotic neologisms in Hausa social media and reflects the emergence of what I refer to as Hausa digital counterculture.

This media incidence – which received massive views, significantly improving Gabon’s financial standing – reflects one of the fascinating aspects of language development within the context of media anthropology. I am pretty sure that Margaret Mead, the doyen of cultural anthropologists, would have welcomed social media and its potential in studying digital natives. Safer, too. With the increasing creation of conventional and alternative communities on social media, a new discipline has emerged to enable people to study others without the necessity of being in the same physical space and time with them. So, what exactly is “media anthropology”? 

Media anthropology is the ethnographic and critical study of how media—especially digital and social media—are embedded in the cultural, social, political, and economic lives of people. It is a subfield of anthropology that examines how people create, utilise, interpret, and are influenced by media in their daily lives. It blends the traditional ethnographic methods of anthropology—such as participant observation and in-depth interviews—with the analysis of media technologies and content.

My initial focus was on Hausa literature and its transformations – from physical print to online publishing, then to the film industry – encompassing feature films and distribution through tapes, CDs, DVDs, and YouTube series. I then moved on to music, from griot wordsmiths to rap and hip hop. It was all pretty exciting. Then, social media made its entrance and created multiple new entries into the field. 

As a media anthropologist, I immerse myself in communities—both online and offline—to understand how people engage with digital media. For this study, I focused primarily on Facebook as a social network. Hundreds of communities were created on Facebook—mainly by young people—that discuss a wide range of topics, providing a rich source of data concerning youth subcultures and how social networks offer a subversive template for creating new identities and expressions. 

As I swing from one community to another – using Robert Kozinet’s Netnographic methods – I began to notice a new pattern of language usage among young Hausa online digital natives. Then I started gathering new words and expressions that offer alternative meanings to their conventional ones. For the most part, they tended to be innocuous, while hiding a deeper, often darker meaning, and are essentially communicated to ingroup members of the communities. Quite rapidly enough, some of the words began to take on a new urban lexicon on their own. 

A typical example is “capacity,” an innocuous word that means exactly what it says: maximum production or containment. Yet, digital natives have turned it into “kafasiti” to indicate an urban cool, swagger, ability, capability, “arrived”, etc. The word is now used in multiple forms and contexts to refer to attainment of either distinction or class (“Alaji, wallahi an baza kafasiti a bikin nan”). 

But, then, old words have always had new meanings in Hausaphone urban language use. For instance, “shege” is literally a bastard in Hausa, but recontextualised to mean “an expert” or “outstanding.” “Mugu” (bad) became an adjective for extremities (“mugun kyau”, extreme beauty). “Arne” (pagan) transformed into contemporary “bro” (kai arne, yaya dai/yo, bro, wazzup?). “Kwaro” (insect) translates into a tenacious, usually studious person. For southern Nigerians, “Aboki” is an imagined insult referring to any northerner, whether Hausa or not, rather than “friend,” its actual meaning. 

Hausa digital natives utilise the unconventionality of the social media they inhabit to create neologisms that often reflect hidden, dark, or altered meanings, frequently dealing with in-group lexicons. After trawling through various sites and TikTok videos, I was able to gather approximately 35 neologisms and incorporate them into a paper I am still working on. 

Looking at these digital coinages and the transformation of words, I was struck by the fact that many of them refer to bawdy or sexually suggestive language along the entire sexual preference spectrum. They tend to be more common in social networks (e.g., Facebook, WhatsApp, Telegram, Signal), where interactions are mainly conversational, than in visual social media (e.g., TikTok, Instagram). The reason is that visuality often identifies the person easily, and in Kano, an Islamicate state in northern Nigeria, this could lead to prosecution on moral grounds. On social networking sites, users often use aliases instead of their real names. Such anonymity gives them the freedom to express their thoughts and use these neologisms in their correct grammatical sense. The sentences are meaningful only to in-group members, within or outside the online communities. 

Examples include “Malam Zakari da almajirai biyu”, referring to the male reproductive organs. “Kaya” (load, baggage) referring to trophy (girl, money, etc), “tarkon alƙali” (judge’s trap/jailbait) for pedophilic behaviour, royal rumble (orgy) and murfi (cover) referring to lesbian activity.

As I noted, over 70% of the neologisms in my collection were bawdy and sexually slanted. Their creators chose the anonymity of online communities not only to create new coinages but also to perpetuate them, without any fear of social labelling or prosecution. Some of these words will gradually become part of conventional social usage, along with their attendant meanings. There is no stopping them. Their very existence highlights another way social media is influencing our culture, language, and traditions. 

But, what do you think – good, bad, indifferent? Whatever your feeling, what can we do about it? Hausa is not the only language facing this, though. A recent book by Adam Aleksic, Algospeak: How Social Media Is Transforming the Future of Language” (July 15, 2025), reveals the international nature of this phenomenon through “algorithmic speech”. As the blurb indicates:

“From ‘brainrot’ memes and incel slang to the trend of adding ‘-core’ to different influencer aesthetics, the internet has ushered in an unprecedented linguistic upheaval. We’re entering an entirely new era of etymology, marked by the invisible forces that drive social media algorithms. Thankfully, Algospeak is here to explain. As a professional linguist, Adam Aleksic understands the gravity of language and its use: he knows how it has evolved and changed, how it reflects society, and how, in its everyday usage, we carry centuries of human history on our tongues…New slang phrases emerge and go viral overnight. Accents are shaped or erased on YouTube. Grammatical rules, loopholes, and patterns surface and transform language as we know it. Our interactions, social norms, and habits—both online and in person—shift into something completely different.”

No, I don’t have “eCopy” to Acibilistically share. You gotta buy the original print copy if you are interested in the way in which social media usage transforms contemporary language. I can give you the cover of the book for free, though!

By Habib Sani Galadima

In 2021, I attended the wedding dinner of my friend Jamilu Ibrahim Lawan. I was seated close to the front, on a white plastic chair wrapped in gold fabric. Before me, the table was neatly set: a plate of Jollof rice, definitely not Nigerian, soft meat, and chilled drinks.

Then the emcee began his greeting: “Malam Alhaji Dr. Musa, Hajiya Barrister Halima, distinguished guests…” The crowd responded with approving nods. The roll call was not mere protocol. It was a performance of hierarchy, identity, and cultural choreography; compressed into names.

Last week, I was at another gathering with my brother. We both wore beads, but his was longer and more ornate. I casually called him by his marketplace nickname “Ustaz”. Minutes later, someone suggested he should lead the zuhr prayer. I cannot say the title alone earned him that role, but I am certain it tipped the scale. In Hausa society, a name does not just identify, it calibrates power. Every title is weighed by a specific cultural logic.

Whether it is ‘Malam’, ‘Alhaji’, ‘Ustaz’, ‘Engineer’, or ‘Sarki’, each one signals something; scholarship, pilgrimage, class, inheritance, or even self-promotion. To outsiders, they may sound interchangeable. To insiders, they map power, piety, education, and ambition.

Understanding Hausa titles is not about translating words. It is about interpreting what they signify, how they command trust, confer legitimacy, or inflate status.
Ask a Hausa child who taught them how to read Qur’an, and the answer is often the same: “Malam.” But today, that word travels far beyond the Tsangaya.

Originally from the Arabic ‘mu’allim’, meaning teacher, ‘Malam’ once marked someone rooted in Islamic knowledge, versed in tafsir, guardians of moral clarity, respected in both mosque and marketplace. A ‘Malam’ was more than a scholar. He was a compass.
Now the title is elastic. It applies to schoolteachers, lecturers, civil servants, even radio presenters with confident diction. In classrooms, it confers authority. In markets, it softens tone. Sometimes it is just what you call a man whose name you do not know. And on social media, Malam can shift from respect to ridicule, used to mock someone who parades borrowed wisdom.

This stretch reflects Hausa society’s deep reverence for learning, but also its evolving standards for what counts as knowledge. Malam no longer guarantees scholarship. It signals the appearance of learning, genuine or not.

Still, the word carries weight. It opens doors, commands silence, curates tone. Whether whispered by students or shouted from campaign stages, Malam remains a title that balances between reverence and performance. Between earned wisdom and social display.

Once upon a time, calling someone ‘Alhaji’ or ‘Malam’ was enough. Today, it is Alhaji Engr. (Dr.) Chief Sani, and the wedding card has not even listed his full name yet.
Across Northern Nigeria, title stacking has become a performance of prestige. What began as distinct acknowledgments of religious devotion (Alhaji), scholarly authority (Malam), or traditional office (Waziri, Sarki or Galadima) now mingle with Western academic and professional badges like Pharm., Barr., or Engr. One name carries five honorifics.

How did we go from single titles to full-length prefixes? The answer lies in both competition and code-switching. In a society where jobs are scarce and respect is fiercely guarded, titles become symbolic currency. They signal arrival. They fend off dismissal. A stacked name becomes shorthand for success, even when its credentials are uneven.

But it is more than vanity. Hausa speakers navigate overlapping systems of esteem; Islamic virtue, traditional nobility, colonial bureaucracy, and global credentialism. The title stack tries to contain them all: faith, lineage, modernity, merit, compressed into one string of prefixes.

The cost is semantic overload. At some point, ‘Dr. Alhaji Barr.’ says less about your knowledge than about your insecurity. It clutters public introductions and invites satire, as comedians mimic “Comrade Chief (Dr.) Honourable Mallam Digital Strategist…” to lampoon inflated self-worth.

Still, the inflation persists. Because in a culture where ‘girmamawa’ is armor, each new prefix feels like one more layer of protection.

In Hausa culture, titles matter. But girmamawa (respect) runs deeper.
An old man in a village, never called Alhaji or Malam, may command more silence in a gathering than someone with ten honorifics. Why? Because Hausa society has always known the difference between a name and a reputation.

Titles like Dr., Hajiya, Malam, or Waziri can open doors. They invite polite speech, they soften refusals, they protect ego. But respect is built slowly: through action, humility, and how one treats others when no one is watching.

People admire the man who settles disputes without shouting. The woman who feeds orphans without posting about it. The trader whose word is stronger than a receipt. These are the quiet architects of girmamawa.

The tension is real. A person can be called ‘Alhaji Barrister’ and still be mocked behind their back if they abuse power. On the other hand, someone with no title might be described as ‘mutumin kirki’ (a person of upright character) and be trusted with community secrets or village leadership.

Hausa proverbs capture this wisdom. One says, “A bin da ya fi ado, shi ne hali”, meaning, (character is greater than decoration).

The lesson is simple: titles may impress, but they cannot replace trust.

By Maryam Shehu

In April 2025, the historic city of Zaria, long hailed as Birnin Ilimi (City of Knowledge), witnessed its first-ever Books and Arts Festival, a groundbreaking literary and cultural event curated by a young visionary determined to rekindle the flames of creativity in Northern Nigeria.

Despite its rich academic tradition, Zaria has often left arts, literature, and creativity feeling orphaned, without the nurturing hands they deserve. It takes a persistent muse to find a home in the hearts of the younger generation. To fill this void, in 2022, driven by passion and a deep desire to engage in literary conversations with like-minded individuals, I founded Pen Warriors. It began as a shade tree for emerging voices to be heard and appreciated.

Later, the initiative was rebranded as Bookish Alchemy, with a bookstore arm, Bookish Alchemy Bookstore, whose profits now partially fund our literary programs. Since then, we’ve hosted programs that have reached over 300 individuals, including poetry competitions, a mentorship session with Abduljalal Musa Aliyu, book chats with authors such as Sani Abdulrazak and Aliyu Danladi, serene Silent Book Reading sessions, and intensive August mentorship weekends on spoken word, short story writing, and public speaking.

Toward the end of 2024, the idea of hosting Zaria’s first Books and Arts Festival took hold of me. At first, I was paralysed by thoughts of funding. Some peers warned that such an event would require thousands of dollars I didn’t have. But the idea felt like a child ready to be born–it refused to be ignored.

I assembled a team of six brilliant minds: Halliru Sani Salihu, Abdurrazak Maiwada, Mardiyya Nura, A’isha Ibrahim Ahmad, Sani Abdulrazak, and Hadiza Isyaku Abdulsalam. We dived headfirst into planning, reaching out to guests, drafting sponsorship proposals, and building the foundation from scratch.

With the generous support of organisations like Duniate Culture (Kaduna), Gidan Dabino (Kano), Creative Corner (Kano), Katsina Times, Poetic Wednesday Initiative, Beyond the Pages, and the Bukar Usman Foundation (Abuja)–though none from Zaria itself–Bookish  Alchemy brought the Zazzau Books and Arts Festival (ZABAFEST) to life.

A FESTIVAL IS BORN

To ensure a smooth and enjoyable experience for guests and attendees, Hadiza and Mardiyya coordinated 10 incredible volunteers. Out of sheer love for the arts, Mahmud Jimada, Abdulmumini Yahuza, Abdullahi Abubakar, Maryam Jalo, Khadija, Hauwa, Asma’u, Fatima, Auwal, and Ibrahim took on various roles, including registration, ushering, stage management, and guest welfare.

On April 26–27, 2025, ZABAFEST debuted at the Sultan Muhammad Sa’ad Abubakar Assembly Hall, Barewa College.

“Maryam, how many times have you cried while putting this together? If you haven’t yet, get ready for more,” said Prof. Audee T. Giwa, a day before the festival, as he submitted his book collections, fully aware of the emotional toll such a project could take.

With the theme “Legacy Reimagined,” the dream came to life.

HIGHLIGHTS OF DAY ONE

Day One opened with the presentation of a Lifetime Achievement Award to Alhaji Ado Ahmad Gidan Dabino, actor, author, filmmaker, and cultural icon. The award was presented by Isma’il Bala, author of Ivory Nights, in a moment of reverent celebration.

Prof. Audee T. Giwa delivered a stirring keynote on The Role of Arts in Preserving Our Culture, emphasising how the arts help conserve heritage and foster unity in Nigeria’s diverse landscape.

Next came a rich Hausa panel titled “Ma’abota Al’adu: Muhimmancin Marubutan Hausa wajen Kiyaye Gadon Mu,”moderated by Mal. Abba Abubakar Yakubu, featuring Prof. Ibrahim Malumfashi, Safiyya Jibril Abubakar, and Gidan Dabino. Together, they explored how Hausa literature sustains cultural identity.

The festival’s literary journey was anchored on four key books: Ivory Nights by Isma’il Bala, ZABBA’U by Prof. Audee T. Giwa, An Abundance of Scorpions by Hadiza El-Rufai, Girls and the Silhouette of Form by Star Zahra (who could not attend due to illness)

A captivating book chat on Ivory Nights, moderated by Abduljalal Musa Aliyu, provided readers with an opportunity to engage with the author and ask questions that had lingered since the book’s release.

After lunch, the session Cultural Amnesia: What Happens When We Forget Our Culture? Brought together Sani Abdulrazak, Isma’il Bala, and moderator Ibrahim Ahmed to reflect on the consequences of cultural neglect.

“It looks like a bird entangled in a cage, but it is worth it. It will pay–not now, but definitely. Just endure the pain,” said Gidan Dabino in an emotional aside to me backstage.

The afternoon wrapped up with Ahmad Mubarak Tanimu’s African Literature Quiz. Guests and attendees were grouped and tested on their knowledge of African books, with the winners showcasing impressive literary awareness.

The day closed with the Abubakar Imam Poetry Slam, named after the legendary author of Magana Jari Ce and Tafiya Mabudin Ilimi. Twelve contestants competed under the theme Al’adunmu: A Window to the Past for a ₦200,000 prize. Judged by Namse Udosen, Nasiba Babale, and Abdulbasit Abubakar Adamu, the session left a lasting impression on the hearts of the attendees.

“It wasn’t easy to choose the winners. They came with fire in their words and metaphorized our hearts,” a judge remarked.

DAY TWO: POWER, PEACE, AND POETRY

Day Two welcomed even more guests. The panel Women, Arts, and Activism: Using Creative Expression to Promote Social Justice featured Aisha Lawan Indabawa, Hadiza El-Rufai, and Nana Sule. Their discussion, from creative writing to activism, highlighted the intersections of creativity and impact.

The next session, “The Role of Arts in Conflict Resolution and Peace Building,” moderated by Aliyu Jalal, gathered Sani Muhammad, Salim Yunusa, Nasiba Babale, and Amir Lukman Haruna to explore how poetry and storytelling can serve as tools for healing.

Nasiba Babale also hosted a moving book chat with Hadiza El-Rufai on An Abundance of Scorpions, a novel that follows a woman’s journey through loss and recovery. It was called one of the festival’s most powerful sessions.

Timely and futuristic, the panel on “Ethics of AI-Generated Arts: Authorship, Ownership, and Creativity,” moderated by Mujaheed Aminu Lilo, featured Namse Udosen, Aliyu Danladi, and Ahmad Mubarak Tanimu, sparking debate and insights into emerging creative technologies.

Prof. Giwa’s novella ZABBA’U took the spotlight next, in a discussion with Ahmad Mubarak Tanimu, drawing philosophical and literary insights from the audience.

Later, Husayn Zuguru gave a mesmerising Afrodervish performance, whirling poetry and movement into a dance of spirit and silence.

The final session, The Poetry Garden, featured open mic performances by Abdulbasit, Hidaya, Aisha Indabawa, and other talented poets. It was a closing tribute soaked in metaphor and soul.

MORE THAN A FESTIVAL

ZABAFEST 2025 welcomed over 30 guest speakers from 7 states and more than 300 attendees from 13 states, uniting people from diverse ethnic and cultural backgrounds through a shared love for literature and the arts.

“Organising a festival isn’t easy, especially with today’s financial climate, but this is a much-needed initiative in Northern Nigeria,” said Hadiza El-Rufai. “I applaud your efforts and promise our support for future editions.”

For a first-time festival in a city that rarely spotlights the arts, the positive feedback far outweighed the challenges. Attendees left inspired, encouraged, and ready to write new chapters in their own lives.

The next edition of ZABAFEST promises to be even more expansive. It will explore themes such as climate change, digital creativity, and social advocacy and feature voices from across Nigeria and beyond.

We’re just getting started. The journey continues.

Maryam Shehu wrote from Zaria via maryamshehu6354@gmail.com.

By Malam Aminu Wase

Once upon a time, Plateau State was a beacon of peace and prosperity. Nestled in the heart of Nigeria, it was a place where nature, culture, and hospitality came together in perfect harmony. Tourists enjoyed its cool weather, striking landscapes, and vibrant local communities. The Tin City, as Jos was fondly called, bustled with life, creativity, and promise.

But the tragic eruptions of religious and ethnic crises turned that promise into pain. In just a few years, the spirit of unity that defined Plateau faded, and the state began slowly declining economically, socially, and psychologically. What once symbolised Nigeria’s peaceful coexistence became a cautionary tale.

As we reflect on what was lost, we must confront what can still be regained. The nostalgia we feel for those better days is not just sentimental—it is a reminder of what is possible when peace reigns. Plateau’s beauty remains, as does the enduring goodwill of its people. We need a collective recommitment to peace, tolerance, and shared progress.

Let us not be deceived: the divisions that tore through our communities were not inevitable. They were fanned by the greed and political ambition of a few elites, who found power in division. But the people have grown wiser. Today, Plateau has a growing desire to put those dark times behind us and rebuild a society anchored in unity and mutual respect.

The future of Plateau depends on us, ordinary citizens who choose dialogue over conflict, cooperation over suspicion. If we unite sincerely, we can restore trust, attract investment, and lay the foundation for a thriving economy. Peace is not a luxury—it is the bedrock of development.

With stability, there is no limit to what Plateau can achieve. Its tourism potential, agricultural wealth, and strategic location can be leveraged to turn it into a hub of economic activity, perhaps even rivalling global success stories like the UAE, in sha Allah.

Plateau belongs to all of us. It is our shared heritage and responsibility. The time to recover its lost glory is now.

By Abbas Datti

I am worried by the increasing broadcast of music videos featuring women in revealing, indecent dressing by the popular Arewa24 television station. In sum, it has reached a tipping point where women featured in music videos are sometimes half-naked, in a provocative, obscene dressing. 

Considering its audience, Arewa24, whose programming is widely accessible to viewers of all ages, must be subjected to public scrutiny for continuously airing content that contradicts the Hausa culture and traditional values of our society.

Many of these music videos not only portray women in revealing clothing but also promote gestures and themes that are inappropriate for family viewing. The consistent exposure to such content, especially during prime time when children and young adults are most likely to be watching, raises serious questions about Arewa TV’s commitment to ethical broadcasting and social responsibility. Most of those video songs are being shown during prime time.

Our society, rich in religious moral character and cultural pride, has always upheld values that protect the dignity and modesty of individuals, particularly women. The portrayal of women in such a demeaning and objectifying manner is not only an affront to Hausa Fulani’s traditions but also sends the wrong message to younger generations.

We call on the National Broadcasting Commission (NBC) and other censorship regulatory bodies to urgently investigate some content being aired by the Arewa TV station. Strict measures should be taken to ensure that all media platforms operate within the boundaries of decency, respect, and cultural sensitivity. 

Furthermore, there is a pressing need for media houses to adopt self-regulation policies and prioritise programming that promotes positive values and Hausa cultural identity. Our religion and cultural heritage must not be compromised in the name of entertainment.

The time to act is now. Authorities must rise to the occasion and safeguard the moral fabric of the Hausa people from further extinction.

Abbas Datti writes from Kano via abbasdatti448@gmail.com.

By Salim Yunusa 

When we were neck deep into planning for KAPFEST 1.0, we decided that we would definitely have a poetry slam. Having seasoned spoken word poets on the team who had participated, judged, or simply watched one made planning for it easier. Everyone knew what to expect and what structure would work. The poetry slam was not going to be a filler—it was going to be a central experience of the festival.

Then came the aspect of naming it. Without hesitating, I suggested we either name it the Aminu Kano Poetry Slam or the Mudi Sipikin Poetry Slam. Both names carried weight. Both men represented distinct traditions of intellectualism, activism, and the power of the word. At the end, we settled for the Mudi Sipikin Poetry Slam. It felt right. It felt timely. It felt necessary.

When I informed my friend Mukhtar that we decided to name a segment of our program after his dad, he was elated. Genuinely elated. We didn’t do it because we wanted sponsorship from the family or anything like that. We didn’t do it because we were friends with the family members. We did it because of what Mudi Sipikin stood for—creative expression, social commentary, economics, science, thought, and literary legacy.

Salim Yunusa is the founder of Poetic Wednesdays Initiative and curates the Kano International Poetry Festival. He writes from Zaria, Nigeria.

He was one of those voices that had shaped public thought and intellectual culture in Arewa for decades. So came to pass the first edition of the Mudi Sipikin Poetry Slam. Young people from different places participated. They competed. They poured their hearts out. They won cash prizes. And they made history.

Two of Mudi Sipikin’s children—Mukhtar Mudi Sipikin and Sani Misbahu Sipikin—were there physically. Mukhtar, in a touching gesture, gifted the winners beautiful textile materials. The SSA to the President also showed up and made generous cash donations. It was a moment of recognition. It was a moment of continuity. It was a moment of reclaiming history.

Then came ZABAFEST. I was pleasantly surprised when they named their poetry slam after Dr. Abubakar Imam, the famous writer and intellectual who lived in Zaria. His name, for those who know, is one of the pillars of early Northern Nigerian literature. The slam segment was electric and greatly thrilled the audience. Two of Dr. Imam’s children were in attendance, and they expressed their appreciation for the gesture. It was not just about honoring their father—it was about honoring an entire generation of thinkers who laid the foundations for what we now call Northern Nigerian literature.

And then, just yesterday, the Jos Art and Culture Festival announced that there would be a poetry slam and it would be named after Danmaraya Jos. That news made me deeply happy. Danmaraya Jos was not just a musician. He was a griot. A chronicler. A custodian of memory. And seeing young people take the initiative to immortalize his name within a literary event speaks volumes. It is not about nostalgia. It is about remembering rightly. It is about giving names their due.

During the opening ceremony of the maiden Kano International Poetry Festival in 2024, I emphasized the significance of literary festivals, stating: “Can we have enough festivals? I am thrilled that we are having literary festivals spring up in this part of the country, where we have many unsung literary heroes and heroines. You see, festivals are remarkable opportunities to educate, empower, enlighten, and entertain the public. They are a breath of fresh air, where we reignite the fires of our literary passion, cultivate new friendships and rekindle old ones, and above all, engross ourselves in rich conversations about the arts, culture, music, and poetry.”

This is why naming these events after literary icons goes way beyond immortalizing them. It is a way of preserving their contributions to the literary world. It is a method of introducing their names—and possibly their work—to younger audiences who may never encounter them otherwise. When I curated the poetry exhibition on the life of Alu Ɗan Sidi, I realized how much has been forgotten. For many attendees, it was the first time they were hearing that name, let alone engaging with the literary and scholarly contributions of the emir. But what pleased me most was how that exhibition opened a portal of learning. It sparked appreciation. It generated questions. And it even led to plans for follow-up conversations and more literary and cultural exploration on of our rich literary legacy. That is how preservation begins.

We are in a time where the literary contributions of our ancestors are being neglected or sidelined. Curriculums barely reflect their names. Public discourse often forgets them. Archives are dusty. Monuments are few. So it is refreshing—no, it is necessary—to see young people bringing back these names and personalities to life through poetry, exhibitions, festivals, and critical discussions. This is more than memory work. It is cultural survival. It is literary resistance. It is about stitching our present to our past, so that the future does not forget.

Hopefully, this growing momentum will lead to proper archiving of their works. Hopefully, it will inspire scholars to take interest in their contributions. Hopefully, it will lead to deeper appreciation and appropriate honor for their legacies, in Nigeria and beyond.

Because the names live on. Because we must speak them. Because the griots must never be forgotten.

By Salihi Adamu Takai

Farida Musa Kalla(FMK) should be the exact definition of the Hausa woman in Kano, not as some of themmischievously intend to misrepresent to the world, being a hope of a lavish and luxurious life without a purpose in their matrimonial home. 

FMK, a woman who married her husband in her early years during her university days, uses her courage and ambition to define how women should be. She has steadfastly retained her femininity, contrasting with how others view them. 

Women are not a liability and shouldn’t be seen as such, neither by how “feminists” position them nor through the extremism of “masculinists.”

I was on Facebook, browsing my timelines when I came across a video on the DCL Hausa Page featuring an interview with Farida Musa Kalla, the CEO of FMK Nigerian Ltd. The program is titled “Sirrin Ɗaukaka,” and it invitesindividuals whose names trend in the media. 

In the interview, FMK disclosed how she started the business with a bit of capital of 30k in her matrimonial home. She used the market tactics she’s known for to advertise her business, recording videos for the materials she sells. This was the first time her name started coming to the media—Facebook, X, and YouTube.

As she improved the business, her husband advised her to put 600k in the business, given to her by her mother, to buy a car. According to her, this 600k expanded the business and blessed it in every second. And today she runs the business with hundreds of millions. 

As FMK’s business improves and gains recognition in the market, she poses a threat to prominent marketers in Kano, such as Mudassir & Brothers. They have started to adopt her market strategies — using videos to unveil their faces as the CEOS of their company, as she has been doing.

Interestingly, FMK has not been using immoral activities just to advertise her business, but rather strategies that are not questionable for a married woman. 

FMK should be a challenge to all the women in Hausa land who think that they’re a liability to their husbands, as they “belong to the kitchen,” as propagated by the immediate former President of the Federal Republic of Nigeria, Muhammadu Buhari.

Salihi Adamu Takai wrote via salihiadamu5555@gmail.com.

By Muhammad Ahmad Iliasu

When Barr. Ammani recommended Hillary Clinton’s Autobiography ‘Living History’ to me back in 2018, I said to myself where could I find it? Because, among others, one thing was certain; books that are authored across the ocean are not easy to find. And if, in the rare case, they are available, a young student like me was most likely priced out of contention.

Then one day, during one of my trekking braggadocios between Kantin Kwari, Bata to Sabon Gari, I stumbled upon an intensely greying old man of modest stature, smiley and incredibly alert and mobile for a man of his age. What pulled my attention to his makeshift shop wasn’t him, but rather the large book carrying the face of Herbert Hoover – USA’s 31st President.

At that time, there were a lot of debates in our Macro class in BUK on Buhari’s Protectionist policy. And with Yanis Varoufakis’s dominance on my bookshelf, how protectionism backfired against Hoover as stated in his ‘Global Minotaur’ became of great interest to me. I didn’t only want to know all about protectionism in the 1930s but the whole lifetime of President Hoover and his administration.

Therefore I stepped to the old man, pointed at the book and asked ‘how much is that one, Baba?’ ‘It’s price is two-thousand five-hundred Naira, boy’ – he replied. I responded ‘what?’ – almost terrified by its incredible cheapness, even though I didn’t have that amount at the time. To which he incredibly remarked ‘if you are truly serious, I will leave it to you at one-thousand seven-hundred Naira’. I laughed and borrowed the money from my boss’s change to settle the payment. I asked him once again ‘do you by any chance have Living History?’ The old man smiled and said ‘That will be Hillary Clinton’s Autobiography. I sold it two days ago. But I have ‘Women in Charge’. He put my curiosity into perspective with that response. Because I didn’t think he would know that instantly. And from then my relationship with him became very close. I admired his familiarity with books, genres and authors. And he became fond of how much I was willing to spend on books.

Interestingly, we never exchanged contacts. I usually stopped by his place anytime my boss sent me to Sabon Gari. And whenever he had a book he knew I’d like, he would keep asking his customers if they knew one big lad from the core metropolis who is crazy about books – I knew that because he asked three people who knew me and passed the message.

Beyond the unbelievable cheapness of his books, what made Alaji Garba special wasn’t his eagerness to sell, but knowing what his customers wanted to buy. He had a way of profiling people’s interest perfectly. For example, anytime he had an autobiography of a famous leader or historical figure he would try his best to see me acquire it. I recall how he kept the biography of Joseph Stalin waiting for weeks even though many wanted to get it ahead of me. Funny enough, I didn’t know who Stalin was at that time. He just believed I would like it. And he was right.

From him I acquired more than 20 biographies of US presidents including those of Washington, Maddison, Jefferson, Lincoln, FDR and Reagan. I first heard about The Bourbons, House of Windsor and The Bolsheviks from him. Better yet, he supplied deep readings on them. I got classics authored by Rousseau, Locke, Homer, Byron, Marx, Calder, Orwell, Dante and Dumas from Alaji Garba.

He introduced me to the artistic savagery of Mario Puzo’s Mafia and the boiling horror of Stephen King. I know Jenni Calder and her father Angus Calder because of Alaji Garba, and thanks to that I know Thomas Carlyle and whoever he mentioned in his analysis of Heroes. I’ve forgotten to mention the book “Heroes” by Jenni which Alaji Garba gave me almost for free, the very book whose analytical dexterity formed the earliest foundation of my ability to conflate history with literature, personality with reality, and what an author seeks to achieve with every detail of his book.

On the afternoon I bought Eisenhower’s biography, Alaji Garba gave me ‘Thirty Centuries of Command’ for free. And beyond acquiring familiarity with the military-industrial complex, the misinformations in the Thirty Centuries of Command on Sultan Muhammad al-Fatih rattled me into reading the history of the Ottoman Empire since Sulayman Shah and Ertugrul up to Lawrence of Arabia and Mustafa Kemal Attaturk.

Indeed, I am nothing without my bookshelf, and my bookshelf would be nothing without Alaji Garba’s heavenly supply. There are five times more books on my shelf that were supplied by Alaji Garba than any other bookseller. And he’s probably only edged by Jakara City on the quantity of my readings supplied. The poor man, whom I truly loved, probably had no idea what he was doing jumping from one shadow to another under a bridge with those small sacks of old treatises. He was probably just trying to put food on his table, unsure of who next will buy, and whether that will be enough to pay the fare home. But he was more than that. And I wish he knew it. I wish he knew how many lives he changed with that materially unrewarding trade. I wish he can get recognition for the volume of knowledge he worked very hard to put into the hands of people who otherwise would never have gotten the chance to get.

I wish he knew how much I loved him and how much I understood his efforts and how much I admired him and his trade. I wish he knew how people like him inspire me to be great despite having no independent ambition to be so, just so that when I tell their story to the people who should’ve known them it will bear some weight. I write, partially, so I could tell the stories that may never be told. And Alaji Garba’s is truly one of a kind. May Allah rest him in His eternal peace. May ‘Iqra’a’ rescues him from the wrath on the day of judgement. For certainly very few have dedicated more to the love of reading.

Muhammad Ahmad Iliyasu is Strategic Communications Officer at the Center for Fiscal Transparency and Public Integrity. He can be reached via his email: Muhada102@gmail.com

By Usman Abdullahi Koli

The grandeur of Kano’s emirate is not merely an inheritance of a throne but the custodianship of a deep-rooted history, culture, and tradition that represents the very soul of African heritage. From the era of Bagauda to the reign of Ado Bayero, the emirate has stood as a symbol of resilience, dignity, and continuity. 

Today, as the emirship tussle continues, it presents a defining moment not just for those directly involved but for the entire Kano people, whose unity and stability rest upon the wisdom of their leaders. It is a moment that demands measured actions, guided by history and the sacrifices of great monarchs who prioritised the collective good over personal ambitions.

The Kano Emirate is no stranger to succession disputes; however, history has shown that wise leaders have navigated such crises with patience, foresight, and a commitment to preserving the integrity of the institution. From the reign of Emir Muhammadu Sanusi I to that of Ado Bayero, the emirate has undergone significant transitions- some peaceful, others contentious- but ultimately resolved with a sense of responsibility toward the larger interest of Kano.

Today, we see echoes of the past in the contest between Emir Muhammadu Sanusi II and Emir Aminu Ado Bayero. While the legal and political dimensions of the crisis continue to unfold, the moral weight on those involved is immense. The key question remains: Will the dignity, harmony, and prestige of Kano take precedence over personal interests, or will history remember this episode as a moment of avoidable discord?

History is replete with examples of monarchs who faced displacement yet responded with wisdom, ensuring that their thrones remained symbols of honour rather than sources of division. In 1936, King Edward VIII of Britain abdicated the throne out of personal conviction, avoiding a constitutional crisis. 

More recently, King Juan Carlos of Spain voluntarily stepped aside to preserve national unity and dignity. Within Africa, deposed monarchs have often demonstrated restraint, placing the peace of their people above personal grievances.

A particularly relevant example is Emir Muhammadu Sanusi II, who, despite the political implications of his removal in 2020, did not rally his supporters to contest the decision. Instead, he accepted his fate with remarkable composure, trusting in destiny and the historical cycle that governs leadership.

Governor Abba Kabir Yusuf is enormously responsible for ensuring that his administration’s actions do not fuel unnecessary tensions in Kano. While he holds constitutional authority over traditional institutions, wisdom dictates that such decisions be made with a far-reaching vision that safeguards Kano’s unity, stability, and the sanctity of its traditions. Political decisions should not be allowed to erode the revered position of the emirate.

To Emir Aminu Ado Bayero, this moment calls for deep introspection on the true essence of leadership. His revered father, Emir Ado Bayero, was an emblem of peace, patience, and sagacity. The respect he commanded was not merely because he sat on the throne but because of his ability to navigate crises with wisdom. Now, his son faces a historic test: will he allow personal ambition to override Kano’s peace, or will he embrace the noble path of sacrifice? The decisions he makes today will shape how history remembers him.

To Emir Muhammadu Sanusi II, his reinstatement is a return to power and an opportunity to lead with renewed wisdom and vision. His expectations are immense—not for vengeance or retribution, but for reconciliation and statesmanship. The people of Kano look up to him to use his vast experience, intellect, and leadership to heal divisions, restore trust, and solidify the emirate as a pillar of stability.

Kano is more than a city; it symbolises Africa’s resilience, culture, and civilization. The emirate embodies centuries of tradition that must not be tarnished by personal conflicts. The world is watching, and history is recording. The real question is not who occupies the throne today, but how that throne is preserved for generations to come.

It is crucial for external influences, particularly those in Abuja, to respect the Kano State Government’s decision. The constitution recognizes states as custodians of their emirates, and any interference from outside forces risks escalating tensions rather than resolving them. Political insinuators should avoid fueling discord and instead honour the autonomy of Kano’s leadership.

Now, the great tradition of the Sallah Durbar, which both factions claim to organise, must not become a battleground for supremacy. The grand procession, deeply embedded in Kano’s cultural and Islamic identity, is meant to unite, not divide. It should not be reduced to a contest of power. Both sides must recognize that personal ambitions should never overshadow the collective peace of Kano. True leadership is tested not in times of comfort, but in moments of crisis, and the world is watching to see whether wisdom or ego will prevail.

Great monarchs are remembered not for how fiercely they fought to retain power, but for how wisely they managed transitions, prioritized peace, and left behind legacies of honor. The lessons of Kano’s past emirs—from Bagauda to Ado Bayero—should serve as a guide for present leaders. These revered figures ruled with dignity, wisdom, and a profound sense of duty to their people.

Those who occupy the throne today must consider: Will they be remembered for upholding this legacy or for diminishing it?

May wisdom prevail over pride, and may Kano remain the fortress of culture, tradition, and unity it has always been.

Usman Abdullahi Koli wrote via mernoukoli@gmail.com.