Opinion

By Ibrahim Aliyu Gurin

What is more terrifying than violence? It is the sound of someone calling for help, with no one responding. That cry, unanswered, is the quiet horror that haunts our communities.

Last week in Kano, a family was killed in broad daylight. Neighbours reportedly heard the screams but stayed indoors. Outrage spread on social media. How could people hear such suffering and do nothing? How could an entire community remain silent while lives were being taken right next door?

At first, the silence felt unforgivable. Then I remembered something my Media and Society lecturer, Binta Suleiman Gaya, once said: crime is rarely about criminals alone. It is often a mirror of the society that allows it. Suddenly, the tragedy began to make painful sense.

I thought of my own experience. We grew up in a different Nigeria. Then, whenever discipline crossed into anger in our house, our neighbour was always the first to intervene. Once her name was mentioned,  “Hajja Mamma Yidam! Yidam!” (Rescue me), she would rush out immediately, pleading on our behalf. Sometimes we would deliberately call her name, knowing she would come to our rescue. That was how our society functioned. Not because everyone was perfect, but because everyone was involved.

We grew up in Nigeria, where even if a neighbour was beating a child, people would rush out to ask questions. Elders would intervene. Women would shout across fences. Youths would gather instinctively. No cry was ignored. No pain was considered private. That society shaped our humanity.

Today, a person can scream until their voice disappears into death, and doors remain locked. People now live only metres apart, yet are emotionally separated by fear. In Media and Society,  this condition is described as “alienation”, which is the gradual breakdown of social connection and communal responsibility.

Modern media culture has accelerated this separation. Through phones, television and social platforms, we are exposed to violence such as daily killings, kidnappings, and accidents, which are endlessly replayed. Human suffering now competes for attention in timelines and headlines.

Over time, this constant exposure creates “desensitisation”. What once shocked us now barely interrupts our scrolling. Tragedy becomes routine. Death becomes familiar. Media and Society argues that when violence becomes normalised in the media, society unconsciously absorbs that normalisation.

Alongside this is the rise of individualism. Survival has become personal. Safety has become private. The collective spirit that once defined African communities has been replaced with the logic of “mind your business.”  So when danger appears, people retreat indoors, but not always out of wickedness, but because society has trained them to think first of self, not community.

The course also explains the bystander effect, a psychological phenomenon in which individuals fail to act in emergencies because responsibility feels shared. Everyone assumes someone else will intervene. In moments like the Kano tragedy, everyone heard, and everyone waited.

Fear worsens this silence. Media reports of mob justice, wrongful arrests and police brutality have created deep public distrust. Many citizens now fear becoming suspects more than becoming helpers. The result is a society paralysed.

Media and Society helped me understand that insecurity is not only about criminals and weapons. It is also about broken trust, weakened communal values and a media environment that has reshaped human behaviour.

Our old society relied on communal vigilance. When danger came, the community itself became the first responder. Today, citizens wait for institutions that often arrive too late. The killers in Kano did not act alone. They were aided by fear and protected by our silence. 

The government must rebuild trust between citizens and security agencies. Community policing must be strengthened. Media institutions must go beyond reporting bloodshed and begin promoting empathy, social responsibility and communal vigilance. Religious and traditional leaders must revive the values that once made indifference shameful.

Beyond policies lies humanity. Every life lost affects us all. Speak up, protect your neighbours, and restore the community we once had.

We pray for the souls of those who lost their lives in Kano. May their families find strength, and may we as a society learn to act before it is too late. Let their cries not be in vain.

Ibrahim Aliyu Gurin wrote via ibrahimaliyu5023@yahoo.com.

By Abubakar Muhammad

AFCON has just concluded. Senegal won the trophy, but many football enthusiasts know that the actual play of the game is only half of the big spectacle. There are many things going on backstage that take time to materialise. When you look at the countries, roll the camera, and see them doing well, you will see patterns lock into place. There might be visible investment and development of physical infrastructure, but there is also something more to it. 

As a sideline to every soccer tournament, one of the things I pay attention to is the grassroots, street-level infrastructure that feeds talent to the national team. In these tournaments, you would not only pay attention to the official game or what happens in the big arenas, but also to the images that come out from foreign visitors depicting themselves playing outside the formal venues. The soccer crowd, wherever they are, tend to find where to play.  To host a tournament, you really need a solid infrastructure for both formal and informal arenas. But more so, this tells us stories about the status of the game, leisure and where citizens play. 

As usual, it seems Nigeria is left behind when it comes to grassroots soccer infrastructure. Senegal, Algeria, Angola, etc, have a thriving street soccer infrastructure. This infrastructure is not formal, but it seems to enjoy greater consensus that cuts across the formal-informal divide between citizens and governments. 

In Latin America, there are spaces in favelas and barrios where local kids can play the game. The spaces may not be the same, may use different nomenclature, may straddle the line between the formal and the informal, but they retain the same purpose and spirit.

In Senegal, they are in the form of navétanes, a semi-formal regional tournament played in local spaces. These spaces are not owned by the government or private individuals, unlike, say, primary school premises or other government buildings. They are simply communal spaces where the navétanes games are played. These spaces are respected by everyone; no encroachment or erection of structures, public or privately owned. Kids start their careers in their neighbourhoods and progress to regional teams, then to the professional league, the national team, and onward to international careers. You find similar spaces in Brazil as developing ground for talents that would later go on to dazzle a global audience. 

In North Africa, they have a thriving culture of street football played in what we can call in Nigeria a 7-aside stadium. The difference is that these spaces in North Africa are free and open to everyone. They sit in open spaces in the middle of neighbourhoods. The key idea here is access and openness. The use of open space for soccer must not require any payment and must remove any other impediments that can exclude people. A truly public space is one that lets you in without charging a fee or asking for proof of innocence.

In Nigeria, empty lots and vacant spaces are constantly being developed. There is no respect for spaces where kids can play. The idea is that in places where formal sporting infrastructure is not in place, small-scale community members use these spaces for leisure and sporting activities. Kids will have a chance to play the game from a very young age until they dribble their way to the national team. The grassroots in many parts of the world are where players are developed and imbued with the spirit of the nation before they enter the academy for the refinement of their talents. 

African soccer, like its South American counterpart, is largely dependent on informal infrastructure, with local people coming together to build their own. People-as-infrastructure is a concept in which citizens enter into a series of temporary, makeshift arrangements with one another to provide services that authorities are unable to deliver.

By killing these spaces, Nigeria is killing her young talents. It makes it difficult for the local kids to develop an interest, let alone play the game and nurture their talents. Angola, not really a footballing nation, has a thriving street football culture. I noticed from the videos I watched that street lots exist, and they are everywhere. They don’t seem to be developed or encroached so rampant as we see in Nigeria. It seems these spaces are protected by consensus, just like they are protected in Brazilian favelas and Argentina’s barrios. 

Football is the game of the poor. Commercialise football, and you create a barrier where only the rich can afford to play. Commercial football delivers more money to the pockets of a few individuals without bringing much-needed collective glory to the national team. The English Premier League is the wealthiest league in the world, but the country has fallen far behind other footballing nations.  Germany has an academy system in place, but their overall sporting culture is anchored around a process that resembles socialist democratic football more than an individualistic, capitalist model that Nigeria tends to lean towards. 

One of the biggest problems that Nigeria’s football faces as an institution is the seeming, increasing reliance on the academy for its national talents. Academies are simply there for money. Another thing is the seeming sole reliance on foreign-based players. This is understandable for the refined talents abroad, but there seems to be a problem with that in Nigeria. 

There is nothing wrong with foreign-based players populating the national team. Countries tap into their talents abroad, sharpened by cutting-edge training models and infrastructure. One of the biggest problems with this, in the case of Nigeria, is that players know exactly why they’re called up to the national team. They understand why, and there is no confusion about the nature of the transaction. There is nothing that dilutes or softens the nature of the transaction. The country only sees them when it needs them. The country is not there when they need her, and so, in their bloom and glory, they may not give their all. They will not play with their blood and heart. 

Secondly, tapping into foreign players in Nigeria is not grounded in any philosophical sporting policy. For instance, what does it mean for a player to play for the national team? What does the national team mean to them? What is that one thing that all players can understand as a common language and shared values? Something like a unique national culture common among the youth? You can only find this in street football played across the country. Pick that ideology and craft it into the national sports policy. What we see instead is total indifference at best, if not outright obstacles thrown in the way of the nation’s youth by the government and private interest groups. 

By eliminating informal spaces, we have destroyed the conviviality and socio-spatial relations that emerge from street games. Street soccer gives the manager of the national team a foundation, something to start with. The street is where every player understands what it means to play for the national team. From the ground up, the Nigerian player can develop a sense of Nigerianness, just as French players are instilled with French values and what it means to play for the national team. But since we don’t have the formal structures and arrangements of the French, Germans, or English, where players are developed through various academies under the guidelines of the national football federations, the street is where our players should build their character. The Senegalese have taken the navétanes and use it as a national sports policy. It is an informal, grassroots football that develops independently of the government. The coach and players speak the same football language that came from the streets. 

By erecting structures on every available space in Nigeria, you tighten the rope for the children in local communities and make it hard for ordinary folks to make their way to the national team. So many talents would slip through the cracks before rising to the top and reaching their full potential. We are already importing a dangerous trend from abroad, where only kids from wealthy backgrounds can play the game and reach the professional level.

And since we don’t have meaningful ways in which citizens feel indebted to their governments and their countries beyond familial ties, the very few that already found their way to the highest level of the game know why they’re playing. They’re simply playing commercial football. They have already paid the price on the way to Europe without the aid of any national structure. When you call them up to the national team after this, they will not play with their heart and their blood. 

Abubakar Muhammad is from Kano, Nigeria. 

By Zayyad I. Muhammad 

During President Bola Ahmed Tinubu’s official visit to the United Arab Emirates to participate in the 2026 edition of Abu Dhabi Sustainability Week (ADSW), Nigeria announced that it will co-host Investopia with the UAE in Lagos, Nigeria, in February. The initiative aims to attract global investors and accelerate sustainable investment inflows into Nigeria.

Nigeria has also concluded a Comprehensive Economic Partnership Agreement (CEPA) with the UAE to deepen cooperation across key sectors, including renewable energy, infrastructure, logistics, and digital trade. The agreement is expected to significantly strengthen trade relations and deliver tangible benefits for Nigerian businesses, professionals, and workers.

Overall, this expanding trade and economic relationship between Nigeria and the UAE represents a welcome development for both countries, with the potential to drive growth, job creation, and long-term economic collaboration.

However, on the international security front, the UAE is increasingly viewed through a more complex lens. Over the past decade, the country has pursued a more assertive foreign policy, particularly in parts of the Middle East and Africa.

The UAE has faced allegations and scrutiny from some governments, international organisations, media outlets, human rights groups, and analysts regarding its involvement in conflict-affected and politically fragile environments. These debates often centre on whether UAE actions have influenced or intensified existing crises, especially in several Muslim-majority countries.

In Sudan, various reports have alleged that the UAE was involved in the supply of weapons, including drones, to actors in the ongoing conflict. Some accounts claim that arms transfers were routed through neighbouring countries such as Chad, Libya, and Uganda, and that humanitarian operations served as logistical cover. Emirati authorities have denied these allegations, maintaining that the UAE supports humanitarian relief efforts and political solutions to the crisis.

In Yemen, the UAE was a key member of the Saudi-led coalition opposing the Iran-aligned Houthis. At the same time, analysts have pointed to UAE support for the Southern Transitional Council (STC), which seeks greater autonomy or independence for southern Yemen. Critics argue that this support contributed to political fragmentation, while others describe it as a pragmatic response to local security challenges and counter-terrorism objectives.

In Libya, the UAE has frequently been cited in international reports as a major external supporter of forces led by Khalifa Haftar and the Libyan National Army. Allegations include the provision of military assistance during operations against Tripoli-based authorities. UAE officials have consistently rejected claims of direct military involvement, emphasising their support for stability and counter-extremism.

In Somalia and the wider Horn of Africa, some observers have raised concerns about the UAE’s engagement with regional authorities and security actors, particularly in Puntland and Somaliland, suggesting that this involvement may have influenced internal political and security dynamics.

More recently, the Federal Government of Somalia announced the cancellation of all agreements with the UAE, including deals covering port operations, security cooperation, and defence. Somali authorities cited alleged violations of national sovereignty as the reason for the decision. The UAE, however, maintains that its activities in Somalia and the region are conducted within frameworks of cooperation, development assistance, and mutual security interests.

In 2022, the United States Treasury sanctioned six Nigerian individuals for allegedly raising funds in the UAE to support Boko Haram. This followed earlier actions by UAE authorities in 2021, when individuals were arrested and prosecuted for operating a fundraising network linked to the group. Despite these incidents, Nigeria–UAE relations remain largely focused on investment, trade, and broader economic cooperation.

Zayyad I. Muhammad writes from Abuja via zaymohd@yahoo.com.

By Ahmed Usman

Away from political noise and headline-grabbing theatrics, Jigawa State under Governor Umar Namadi is pursuing a disciplined development path; one that prioritises agriculture, human capital, and long-term economic foundations.

In Nigeria’s political culture, analysts have long relied on improvised metrics to judge elected officials: the first 100 days, the first year, or the widely appealed 18-month threshold, said to be the point when a new administration needs to settle, understand its responsibilities, and develop its own identity separate from the previous government. Yet in practice, Nigerian governments often have only two effective years to deliver results before politics and electioneering reclaim the agenda. 

The remaining two years are usually taken over by political campaigns, party struggles, and early preparations for the next election. By that measure, the administrations sworn in May 2023 have crossed the decisive midpoint, and any government unable to clearly articulate its policy direction, measurable outcomes, and long-term vision at this stage must confront uncomfortable questions about competence and priorities.

This moment offers a useful lens through which to reassess Jigawa State, a place often dismissed by outsiders as economically marginal or politically inconsequential. For decades, Jigawa was viewed through a narrow lens of poverty rankings and limited industrial activity. With agriculture providing livelihoods for nearly two-thirds of households and with relatively low levels of urbanisation, critics frequently argued that the state lacked the structural foundations to become economically competitive. Such narratives, however, ignore a fundamental truth about development: transformation often begins quietly, long before it becomes visible in national headlines. Under Governor Umar Namadi Danmodi, Jigawa is now presenting evidence of such a shift, deliberate, methodical, and quietly disruptive.

I do not write as a political pundit but as a citizen who cares deeply about his locality, a state too often stereotyped and misunderstood. Jigawa has long been caricatured as peripheral, yet today it provides an unlikely case study in how disciplined governance can chart a new economic course. What makes this transformation compelling is not bombast or political spectacle, but the understated way the administration communicates, through actions, policies, and investments rather than theatrics. The government speaks not in rhetoric but in results that are gradually reshaping the state’s economic and social landscape.

That message is clearest in the administration’s approach to agriculture. Recognising that Jigawa’s comparative advantage lies in its fertile land and large smallholder base, Danmodi has pushed aggressively to modernise the sector. Irrigation expansion, improved access to inputs, and strengthened value chains are already raising yields and market access. Given that Jigawa possesses nearly 150,000 hectares of land suitable for irrigated agriculture, this strategy is not only rational but transformative, positioning the state as a future food production hub in northern Nigeria. These efforts may not dominate front-page news, but they represent the kind of foundational work that changes economic destinies.

That same quiet logic underpins reforms in education, perhaps the most consequential area for a state where literacy remains below the national average. From classroom renovations and teacher training to curriculum enhancement, these interventions reflect a long-term commitment to human capital rather than a search for quick political points. In a region where poor educational outcomes fuel cycles of poverty, ignoring such structural issues would be far more costly than confronting them.

Equally important is the administration’s effort to build an economy that is less dependent on federal allocations. In a country where many states survive almost entirely on monthly revenue from Abuja, Jigawa’s pursuit of internally generated revenue, industrial growth, and investment-friendly reforms reflects an understanding that true development requires financial independence. The state’s infrastructure push, spanning rural electrification, road construction, and urban renewal, is designed to support this transition. Reliable electricity, particularly, is indispensable for revitalising small and medium enterprises, which account for the lion’s share of non-oil employment in Nigeria.

These economic initiatives intersect meaningfully with reforms in healthcare and social protection. For a state grappling with high maternal and infant mortality, investments in primary healthcare centres, vaccination programs, and emergency response systems signal a welcome shift toward preventive, not reactive, governance. Jigawa’s emerging life-cycle social protection model, supporting individuals from pregnancy through childhood, youth, and old age, offers an unusually holistic approach in a country where social safety nets are often fragmented or nonexistent. Together, these policies communicate a consistent message: development is possible only when people are healthy, educated, and economically empowered.

Taken as a whole, the administration’s work sends a subtle but powerful signal. It suggests a government not merely managing day-to-day affairs but intentionally laying the groundwork for what the state could become. This is the essence of Jigawa’s quiet revolution: a governance model that prioritises structure over spectacle and competence over performative politics. It is a reminder that some of the most meaningful transformations are neither loud nor dramatic; they are steady, disciplined, and anchored in long-term vision.

For years, sceptics argued that Jigawa lacked the capacity to catch up with more industrialised states. But development rarely follows a straight line. It accelerates when leadership aligns with strategy, when investments target the roots rather than symptoms of underdevelopment, and when political ambition is tempered with economic realism. 

Under Danmodi, Jigawa is beginning to suggest that its future will not be determined by its past reputation but by its present choices. These choices, rooted in economic transformation, human capital development, and institutional stability, show a state no longer content to survive but ready to shape its own future.

This is why the story of Jigawa today matters. It is a reminder that progress does not always announce itself with fanfare. Sometimes, it emerges quietly, through the steady accumulation of policies that, taken together, signal a shift too significant to ignore. Under the right leadership and with the right priorities, even a state long written off by pessimists can begin to rewrite its place in the Nigerian economy. And in Jigawa, that rewriting has unmistakably begun.

Ahmed Usman wrote via ahmedusmanbox@gmail.com.

By Tahir Mahmood Saleh

Kabeer 2Pac’s rise to online fame began in early 2025, when he started posting highly unconventional videos on his TikTok account. Born Kabiru Isma’il and known online as Kabeer2pac (a name he chose in homage to the late American rapper 2Pac Shakur), he quickly garnered massive attention for performing bizarre, often shocking stunts. His content included immersing himself in stagnant open cesspools and smearing sediment on his body, actions he explained were not signs of madness but deliberate attempts to “trend” and gain visibility online (“ɗaukaka na ke nema”).

The TikTok metrics behind his rise were striking. Within months of posting these videos, Kabeer had amassed millions of views and a large following. One of his most-viewed clips, in which he shook off charcoal dust while wearing a distinctive winter jacket, reached over 51 million views, and at one point, his account had approximately 1.8 million followers and 15.1 million likes. These numbers reflect how quickly his brand took off in an environment where the algorithm rewards shocking or novel content.

Kabeer’s content evolved over time as he experimented with different styles and stunts to maintain attention. After his early cesspool videos gained traction, he shifted to other eye-grabbing visuals, such as having bags of charcoal dust dumped on him, which again drew viral attention. This strategy positioned him as a cultural exemplar of the “attention economy,” in which creators leverage extreme content to secure views, engagement, and, eventually, financial or material rewards.

His fame translated into real-world opportunities, though not without controversy. A notable outcome of his online popularity was an invitation from Gwanki Travels and Tours International Ltd in Kaduna, who publicly offered him a free ticket to perform Umrah (a pilgrimage to Mecca). Kabeer expressed gratitude for achieving the fame he sought and noted that such endorsement was among the factors that drove him to continue his work. However, reactions were mixed: while many fans celebrated his creative drive, some religious leaders and critics warned against harmful behaviour and urged investment in education or trade instead.

Despite his meteoric rise, Kabeer himself acknowledged the ephemeral nature of his viral popularity. In later interviews shared online, he said he understood that people might soon tire of his antics as the public constantly seeks fresh content and new personalities. Beyond the sensational stunts, he also sought to diversify his videos by including short comedy skits and dance clips to retain audience interest, a common strategy among creators seeking to build sustainable relevance.

Today, the outcome is telling. There is no consistent content relevance, no major promotion, no formal education leveraged, no lasting sponsorships, no two million followers, just a fading digital footprint. Kabeer2pac’s story is not merely about an individual; it is a cautionary tale.

For Arewa content creators, the lesson is clear: fame without strategy is noise, not power. Visibility alone does not ensure sustainability. Without structure, skill development, personal growth, and long-term planning, viral attention fades as quickly as it arrives. In the digital age, the challenge is not how to trend, but how to remain relevant with dignity, purpose, and value.

Tahir Mahmood Saleh wrote from Kano via tahirmsaleh.seggroup@gmail.com.

Today, 15th January 2026, we celebrate an accomplished public servant and a distinguished leader — Her Excellency, Dr Mariya Mahmoud Bunkure, Honourable Minister of State for the Federal Capital Territory (FCT), Abuja.

As you mark another year of life and purpose, we reflect not just on the passage of time but on the profound impact of your service. Since assuming office, you have brought a unique blend of compassion, resilience, and an unwavering commitment to the “People’s First” mandate to your role.

Dr Bunkure, you have redefined public service in the FCT, demonstrating that leadership is truly about touching lives and building sustainable legacies. Your integrity, accessibility, and work ethic continue to inspire many.

We pray that Almighty Allah continues to grant you sound health, divine wisdom, and renewed strength as you discharge your responsibilities to the nation with distinction.

Happy Birthday, Ma.
May the years ahead be filled with success, fulfilment, and a lasting legacy.

Signed
Dr Saifullahi Shehu Imam

By Aminu Babayo Shehu

Nigeria is entering a period where technology is no longer optional for national development. Around the world, countries that once depended on natural resources are rapidly transforming their economies through innovation, high-tech manufacturing and knowledge-driven industries. Nigeria’s long-term plan, Nigeria Agenda 2050, recognises this reality. One of its key policy directions is to accelerate technology development across all sectors to increase the production of high-technology products. This policy is not simply aspirational. It is urgent, practical and necessary for economic survival.

For decades, crude oil has dominated Nigeria’s revenue base. Yet oil is a finite resource, prone to global price shocks and increasingly less attractive as the world shifts to renewable energy. Technology products, on the other hand, are expanding at a scale that dwarfs resource-based industries. The global tech market is projected to exceed $10 trillion over the next decade. Nations that embrace high-tech production are generating new wealth, attracting investment, and creating jobs at a pace unimaginable under traditional economies.

Countries such as South Korea, Singapore, India, and China were once struggling nations with limited natural resources. South Korea transformed from poverty to a top global economy by investing in electronics, telecommunications, robotics and semiconductors. Today, companies like Samsung contribute more to South Korea’s GDP than the entire oil sector contributes to Nigeria.

China shifted from low-wage manufacturing to high-tech dominance in areas such as electric vehicles, drones, AI, and telecommunications. Its tech exports now reshape global markets. India invested heavily in its tech talent, building the world’s largest IT outsourcing industry and becoming a leading hub for software engineering, fintech, and space technology. These countries show that consistent investment in research, innovation, and human capital produces national transformation.

Nigeria has the potential to make similar progress, but time is not on our side. The world will not wait for us. If we continue to rely on crude oil as our primary revenue source, we will fall even further behind. Our young population, one of the largest in Africa, is an asset only if it is empowered with digital skills, research opportunities, and innovative platforms. Otherwise, it becomes a liability.

High-technology production can reshape Nigeria’s economy in several ways. First, it will diversify national revenue and reduce the need for excessive borrowing. Countries with strong technology sectors generate significant income from intellectual property, digital services, hardware production, and global tech partnerships. Nigeria can do the same by promoting local manufacturing of electronics, renewable energy components, agri-tech equipment, medical devices, cybersecurity solutions, and AI-powered tools.

Second, investment in technology drives innovation across all sectors. Agriculture can be transformed through agri-drones, smart irrigation and data-driven farm management. Healthcare can be strengthened through telemedicine, diagnostic tools and biotechnology research. Security agencies can rely on surveillance drones, satellite imaging and digital intelligence rather than outdated methods. Education can be improved through digital learning platforms, simulation labs and computing infrastructure. These are the kinds of advancements that lift entire nations.

Third, high-tech development creates high-quality jobs. Instead of exporting raw materials, Nigeria can export advanced products and services. Instead of depending on foreign technology, we can build our own solutions. Instead of losing talented youth to migration, we can build an economy that retains and rewards them.

However, none of this will happen by accident. Nigeria must deliberately invest in research and development, strengthen universities and technical institutions, build innovation hubs, support local manufacturing, and fund STEM programs from primary school through postgraduate level. Policies must be consistent, leadership must be committed, and institutions must have the resources needed to produce world-class results.

If Nigeria takes the Nigeria Agenda 2050 technology policy seriously, we can transition from a raw-material exporter to a high-tech producer within a generation. But if we continue to postpone action, the cost will be grave. Nations that invest early in technology win the future. Nations that delay are left behind.

Nigeria has the talent, the population and the potential. What we need now is the political will and the investment to match our ambition. High-technology production is not just an economic option. It is the pathway to sovereignty, prosperity and long-term stability.

Aminu Babayo Shehu is a Software Engineer, Mobile Developer, and Technology Advocate. He can be reached at absheikhone@gmail.com.

I watched with dismay a video circulating on social media in which an officer in uniform—possibly a cadet working with the Bauchi-Road Traffic-Agency (BAROTA)—was being chased by some youths at the Bakaro/Karofi/Shagari Roundabout. They were stoning him as he unconsciously ran across the road for his dear life.

The scenario is both frightening and disturbing. How can an officer on official duty be chased, possibly by a mob, simply for trying to discharge his responsibility of enforcing safety regulations? Unfortunately, some people now consider this a crime. For this reason, I am appealing to His Excellency Governor Bala Abdulkadir Mohammed to issue a marching order to address this unruly behaviour.

I have often written about BAROTA, particularly its operations and engagement. On many occasions, as a spectator and observer, I have suggested ways they can improve their work to enhance the safety of motorists and other road users. This is a pledge I made with honesty and sincerity of purpose, and I will continue until the desired objectives are achieved. I am glad to see other concerned individuals involved in this advocacy. Let us maintain the tempo, please.

In his speech during the inauguration of the officers, His Excellency Governor Bala Abdulkadir Mohammed (Kauran Bauchi) made it clear that the agency was established, among other things, to address widespread road traffic violations and enhance road safety across the state.

Other responsibilities of the agency include removing and impounding vehicles obstructing highways, arresting road traffic violators, ensuring smooth traffic flow in urban centres and major towns, and promoting road safety awareness among residents. He urged the cadets to work closely with conventional security agencies to maintain order and safety on the roads.

Given the purpose of their work, these officers should be supported in discharging their duties to save lives and property, ensure safer roads, and instil discipline among motorists and other road users.

What went wrong?

Since its inception, the agency’s officers have faced numerous public challenges during official assignments. Passersby who are supposed to support them in carrying out their duties often end up creating hostile and chaotic situations.

This will not be unconnected to the poor perception and limited understanding of the essence of their work in securing people’s lives and property, perhaps resulting from their engagement and operational practices.

Way Forward. 

Therefore, it is incumbent upon the Agency to introduce workshops for its personnel on the rules of engagement in accordance with best practices, and to embark on rigorous awareness and sensitisation campaigns through stakeholder engagements with relevant groups, including NURTW, Achaba, and Keke Napep riders’ unions, as well as other road users.

There is a need for town hall meetings, street rallies, and sustained radio programmes, including phone-in segments, dramas, and jingles, to promote buy-in and public acceptance. The Agency should also involve religious and traditional institutions and encourage them to use their platforms for these campaigns. These and many more initiatives will help in addressing the growing resentment.

The leadership of NURTW and Achaba should educate their members on the importance of complying with all rules and regulations and ensure they possess all necessary documents to operate legally. The general public, on the other hand, should understand that these officers are legally engaged and work in strict adherence to the law establishing the Agency. Any attempt to obstruct or prevent them from performing their lawful duties will be treated as sabotage and will attract the full wrath of the law.

These and other similar initiatives will help bring sanity to road operations while creating an enabling environment for peaceful coexistence and harmonious relationships between the Agency and road users.

Isyaka Laminu Badamasi is at No. 555, Ajiya Adamu Road, Bauchi. He can be reached at makwalla82@gmail.com.

By Nasir Yusuf Jibril Kufa

It is a common misconception, especially among those with low literacy levels, that the difference between professional practitioners and assistants or technicians is not understood. Professional fields require specialised training and proper qualifications before a person can be recognised as a professional. Examples of such fields include Medicine, Law, Engineering, Journalism, etc.

However, many people often confuse professionals with assistants. For instance, in Law, some people believe that studying Law automatically makes someone a lawyer, without knowing that Law School is also required. In Medicine, many people believe that all healthcare workers are doctors, even though nurses, laboratory technicians, and pharmacists are distinct from physicians. 

The same misunderstanding also exists in Engineering, where people sometimes call anyone who repairs electrical appliances or vehicles an engineer. 

Sadly, this misunderstanding also affects Journalism, which is the main focus of my piece. 

Many people believe that journalism simply means sitting behind a microphone, reading the news, or talking on the radio. This misconception has made some assume that anyone who can speak confidently or operate studio equipment is automatically a journalist. In reality, journalism goes far beyond studio presentation. It is a professional field that requires training, ethical responsibility, critical thinking, and commitment.

 A professional, well-trained journalist is someone who has acquired formal education or structured training in journalism or mass communication. Such a journalist understands news values, reporting techniques, media ethics, and the laws guiding the profession. Their work begins long before they appear behind a microphone or camera. They research issues, verify facts, interview credible sources, cross-check information, and ensure balance and fairness in their reports. Because Journalism is about truth, accuracy, and accountability, not just voice delivery or public appearance.

Professional journalists are guided by ethical principles such as objectivity, accuracy, fairness, and responsibility. They know the consequences of misinformation, malinformation, and disinformation and are trained to avoid sensationalism, hate speech, and unverified reports. 

Their role is to inform, educate, and, at times, challenge society responsibly, and to hold power to account. This means protecting sources, respecting privacy, and understanding the social impact of every story they publish or broadcast.

What truly surprised and saddened me is that even someone I consider intelligent has this incorrect understanding. A friend of mine recently started anchoring a program on an online TV channel, and he now believes he is a professional journalist. Unfortunately, he failed to distinguish between a program presenter, a producer, and a journalist, which deeply concerned me. If educated individuals still fail to understand what journalism truly means, what should we expect from the general public? This shows how widespread this misunderstanding has become.

I wrote this piece not to criticise anyone, but to raise awareness and promote knowledge. Journalism is not just about speaking on camera or presenting a program;  it is a profession built on training, ethics, and responsibility. Understanding this will help society respect the profession and those who practice it properly.

Not everyone working in a radio station is a journalist. Radio stations employ technicians, presenters, producers, marketers, and program assistants. A presenter may have an attractive voice and strong communication skills, but may not be trained in news reporting, investigative journalism, or media ethics. Sitting behind a microphone or hosting a program does not automatically make one a journalist. 

Journalism is defined by the process of gathering, analysing, and presenting verified information in the public interest, not by physical presence in a studio. It is important to understand that journalism involves fieldwork, research, critical questioning, and responsibility to society. So,  journalism is far beyond sitting behind a microphone. It is a serious profession that demands training, discipline, ethical conduct, and a strong sense of responsibility.

I hope this message helps readers understand what a real journalist is and why journalistic professionalism should be respected.

Nasir Yusuf Jibril Kufa wrote via nasirjibril2018@gmail.com.

By Muhammad Sani Ilyasu

I woke up to a video circulating on social media by a former Kano State anti-corruption czar, giving his opinion about scholarship beneficiaries on why they had no moral right to identify with Kwankwasiyya. It is important to clear the air. Much of what is being said comes from people who were never inside the scheme and never lived the consequences.

Let me state this clearly and upfront: I do not identify with Kwankwasiyya. I disengaged from the movement in 2020. What follows is not partisan advocacy. It is testimony.

Criticism of Rabiu Musa Kwankwaso and scholars associated either rightly or wrongly with his ideology has become fashionable. But much of that criticism is detached from the lived realities that shaped those associations, especially the horrible experience of Kano State scholarship beneficiaries. I write as one of them.

Yes, the scholarships were funded with Kano State resources. But at no point—none that I can recall—were beneficiaries compelled to support Kwankwaso politically. There was no loyalty test, no ideological oath, no expectation of political repayment. In fact, many scholars openly opposed him. I personally recall frequent debates with colleagues who were supporters of Ibrahim Shekarau, many of whom never gave Kwankwaso any credit for the scholarship. Most of us were indifferent, credit was never the issue.

The lesson however came in 2015. That was when Abdullahi Ganduje assumed office—and when all of us, including Kwankwaso’s fiercest critics among the scholars, learned the brutal difference between right and privilege. Tuition payments were halted. Upkeep allowances disappeared. Return-ticket funds were withheld. Scholars were stranded and pushed into destitution in foreign countries.

Some waited over eight years to receive their certificates after the scheme was abruptly terminated. In some cases, parents died without ever seeing the academic fruits of sacrifices they had made.

As if that were not enough, scholars were publicly discredited—labeled products of “substandard universities,” their academic legitimacy questioned to justify administrative neglect. Throughout this period, Kano State went silent.

Religious leaders. Business elites. Civil society organizations. The same voices that now moralize and gaslight scholars looked away. The only “crime” of the scholars was that Kwankwaso started the program.

If, as some critics claim, the scheme was merely a vehicle for siphoning public funds, a simple question remains unanswered: why was Kwankwaso never prosecuted—and why were scholars punished instead? Why were entitlements withheld if the beneficiaries were not the accused?

What makes the silence more damning is that this neglect extended beyond foreign scholars. Until the return of a Kwankwasiyya-led government, even undergraduate scholars sent to private universities within Nigeria—and to Egypt and Cyprus—were denied certificates. For postgraduate students, the delay was damaging. For undergraduates, it was life-shattering: no certificate meant no employment, no future.

In all those years, only one political current consistently raised the issue and demanded settlement: Kwankwasiyya. This is the context critics conveniently ignore.

What they now describe as “indoctrination” or “blind loyalty” was, in reality, a rational response to abandonment. You cannot withdraw education, dignity, and future—then later shame people for gravitating toward the only structure that acknowledged their suffering.

That is not principled criticism. It is double standard. Scholars were not pushed toward Kwankwaso by manipulation. They were pushed there by neglect and even for those of us who have long moved on, that historical truth remains intact—uncomfortable, inconvenient, and undeniable.

Gaslighting scholars for the choices they made under abandonment is not moral courage.
It is hypocrisy.

Muhammad writes from Baltimore Maryland and can be reached at msaniiliyasu@gmail.com.