Opinion

By Abdulhamid Abdullahi Aliyu

Nigeria has become dangerously familiar with the ritual of disaster. The warnings often come early, the forecasts are circulated, vulnerable communities are identified, and officials hold preparedness meetings. Yet when the floods finally arrive, or fire tears through crowded markets, or another preventable emergency pushes families into distress, the country still reacts with the same confusion, urgency and humanitarian panic, as though tragedy appeared without notice.

It is one of the ironies of public life in Nigeria that disasters are rarely taken seriously until they become spectacles. Before then, they exist as predictions, advisories, technical reports, stakeholder meetings and public warnings. Afterwards, they become breaking news, condolence visits, emergency relief, public anger and committee recommendations. Between those two moments lies the real weakness of the system: the stubborn national habit of knowing danger in advance but failing to prepare adequately for it.

This is the difficult terrain in which the National Emergency Management Agency, NEMA, operates. To many Nigerians, the agency is most visible in moments of distress, when flood victims need support, when displaced persons require relief, when fire victims are counting losses, or when communities suddenly discover the meaning of vulnerability. But the true measure of an emergency management institution is not only what it does after a tragedy has occurred. It is also what it can prevent, reduce, coordinate, and anticipate before the situation becomes a national emergency.

That is why the two-year stewardship of Mrs Zubaida Umar as Director General of NEMA deserves a more thoughtful reading than routine anniversary praise. When President Bola Ahmed Tinubu approved her appointment in March 2024, the expectation was not merely that another public officer would occupy another office. The assignment carried the heavier burden of strengthening operational discipline, improving coordination and repositioning the agency toward a more proactive model of emergency management. Two years later, the useful question is not whether disasters have disappeared. They have not. The real question is whether there are signs that the agency is beginning to think differently about its mandate.

Perhaps the most important development under Umar is not the kind that announces itself loudly. It is not found only in relief distribution photographs, ceremonial visits or official statements. It is evident in a gradual institutional shift from reaction to anticipation, from waiting for disaster to happen before mobilising to placing greater emphasis on preparedness, early warning communication, simulation exercises, inter-agency coordination, and community-level sensitisation.

This shift may appear modest to the casual observer, but in Nigeria’s emergency management culture, it is significant. The country’s problem has never been simply the absence of warnings. Flood forecasts are issued. Meteorological advisories are released. Hydrological risks are mapped. Vulnerable states and communities are repeatedly mentioned. Environmental experts warn against blocked drainage and settlements along waterways. Yet the same cycle continues because warnings, in themselves, do not save lives. They only become useful when they are understood, trusted and acted upon.

For years, Nigeria has struggled to convert prediction into preparedness. Communities remain in danger zones long after alerts have been issued. Drainages remain blocked despite annual warnings. Buildings continue to rise where water must naturally pass. Local structures often wait for Abuja. Citizens sometimes treat evacuation advice as government disturbance until water is already at the door. By then, emergency management becomes more expensive, more chaotic and more painful.

It is within this context that NEMA’s renewed attention to grassroots sensitisation becomes important. Across several states, the agency has intensified preparedness campaigns aimed at reducing the gap between forecast and response. One of the more telling examples was the flood preparedness campaign in Ebonyi State, where the engagement moved beyond formal speeches and stakeholder protocols into direct community interaction. Emergency officials went into vulnerable communities, spoke in local languages, distributed safety information, and discussed flood risks, evacuation culture, and prevention measures with residents.

That may look ordinary on paper, but it carries a deeper meaning. A warning trapped inside a technical report is not yet a warning. A forecast discussed only in Abuja has not fully served the woman whose house sits near a riverbank, the farmer whose farmland will be submerged, the school head who must protect pupils, or the local leader whose community may need to move before danger arrives. Disaster communication becomes meaningful only when it reaches ordinary people in the language of their daily reality.

This is one of the most important lessons Nigeria must learn. Preparedness is not achieved by issuing statements alone. It requires translation, persuasion, repetition and trust. It requires taking risk information from conference halls to communities, from policy language to household action, from official alerts to behavioural change. In that sense, public communication is not an accessory to emergency management; it is one of its strongest instruments.

The same logic applies to coordination. Disasters do not respect institutional boundaries. A flood is not only a NEMA issue. It is an environmental issue, an urban planning issue, a housing issue, a public health issue, a food security issue, a security issue and, quite often, a governance issue. When water overruns a community, it affects homes, roads, schools, markets, farmlands, hospitals and livelihoods at the same time. No single institution can carry that burden alone.

This is why the increasing emphasis on multi-sectoral coordination under the current leadership is notable. The agency’s engagements with ministries, departments and agencies, state emergency structures, security agencies, humanitarian partners and technical institutions suggest a clearer understanding that NEMA’s strength lies not in behaving like a lone responder, but in making the wider emergency management ecosystem function better. In a federal system where fragmentation often weakens public response, that coordinating role is not a small matter.

There is also a growing recognition that modern emergency management must be more technical than sentimental. It must be driven by data, monitoring, logistics planning, early warning systems, communication flow and rapid decision-making. This explains the growing relevance of structures such as the National Emergency Operation Centre, which serves as the command-and-coordination infrastructure required for monitoring and responding to serious disasters. Such systems may not excite the public in the way dramatic rescue scenes do, but they are central to the quiet work of preventing confusion before it becomes costly.

Simulation exercises also belong to this quieter but more serious side of emergency management. Nigeria has never been poor in policy documents; the problem has often been what happens when real pressure arrives. Preparedness drills help institutions identify their weaknesses before a disaster exposes them. In an emergency, questions that look simple in a meeting can become decisive on the field. Who leads the evacuation? Who communicates verified information? Who coordinates medical response? Who controls movement? Who protects children, women, older persons and persons with disabilities? Who documents needs and prevents duplication? The difference between order and confusion often lies in whether such questions were answered before the crisis.

The increased emphasis on rehearsals, simulations, and preparedness drills, therefore, suggests an agency seeking to move from theoretical to practical readiness. The process may be gradual, but the direction is important. A country that waits for every disaster to teach it the same lesson again has not taken preparedness seriously.

The wider humanitarian environment also makes this change unavoidable. Flooding remains one of Nigeria’s most devastating recurring threats, but it is not the only one. Urban fires, tanker explosions, building collapses, communal displacement, food insecurity, climate shocks and other emergencies have expanded the meaning of vulnerability across the country. A serious emergency management institution can no longer think narrowly or seasonally. It must understand how climate, poverty, infrastructure failure, insecurity, public behaviour and weak local governance combine to create disasters.

This broader thinking is beginning to reflect in NEMA’s engagement with issues such as food security, climate vulnerability and community resilience. That is an important evolution. In today’s Nigeria, food insecurity is not merely an agricultural concern. Floods destroy farms. Conflict displaces farming communities. Climate shocks weaken harvests. Poor roads and insecurity disrupt supply. Once these pressures converge, they become humanitarian problems. Emergency management in the 21st century is therefore not simply about distributing rice, mattresses and blankets after tragedy. It is about understanding risk before it matures into a crisis.

Still, any honest assessment must avoid the temptation of easy celebration. Nigeria’s emergency management architecture remains burdened by serious structural weaknesses. Many state emergency management agencies are still underfunded or poorly equipped. Local emergency management committees are inactive in many places. Urban planning violations continue with impunity. Floodplains are still occupied. Drainage systems remain poor across several cities. Citizens still ignore warnings. State and local authorities too often treat disaster preparedness as a seasonal ritual rather than a governance responsibility.

These are not problems one Director General can solve alone, and it would be unfair to pretend otherwise. But leadership matters because it sets institutional tone. It determines whether preparedness becomes a culture or remains a slogan. It influences whether an agency merely reacts to tragedy or begins to organise itself around prevention, anticipation and coordinated readiness. It shapes whether the system waits for sympathy after loss or pushes harder for discipline before loss.

It is not a transformation that should be overstated. Floods have not stopped. Fire outbreaks have not disappeared. Communities still suffer avoidable losses. Operational gaps still exist. But there are visible indications that the agency is increasingly speaking, and slowly institutionalising, the language of preparedness, coordination, public education and anticipatory action. In a country where public institutions often confuse activity with progress, even this shift in emphasis is worth noting.

Some achievements in public service are loud because they are visible. Others are valuable because they prevent losses that the public may never fully count. A community that evacuates early may never become headline news. A market that takes fire safety seriously may never trend online. A state that prepares before floodwater rises may not attract national attention. Yet these quiet outcomes are often the real victories of emergency management.

As Nigeria moves through another season of environmental uncertainty and humanitarian pressure, emergency management must no longer remain an afterthought, activated only after tragedy strikes. State governments must strengthen their emergency agencies. Local governments must revive community response structures. Traditional and religious leaders must help translate warnings into action. Citizens must stop treating risk alerts as routine government grammar. The media must give preparedness the same urgency it gives to disasters.

Two years into Zubaida Umar’s leadership, the agency appears to be attempting something important: the slow rebuilding of a preparedness culture in a country too accustomed to panic after warning signs have been ignored. It is an unfinished journey, certainly. But it is also a meaningful one.

Nigeria may never fully escape disasters. No country does. But stronger institutions can prevent familiar hazards from repeatedly becoming national tragedies. That, ultimately, is the real test of emergency management, and perhaps the quiet significance of the institutional shift now taking place at NEMA.

Abdulhamid Abdullahi Aliyu is a journalist and syndicated writer based in Abuja.

By Maimuna Katuka Aliyu

Hepatitis, a medical condition characterised by inflammation of the liver, remains one of the most significant yet underestimated public health crises in Nigeria. The liver is a vital organ responsible for essential bodily functions, including detoxifying harmful substances, metabolising nutrients, storing energy, and producing proteins necessary for blood clotting. 

While hepatitis can stem from excessive alcohol consumption, toxin exposure, certain medications, or autoimmune diseases, viral infections represent the most prevalent and dangerous form of the disease both globally and domestically.

There are five primary strains of viral hepatitis: A, B, C, D, and E. Each is triggered by a distinct virus and varies in transmission mode, severity, and treatment options.

Hepatitis A and E are typically waterborne, spreading through contaminated food and water in areas plagued by poor sanitation. Conversely, Hepatitis B, C, and D are bloodborne pathogens. They spread primarily through contact with infected body fluids, unprotected sexual contact, the sharing of sharp objects, unsafe medical procedures, and mother-to-child transmission during childbirth.

The insidious nature of hepatitis lies in its symptoms or lack thereof. Many infected individuals remain entirely asymptomatic during the early stages. When symptoms do surface, they often mimic general illness, such as fever, fatigue, loss of appetite, nausea, abdominal pain, dark urine, and jaundice (the yellowing of the skin and eyes).

According to the World Health Organisation (WHO), viral hepatitis is a leading infectious cause of death worldwide, claiming approximately 1.3 million lives each year. Strains B and C are particularly dangerous because they can progress to chronic, silent infections that gradually destroy the liver over decades, leading to cirrhosis, liver failure, or liver cancer.

In Nigeria, the scale of this silent epidemic is staggering. The Federal Ministry of Health and Social Welfare revealed that more than 20 million Nigerians are living with viral hepatitis, with Hepatitis B affecting roughly 18.2 million people and Hepatitis C affecting about 2.5 million. Hepatitis B stands as the most widespread strain in the country. 

Fortunately, a highly effective vaccine exists. The WHO strongly advocates that all infants receive this vaccine within 24 hours of birth as part of routine childhood immunisation.

For Hepatitis C, there is currently no vaccine, but modern antiviral medications boast a cure rate of over 95 per cent if the infection is detected early. Meanwhile, Hepatitis D presents a unique threat as a “satellite virus” that can only replicate in individuals already infected with Hepatitis B, a co-infection that drastically increases the severity of liver disease.

To combat this burden, the Federal Government has aligned with the WHO global target to eliminate viral hepatitis as a public health threat by 2030. Central to Nigeria’s strategy is Project 365, a nationwide elimination campaign designed to scale up public awareness, screening, and treatment services while integrating hepatitis care directly into primary healthcare systems. 

This initiative is heavily supported by the Nigeria Centre for Disease Control and Prevention (NCDC) through enhanced disease surveillance, outbreak response, and the enforcement of infection control practices across medical facilities.

Ultimately, turning the tide against this hidden killer requires a shift from reactive medicine to proactive prevention. On an individual level, protection involves getting vaccinated against Hepatitis B, avoiding the sharing of personal sharp items, practising safe sex, and demanding screened blood products during transfusions.

With sustained government commitment to expanding affordable diagnostic tools, paired with a public willing to break the silence and get tested, Nigeria can move closer to a future where viral hepatitis is no longer a shadow over national health.

Maimuna Katuka Aliyu can be reached via munat815@gmail.com.

By Haroon Aremu 

In recent days, I have watched a growing wave of messages urging Nigerians to collect their Permanent Voter Cards (PVCs) before the deadline. Everywhere I turned, there were reminders, appeals, and passionate campaigns encouraging citizens to obtain their voter cards and prepare to vote. Some messages urged people to “vote out bad leaders,” while others called on Nigerians to “vote for change” and “take back their country.”

As I read these messages, I found myself reflecting deeply. Rather than joining the chorus immediately, I paused and asked a question that many of us seem reluctant to confront. What makes us so certain that the person we are urging people to vote for today will not become the same person we criticise, condemn, and perhaps even curse tomorrow?

This question is not intended to discourage voting, but is mainly directed to the youth rather than others. Democracy thrives when citizens participate. Every eligible Nigerian should obtain a PVC and exercise their constitutional right to vote. However, voting without deeper reflection may only lead us into a cycle we have repeated for decades.

The reality is that many of the leaders Nigerians complain about today were once celebrated as political messiahs. At one point or another, they were symbols of hope. They made promises that inspired confidence. They convinced millions that they possessed the solutions to the nation’s problems. Their supporters defended them passionately and often believed that once they assumed office, prosperity, security, and development would naturally follow.

Yet, as time passed, many of those same leaders became subjects of disappointment. The expectations that accompanied their emergence gradually gave way to frustration. Citizens who once praised them began to criticise them. 

This pattern raises an uncomfortable but necessary question. Is Nigeria’s problem merely about replacing one leader with another, or is it deeper than that?

Election seasons often resemble a search for a political saviour. Every cycle produces a new candidate who is presented as the answer to the nation’s challenges. Supporters speak about them with almost religious conviction. Opponents are dismissed, while supporters insist that their preferred candidate possesses the vision, courage, and competence needed to rescue the country. However, once the realities of governance emerge, many leaders themselves begin to admit that the challenges they inherited were greater than they anticipated.

How many times have Nigerians heard leaders say, “We didn’t know the situation was this bad”? How many administrations have entered office with grand promises only to later explain why those promises could not be fulfilled? If this pattern keeps repeating itself across different administrations, perhaps the issue is larger than individual politicians.

As an analyst of human behaviour and societal trends, I have come to believe that leadership is often a reflection of the society from which it emerges. We frequently focus on the leaders at the top while ignoring the conduct of the people at the bottom. We condemn corruption in high offices while celebrating dishonesty in everyday life. We criticise politicians for abusing power while remaining silent when similar abuses occur in our communities, workplaces, institutions, and associations.

The truth is that leadership challenges are visible at every level of society. From class captains in schools to community leaders, from local associations to religious organisations, from traditional institutions to political structures, the same tendencies recur. Favouritism, greed, selfishness, abuse of authority, and lack of accountability are not problems exclusive to national leaders. They are societal problems that manifest differently at different levels.

This observation reminds me of a profound principle found in both the Bible and the Qur’an. In the Qur’an, Surah Ar-Ra’d 13:11 states that Allah will not change the condition of a people until they change what is within themselves. Similarly, the Bible in Proverbs 29:2 says

When the righteous are in authority, the people rejoice: but when the wicked beareth rule, the people mourn.”

. These teachings suggest that national transformation is not solely dependent on political leadership. It is also connected to the values, character, and behaviour of citizens.

Perhaps this explains why changing leaders alone has not always produced the transformation Nigerians desire. A society cannot continuously reward negative values and expect positive outcomes from those it elects. If selfishness, dishonesty, and corruption become normalised among citizens, it becomes increasingly difficult to expect public officials to behave differently once they attain power.

This does not mean leaders are not important. Leadership matters. Policies matter. Governance matters. Elections matter. However, believing that a single individual can solve every national challenge may be one of the greatest misconceptions in modern politics.

 Some of the world’s most developed countries are struggling with challenges that cannot be solved overnight by a single leader.

Nigeria’s problems are complex. They require visionary leadership, yes, but they also require responsible citizenship, strong institutions, accountability, productivity, innovation, and a cultural shift in how people relate to one another and to the nation.

Therefore, while I fully support the call for Nigerians to obtain their PVCs, I believe the conversation should go beyond voting. The more important question is what happens after the election. Are we willing to demand integrity from ourselves as much as we demand it from politicians? Are we prepared to contribute positively to our communities, workplaces, and institutions?

Most importantly, before passionately campaigning for a candidate, perhaps each of us should ask a simple question: if this person eventually wins and fails to meet expectations, will I become one of those criticising them tomorrow?

If the answer is yes, then perhaps our focus should not be solely on changing leaders. Perhaps it should also be about changing ourselves.

Haroon Aremu Abiodun is a developmental journalist who writes from Abuja and can be reached via exponentumera@gmail.com.

By Saifullahi Attahir

In our class of 76 MBBS students, about 25 are from Jigawa State, while 51 (68 per cent) are from outside the state, which is a common admission criterion at a public federal university in Nigeria. An appreciable proportion of those 68 per cent have transitioned through private education at either nursery, primary, or secondary level.

Even among the 25 students from Jigawa State, another proportion had the privilege of a private education at either the nursery, primary, or secondary level. Among those who attended only public schools, a large share came from the ultra-top 5 public schools in the state: Academy for the Gifted and Talented Bamaina, Science Secondary School Kafin-Hausa and Gumel, Dutse Model International, Government Girls Secondary School Jahun, and Taura.

These ultra-top public schools have an entirely different educational model and standards. Entry requires a special Common Entrance Examination. They were referred to as Science Board Schools, a replica of the two famous Dawaki’s (Dawakin Kudu/Dawakin Tofa). Their standards were levelled with those of the private schools, with special tutors rotated amongst themselves and better living conditions enabling study.

From this survey, you can conclude the role that private schools played in producing the right candidates for high-demand university courses in Nigeria, like Medicine, Engineering, and Law, where public schools are no longer capable of filling the gap. If you were not fortunate enough to be from those private or model public schools, your chances of scaling through to read high-demand courses are very low.

In such exotic professions, people coming from my type of public secondary school (Government College Birninkudu) are the 1 per cent. Even for that 1 per cent chance, I had to spend more than 7 years reconstructing and rediscovering, and finally, with God’s assistance, I got a chance. It’s very difficult to get direct admission right from secondary school. This is not just my story, but the story of thousands from those types of public institutions.

In my graduation year 2009, out of a population of more than 1,000 students, only 2 got admission to read MBBS, and less than 15 got direct university admission that year. Not more than 30 have got into professional courses like Engineering, Accounting, Quantity Surveying, Pharmacy, Software Engineering, or Law to date.

The question is: what is the fate of other students from more than a hundred other public secondary schools who were not fortunate enough to secure admission into the top universities across the country? They ended up giving up studying or taking courses that do not directly contribute to their individual or national economic growth.

This trend is similar in 2009 as in 2026, and similar across the entire country. Students ended up studying courses they neither willingly chose nor enjoyed. The end result is a waste of talent, for there is no way you can be outstanding in any work or field that you lack passion for. The fault was not entirely theirs, for they love to study, but were either bereft of the orientation, skills, and adequate knowledge to compete amongst their peers from private schools during university entrance examinations.

The difference lies not just in the disparity in financing efforts but in the commitment rendered. Some public schools receive more funding than many private institutions, including for staff salaries, overhead, and staffing levels. But still, that will not amount to any significant change. The majority of the ruling class have their children in private schools, so it’s easy to understand the lack of commitment.

The system barely rewards excellence. Hardworking and brilliant teachers who further their studies to earn a Master’s or PhD never return; instead, they search for other high-paying jobs. These were automatically replaced by less deserving teachers or teachers without the same energy and enthusiasm, hence the continuous drop in teaching standards.

Most of those students are hardworking and willing to escape the poverty surrounding them. But hard work is not enough here; they need a compass, direction, and tools, which were mostly absent or inadequate in those public-run facilities.

The cancer is not just in secondary school education. The problems of our tertiary institutions are mostly their failure to translate the knowledge imparted into direct national development. Some institutions are more consumers than producers. Graduates should be equipped with the right skills to become productive members of their societies.

Graduates ending up taking jobs that even their peers who have not attended any college were not doing is quite frightening. That only leads to a more derogatory view of the system and the ongoing boycott and out-of-school population.

So many courses are now obsolete and have no relevance to the fast-changing world labour market. Even the so-called professional courses are now taught in such an old-fashioned manner that, immediately after graduation, students lose their relevance and become confused.

The courses should be taught in a way that reflects the current situation of the world. We should move with technology. We need to move fast to keep up with this dynamic generation. While paper and pencils are still relevant to us, the world has long moved on to Artificial Intelligence (AI), wireless, cloud computing, virtual reality, and genomics.

I still wonder why universities as large as Ahmadu Bello University, Zaria; University of Lagos; University of Ibadan; and University of Nigeria, Nsukka, with large student populations and billions in government allocations, are still spending millions to generate electricity despite having established faculties of engineering, renowned professors, and brilliant students.

We produce thousands of graduates in Agriculture, some with first-class grades, but rest assured, any GMO crops with high yield potential seen in this country must have come from either Brazil, Argentina, Thailand, China, or the US.

This is a story of first-generation universities, let alone the third-generation universities, state-owned colleges, and polytechnics.

We should have a national priority, as in India, where the majority of students pursue degrees in Engineering, Computer Science, or Medicine/Pharmacy. That’s the only way to rapid economic growth. Subsidies, stipends, and scholarships should be attached to those courses to attract youth.

In Nigeria, we should prioritise Engineering, Computer Science, and Agriculture more than Medicine and Law degrees. Production and creativity are the only solutions to our poverty and alarming population growth. I’m not advocating a total boycott of other courses, but there must be a target in which a large number of candidates are required to read certain disciplines.

The reason I prioritise Engineering over Medicine is the entitlement mentality many Nigerians have, who end up studying medical courses just for the ready-made job opportunity, without the passion or vision to contribute to national development.

Producing more doctors may not guarantee a rise in national gross domestic product (GDP), but surely a country with more productive engineers will see increased production, lower unemployment, lower crime rates, greater well-being, less malnutrition, and even fewer diseases.

China and Russia are living examples of the wonders engineering can do for a country. I’m not promoting any profession over another; I’m talking about national economic growth, numbers, and productivity index.

Some parts of this country already understand this crucial reality. Looking at the Joint Admissions and Matriculation Board (JAMB) results for the past 5 years, the top-scoring candidates with scores above 320 from the South West and South East of this country were mostly from private schools. The most striking fact was that 95 per cent were applying to read Software Engineering or Mechatronics at the University of Lagos or the University of Ibadan, not the usual MBBS or Pharmacy. That’s the future now!

The most devastating fact is that Arewa (Northern Nigeria) is still battling out-of-school children. Even those in school are better off not being there, for the majority of the students memorised more names of Hausa movie actresses and season films than the Chemistry Periodic Table or quadratic equations!

However, when the poverty index spots us, we start shouting marginalisation and all sorts of victimisation excuses. You can’t grow while continually shifting blame or expecting a change from outside yourself. We need rigorous introspection.

It’s not all without hope. Some examples highlight the feasibility of improving the system. States like Yobe will produce wonders in the next 25 years.

 Their consistently sound educational policies have already begun to yield positive outcomes. Other willing states in the country, especially in the North, should copy similar approaches. Their approach to sponsoring brilliant young minds to prestigious colleges and other key interventions is quite rewarding in the long term.

Saifullahi Attahir is the President of the National Association of Jigawa State Medical Students (NAJIMS), the National Body. He writes from Federal University Dutse, wrote via saifullahiattahir93@gmail.com.

By Mubarak Umar

There are television series you watch for entertainment, and there are those that remind you what storytelling is truly capable of.

Matan Gida, created by Abubakar Bashir Maishadda, is one of those rare productions.

For years, Hausa television has largely remained within the familiar territory of domestic disputes, predictable romances, and neatly resolved family conflicts. Audiences have become accustomed to stories that rarely challenge expectations. Matan Gida breaks away from that tradition with remarkable confidence.

The series is driven by a screenplay that feels fearless. I can sense that when Ibrahim Birniwa opened his PC to draft Matan Gidan, he wasn’t writing to satisfy convention; he was writing to provoke thought. The script explores uncomfortable realities, moral ambiguities, power dynamics, and the hidden complexities in our everyday lives, subjects that many filmmakers have hesitated to approach. Every episode feels intentional, with dialogue that carries weight and scenes that linger long after the credits roll.

The entire cast truly deserves equal praise. The ensemble is balanced, with each actor bringing a distinct personality and energy to the screen. There is no sense of characters competing for attention; instead, every performance contributes meaningfully to the larger narrative. It is this diversity of characterisation that gives Matan Gida its emotional richness and realism.

Abubakar Maishadda deserves credit for trusting a script that challenges Kannywood’s conventional cinema. Because producing a series like Matan Gida is a creative statement. It proves that audiences are ready for mature, thought-provoking stories.

And now comes the real test.

With Season Two premiering today, expectations are high. The first season didn’t just tell a complex story—it raised the standard in Kannywood. Audiences will be expecting deeper conflicts, higher emotional stakes, more character arcs, and answers to the questions deliberately left hanging. More importantly, viewers will expect the series to preserve the boldness that made the first season stand out rather than retreat into familiar territory.

If Ibrahim Birniwa’s pen remains as fearless as it was in Season One, and if the series continues on the pedestal that challenges both the industry and its audience, Matan Gida has every chance of becoming one of the defining works of modern Hausa television.

By Ibraheem A. Waziri

Moses E. Ochonu, Boko Haram: The Past of the Present Upheaval, University of California Press, Oakland, 2026.

There are books that inform, books that provoke, and, rarer still, books that compel you to interrogate not merely their subject but the assumptions through which it has long been misread. Moses E. Ochonu’s Boko Haram: The Past of the Present Upheaval belongs, in large measure, to this last category. It is a serious, learned, and often illuminating work. It is also, at a foundational level, a work that mistakes genealogy for inheritance. In a region where the stakes of historical narrative are measured in mass graves rather than academic citations, that error deserves honest reckoning.

Let me be clear from the outset: Ochonu is no lightweight, and no serious reviewer should pretend otherwise. His central argument, that Boko Haram did not emerge in a historical vacuum but must be situated within a long tradition of Islamic reform, dissidence, and theological contestation in Northern Nigeria, is not only defensible but necessary. His four-phase map of postcolonial Muslim dissidence, from Sheikh Abubakar Gumi’s pragmatic shiga a gyara (enter to reform) politics, through the revolutionary “Islam Only” radicalism of the 1980s, to the Salafi fence-sitting of the 1990s, to the full-blown jihadism of Muhammad Yusuf, is genuinely useful. His insistence that Boko Haram be studied as a rational, calculating actor rather than dismissed as inexplicable barbarism reflects an intellectual courage sorely needed in the debate. All of this deserves acknowledgement. 

But respect for a scholar’s craft does not require silence about where it occasionally leads him astray. After sustained engagement with this book, I find that Ochonu’s historical genealogy – meticulous and intellectually compelling as it is – ultimately commits the cardinal error of confusing proximity with equivalence. That the Fodiawa jihad and Boko Haram invoke similar texts, deploy similar vocabulary, and emerge from overlapping cultural landscapes does not make them participants in the same civilisational project. Resemblance is not identity. And a genealogy is emphatically not a pedigree.

The fact that Boko Haram claims Dan Fodio does not mean Dan Fodio claims Boko Haram. Throughout history, movements of radically different character have invoked the same ancestors. Revolutionary France invoked Rome. Such invocation tells us about the claimant; it tells us nothing reliable about the legacy claimed.

The Missing Dimension: What the Genealogy Leaves Out

Ochonu’s framework operates almost entirely along the axis of theological and political dissidence, the reformist impulse, the grievance against corrupt rulers, and the appeal to textual authority. What it leaves almost entirely out of view is the civilisational dimension of Northern Nigerian history: the long, patient, and extraordinarily durable process by which the Hausa-speaking world built not only political orders but also moral architectures, shared systems of meaning, obligation, hierarchy, and dignity that survived dynasties, empires, conquest, and colonial transformation alike.

That moral architecture did not originate with Dan Fodio. It was already ancient when the Fodiawa arrived. The old Hausa city-states and the Kanem-Bornu, which Ochonu himself acknowledges as a sophisticated Islamic civilisation predating Sokoto by centuries, had already created the conditions for a complex society organised around recognisable concepts of hierarchy, obligation, and social responsibility. The Fodiawa did not create this order. They found it, deepened it, gave it sharper Islamic articulation, and codified it in law and administrative structures. This is the real achievement of the nineteenth-century jihad, not that it overthrew the existing order, but that it built upon and consolidated what was already there. The Caliphate succeeded because it was, in the deepest sense, continuous with the civilisation it reformed.

At the centre of that civilisation lies a concept absent from every reformist movement Ochonu analyses, whether in the Fodiawa corpus, the MSSN anthems, or a single Boko Haram sermon. It is the concept that the late Anthony H. M. Kirk-Greene famously described in his landmark essay, “Mutumin Kirki: The Concept of Good Person in Hausa.” Mutumin Kirki, The Good Person, is the civilisational ideal at the heart of Hausa moral order.

The Mutumin Kirki ideal captures something no purely theological analysis can adequately convey: that social legitimacy in Hausa society derives not from ideological purity or reformist credentials, but from kirki, the cluster of virtues encompassing mutunci (dignity), kunya (shame as a moral conscience), responsibility, restraint, and recognition of one’s obligations within the social order. The framework placed duties on Sarakuna and Malamai alike, gave meaning to the roles of Attajirai and ordinary farmers, and even extended its logic to those society defined as marginal. Everyone knew where they stood. Everyone knew what was expected. Dignity required discipline. Power required restraint. And knowledge without wisdom was understood to be incomplete, even dangerous.

Colonialism, for all its violence and extractive logic, largely preserved the structure within which this framework operated. Indirect rule in Northern Nigeria worked precisely because the existing institutions already possessed legitimacy. The Emirates, the Alkali courts, and the hierarchies of office were incorporated into, and in some respects reinforced within, the colonial administrative framework. The resulting order was imperfect, as every historical product is. But it remained broadly legible to the moral universe the Kirki framework had constructed over centuries. In this sense, each successive political order, from Kanem-Bornu to the Sokoto Caliphate to colonial administration, can be understood as a successive tenant of the same civilisational operating system, adapting it, straining it, but ultimately operating within its logic.

The Verdict: Why Boko Haram Is Different, Categorically

Against this backdrop, the comparison between Boko Haram and the Dan Fodio jihad does not merely strain; it collapses. The Fodiawa jihad, whatever its human costs, was oriented towards institution-building. It produced a legal system, an administrative hierarchy, an educational network, a scholarly tradition, a literary culture, and a deepened moral framework that placed obligations on rulers and ruled alike. It expanded the universe of the Mutumin Kirki ideal; it did not attack it.

Boko Haram has done the exact opposite, systematically. It has attacked schools, murdered scholars, destroyed markets, abducted children, and reduced entire communities to rubble. It has not built a single institution that a future generation will inherit with gratitude. It has not produced a single scholar whose work will outlast the insurgency. It has not deepened the social hierarchies in which dignity and obligation are mutually reinforcing; it has weaponised those on the margins of society and enslaved those it was supposed to protect. Whatever else this represents, it is a direct assault on the civilisational operating system that both Kanem-Bornu and the Sokoto Caliphate spent centuries constructing.

Ochonu acknowledges this divergence; he explicitly notes that Boko Haram’s positions “directly contradict major aspects of the Fodiawa reformist creed and statecraft.” Yet within his framework, these divergences occupy a subordinate position. Structurally and rhetorically, the main assertion is the connection. And it is that connection, Boko Haram as participant in Northern Nigeria’s reformist DNA, that lingers in the mind and provides precisely the legitimacy Boko Haram’s ideologues have always craved. This is not a small risk. It is the central vulnerability of an otherwise admirable intellectual project.

Those of us who have observed Northern Nigerian politics, society, and intellectual life across decades, including pundits and commentators who know this civilisation not only from the archive but from the inside, find this framing, however sophisticated its execution, essentially uninitiated. It reads like the work of someone who has mastered the grammar of Northern Nigerian Islamic history with enormous care but has not quite absorbed its spirit: the civilisational confidence, the deep institutional memory, and the quiet but unmistakable recognition shared by virtually every segment of Northern Nigerian society not affiliated with Boko Haram that this movement does not belong to the tradition it claims. It is not reform. It is rupture, a specifically anti-civilisational rupture that the region’s history has not witnessed in any comparable form.

A movement may quote the same texts as its predecessors and still negate them. The Dan Fodio movement built what endured. Boko Haram destroys what was built. That distinction is not a footnote to the history of Northern Nigeria. It is the history of Northern Nigeria.

Final Reckoning: The Question History Is Actually Asking

Ochonu’s book asks: Where did Boko Haram come from? It is a vital question, and the book answers it with real skill. But the deeper question, the one the civilisational history of this region most insistently raises, is: What does Boko Haram’s existence reveal about the resilience of the moral architecture it attacks?

The long view of Northern Nigerian history suggests this: the Kirki operating system has survived before. It survived the disorder preceding the Fodiawa jihad. It survived the internal rebellions of the post-jihadi Caliphate period. It survived British conquest and the dismantling of the Sokoto political order. It survived the postcolonial state’s repeated failures to honour the obligations the Caliphate tradition placed on rulers. It did so because it is not merely a political arrangement or a theological position. It is a civilisational inheritance, embedded in culture, language, social practice, and moral imagination, that no single insurgency, however violent, has yet to erase.

Moses Ochonu has given us an important, serious, and deeply researched book. He has expanded our understanding of the landscape in which Boko Haram emerged, and he has done so with intellectual integrity. But genealogy, to repeat, is not pedigree. The real story of Northern Nigeria is not the story of rebellion. It is the story of civilisation, the long, patient construction of a moral society anchored in dignity, responsibility, learning, and character. Measured against that standard, Boko Haram appears not as the culmination of Northern Nigerian history but as its most violent recent attempt at self-erasure.

And on that measure, the verdict of civilisation itself remains, as it has always been, clear: this is not our inheritance. This is our wound.

By Abdurrazak Mukhtar

The late John Okafor, popularly known as Mr Ibu, spent decades making Nigeria laugh. He gave his best years to Nollywood, entertaining millions across Africa with his unique comic genius and irreplaceable screen presence. He was more than an actor. He was a cultural institution. Yet today, the story surrounding his estate and his family’s welfare is anything but funny. It is a tragedy of greed, betrayal, and inexcusable injustice.

Mr Ibu rose from humble beginnings to become one of the most recognisable faces in Nigerian cinema. His comedy was not merely entertainment. It was a mirror held up to society, reflecting the struggles and absurdities of everyday Nigerian life with warmth and wit. When he fell ill, Nigerians did not hesitate. From all walks of life, fans, colleagues, and well-wishers contributed generously to his medical bills, demonstrating the depth of love this nation had for him. That outpouring of support was a testament to the kind of man he was and the joy he had brought to so many homes.

Reports indicate that Mr Ibu left behind significant assets, including properties in Lagos, Enugu, and Asaba, several cars, and substantial funds. Beyond his personal estate, generous Nigerians donated large sums during his illness to cover his medical treatment. Additional funds were raised at the time of his burial. By all reasonable accounts, there was more than enough to ensure that his widow and young children would be protected and provided for in the years ahead. But that is not what happened.

His son, Somotochukwu, came forward with a deeply troubling allegation. He claimed that his stepmother, Stella, sold a Lagos property for ₦60 million, an Enugu property for approximately ₦17 million, and another in Asaba for ₦11 million, yet he received only ₦40,000, presented not as his rightful share of his father’s estate, but as a personal gift. Furthermore, family members accused one another of embezzling the very donations that kind-hearted Nigerians had sacrificed to give during Mr Ibu’s illness.

The consequences of this alleged mismanagement are not abstract. They are visible and heartbreaking. Mr Ibu’s widow is reportedly fetching water from a well because she cannot afford her rent. Three young children, aged 10, 12, and 14, have been forced to drop out of school. The family’s electricity was disconnected for months, leaving them to depend on neighbours to charge their phones. These are the children of a Nollywood legend, reduced to conditions that no Nigerian child should endure.

This is not a private family matter to be quietly swept aside. It is a public failure with public consequences. The funds donated by ordinary Nigerians for Mr Ibu’s treatment were not gifts to any individual. They were acts of collective love for a man who belonged to the nation. Those who received and managed those funds bear a moral and legal responsibility to account for every naira. Silence in the face of such allegations is not neutrality. It is complicity.

The Actors Guild of Nigeria, Nollywood stakeholders, and relevant authorities must not look away. If funds donated publicly were misappropriated, the law provides remedies, and those remedies must be pursued. Transparency is not optional in matters such as these.

To the family of Mr Ibu, this moment calls for maturity, unity, and honesty. Whatever grievances exist between the widow and the children from other relationships, they must not be settled at the expense of the innocent. Those children did not choose the circumstances of their birth. They did not create the disputes dividing this family. They deserve access to education, shelter, and a dignified life, not as charity, but as their rightful inheritance from a father who worked hard all his life.

It is strongly advised that all parties submit to a transparent, legally supervised process for the distribution of Mr Ibu’s estate. A lawyer or court-appointed administrator should be engaged immediately to protect the interests of all dependents, especially the minor children. Settling this matter in the media through emotional appeals and counter-accusations serves no one, least of all the children.

The story of Mr Ibu’s family is not an isolated one. Too many Nigerian entertainers have died, leaving their families in poverty, not because they did not earn, but because there were no structures in place to protect what they built. The entertainment industry must begin to take the welfare of its members seriously, not only in death but in life. Wills, estate planning, life insurance, and welfare funds are not luxuries. They are necessities that every serious professional body must promote and facilitate.

The Actors Guild of Nigeria and similar bodies should establish a dedicated welfare framework that provides legal and financial guidance to members, ensuring that what happened to Mr Ibu’s family does not become a pattern.

Mr Ibu gave Nigeria laughter when it needed it most. He gave the film industry his talent, his energy, and ultimately his health. In return, the very least Nigeria owed him was the assurance that his children would be cared for and that his legacy would be honoured with integrity.

It is not too late to make it right. Mr Ibu’s children are still young. They still have futures ahead of them. Whoever holds the keys to their father’s estate must open that door with justice, fairness, and the fear of God. Because a man who made millions smile deserves far better than to be remembered as a cautionary tale about family greed.

He deserved better. His children deserve better. And Nigeria must do better.

By Maimuna Katuka Aliyu

Imagine your body as a bustling city, an intricate network of systems powered by one indispensable element—water. Think of waking groggy, with a mouth as parched as desert sand. You might blame a late night or too much caffeine, but often it is your body’s quiet alarm bell, warning that its most vital fuel is running low.

Just as electricity keeps a city alive, water is the current that powers every cell. When it runs short, it is like a blackout in a metropolis, order gives way to chaos, systems slow down, and the risk of breakdown multiplies.

Dehydration rarely storms in with fanfare. It slips in unnoticed, first a dry mouth, then a slight headache, then a fog that blurs your thoughts. Even mild dehydration can dull your memory, weaken your focus, and pull down productivity.

The brain, that grand conductor of your daily rhythm, begins to miss its cues. For students, it may mean struggling to concentrate; for adults, the risk of poor decisions at work grows sharper.

In a hydrated body, blood flows like a gentle river. But when water is scarce, blood thickens into sludge, forcing the heart to labour harder. Soon, dizziness, weakness, and muscle cramps follow.

The skin, often dismissed as just a covering, loses its glow and elasticity, while the kidneys, the body’s tireless custodians, send out distress signals in the form of dark urine.

Our fast-paced lives only sharpen this risk. Long days under the burning sun, intense workouts, endless travels without a sip of water, each chips away at the body’s reserves.

And here lies the irony: by the time you feel thirsty, you may already be dehydrated. That is why hydration is not just a habit; it is preventive care, the quiet maintenance that keeps the “city” of your body humming, your mind sharp, your heart steady, and your skin radiant.

The symptoms of dehydration must never be taken lightly. It may begin with thirst and fatigue, but left ignored, it can escalate into confusion, rapid heartbeat, or even life-threatening complications.                                                  

Kidney stones, urinary tract infections, and heatstroke are some of its harsh penalties. The body’s cry for water is one alarm you cannot afford to silence.

Water is the simplest cure, but sometimes the body demands more, electrolytes to restore balance, oral solutions to replenish salts, or, in severe cases, intravenous fluids under medical care.

Hydration is not merely about pouring in water; it is about restoring the delicate balance that sustains life. Yet in the rush of daily living, hydration often takes the back seat. We forget that this basic elixir is both personal and societal.

In regions where clean drinking water is scarce, dehydration becomes a public health emergency, threatening the young and elderly most. Governments are pressed to act, building infrastructure, ensuring access, and educating citizens.

The cost of neglect is staggering. Health systems already stretched thin must spend resources treating preventable conditions, diverting funds from education and wellness.

Economies pay the price as productivity falters and budgets strain. Hydration, so simple and so often ignored, becomes not just a personal duty but a societal challenge.

Climate change sharpens the danger. Rising heat, shrinking water sources, and punishing droughts expose millions to the harsh reality of thirst. Water, once taken for granted, is now a policy priority, a sustainability crisis, and a public health concern rolled into one.

But the solutions lie within reach. Choosing water over sugary or caffeinated drinks. Carrying a bottle as a habit. Eating water-rich fruits like cucumbers and watermelon. Schools, offices, and public spaces can lead with hydration stations and campaigns.

When society makes water accessible, it empowers individuals to make the right choice. Ultimately, prevention remains the wisest cure. Sip steadily through the day, not just when thirst demands it.

Treat water not as a chore but as a daily act of self-care, a quiet gift that renews every cell. The next time you lift a glass to your lips, see it as more than hydration—it is your lifeline, your body’s power source, the fuel that keeps you thriving.

Hydration is not just a lifestyle tip. It is the foundation of health, the difference between fatigue and vitality, between a body faltering and a body flourishing. It is the lifeline every human being needs to live fully and thrive.

Maimuna Katuka Aliyu wrote via munat815@gmail.com.

By Fatih Lawal-Garu 

The editorial published by the Nigerian Tribune on May 14, 2026, titled “Divorce: The Kaduna woman who has nowhere to go,” raises an emotionally compelling and socially important issue. It tells the painful story of a 44-year-old woman in Kaduna who, after three decades of marriage and raising ten children, now faces uncertainty and displacement following the collapse of her marriage. No reasonable person can read such an account without sympathy. 

The plight of divorced women abandoned without adequate support is a serious social concern that deserves national reflection, institutional response, and moral accountability. In that regard, the editorial performed an important public service by drawing attention to the suffering of vulnerable women who often find themselves economically and emotionally exposed after divorce. However, while the editorial correctly highlights the woman’s distressing condition, it unfortunately places the blame on Sharī’ah law itself. In doing so, it arrives at a sweeping conclusion that deserves careful scrutiny.

The editorial argued that “in a justice system that appears discriminatory against women and girls, the likelihood was high that the judge would have ordered the forceful eviction of this woman if her ex-husband had not volunteered to pay for a new accommodation.” This statement is problematic for several reasons. 

First, it amounts to a premature judgment regarding a matter that has not yet been fully adjudicated by a competent Sharī’ah court. It assumes judicial bias and predicts an unjust verdict before due legal process has run its course. Such conclusions risk undermining public confidence in the judicial system based on speculation rather than evidence. More fundamentally, the editorial goes further to characterise Shari’ah as “oppressive,” “unfavourable,” and “discriminatory,” implying that Islamic law itself is inherently unjust to women. This is where the central analytical flaw emerges.

The unfortunate experience of one woman—even a deeply painful one—cannot reasonably serve as sufficient evidence to indict an entire legal and moral framework followed by millions across centuries and societies. Doing so conflates implementation failures with failures in principle. The Kaduna woman’s suffering is not proof of the failure of Sharī’ah. Rather, it reflects the failure of individuals, institutions, and society to properly uphold the rights and protections that Sharī’ah itself explicitly provides. 

Many injustices wrongly attributed to Sharī’ah are, in reality, products of harmful cultural practices, ignorance of Islamic legal obligations, weak institutional enforcement, economic neglect, and social irresponsibility. Islam did not establish marriage as a prison, nor did it sanction the abandonment of women after years of sacrifice and commitment.

On the contrary, Islamic law imposes profound responsibilities upon husbands to act with justice, compassion, dignity, and accountability—particularly during divorce. The Qur’an itself contains explicit protections for divorced women. 

In Surah At-Talaq (65:1), divorced women are not to be expelled from their homes unjustly. In verse 65:6, husbands are instructed to provide accommodation according to their means. Surah Al-Baqarah (2:231) forbids oppressive treatment during divorce, while verse 2:241 mandates fair provision for divorced women. These are not marginal principles within Islamic law; they are foundational ethical obligations. The tragedy, therefore, lies not in the law itself, but in the failure to implement it faithfully and justly. To portray this painful incident as evidence that Sharī’ah is inherently oppressive overlooks the extensive protections embedded within Islamic legal tradition. It also ignores an uncomfortable reality: abuse, neglect, and injustice occur under virtually every legal and social system when institutions fail, and human beings abandon moral responsibility.

Indeed, women face abandonment, economic hardship, and domestic injustice in societies governed by secular legal systems as well. No legal framework—religious or secular—is immune from misuse when justice is poorly administered. The deeper issue exposed by this case is the persistence of harmful social attitudes toward divorced women, inadequate welfare and family support systems, poor legal literacy, and weak enforcement mechanisms for protecting vulnerable individuals after marital breakdown.

These are societal failures that demand reform, education, and stronger accountability—not the wholesale condemnation of a divinely grounded legal tradition.

Critiquing the abuse of Shari’ah is legitimate. Critiquing failures in judicial implementation is equally necessary. But condemning Sharī’ah itself on the basis of individual misconduct or institutional shortcomings is intellectually unsound and ultimately counterproductive.

If anything, cases like this should encourage a renewed commitment to proper Islamic legal education, ethical family conduct, judicial fairness, and stronger institutional protection for women—not the dismissal of Sharī’ah altogether.

To mistake the abuse of a system for the failure of the system itself is a serious analytical error. It shifts attention away from the actual causes of injustice and risks obstructing meaningful solutions.

The real challenge before society is therefore not whether Sharī’ah is just, but whether those entrusted with implementing it are willing to uphold its principles with sincerity, knowledge, compassion, and fairness.

That is where the conversation truly belongs.

Fatih Lawal-Garu is a Mass Communication graduate from Bayero University, Kano, and can be reached at ibnkamilgaru1@gmail.com.

By Aisha Musa Auyo 

Innalillahi wa inna ilaihi raji’un. I am still struggling to absorb the shock of Baba Ahmad’s passing. Saying goodbye to a father, mentor, and teacher whose impact on my life cannot be overstated is one of the hardest things I have ever had to do.

I owe my Doctorate in Educational Psychology entirely to him. Among all the paths I could have taken in life, he was the one who steered me toward this field.

I was sixteen, in my first year, when I walked into Educational Psychology 001 and met Prof. Ahmad for the first time. Back then, I resented studying education when all I had ever wanted was medicine. But his intellectual energy, his rigour, and his sheer passion changed something in me. I remember thinking, so there’s a medical side to education, a psychology that isn’t strictly clinical. This is it. This is what I should specialise in. The workings of the human mind had always fascinated me, and the learning theories he introduced us to were captivating, made simple by his rare gift for turning abstract ideas into something anyone could grasp.

That evening, I told my father about this brilliant professor. He smiled. “We went to secondary school together, in Hadejia,” he said. “Prof. Abubakar, too, from educational psychology, also from Hadejia. They’re your fathers as well. You should go and greet them sometime.”

When I finally did, before I could even say a word, he looked at me and said my name. “You’re Aisha Auyo. Your resemblance to your father is striking.” We wouldn’t cross paths again until I returned for my master’s.

He was nothing short of supportive through it all. During my defence, he could be stern, but it was the kind of sternness that steadied rather than shook you. “Aisha, kinga, dukanmu nan mu iyayenki ne. Ki kwantar da hankalinki.” Aisha, look, all of us here are your parents. If there’s anything you don’t understand, we will always be here to help and guide you.”

Whenever Prof. Ahmad spoke about psychology and research, you understood immediately that you were in the presence of someone who had mastered his craft. There was no corner of educational psychology, no angle, including its Islamic dimensions, that he hadn’t explored. He designed curricula, taught, researched, supervised, and mentored thousands. How he managed to keep expanding his knowledge alongside everything else he carried never ceased to amaze me. Dedication, commitment, grit, passion….. that rare combination made him a force wherever he stood.

His mind absorbed and retained information in a way few others could. Many of us in educational psychology drew our energy from him. He pushed people to study even on the days they had no will left to. His influence stretched across Northern Nigeria and beyond.

Students called him the “Dodo” of every defence session because if you tried to cut corners or talk your way around a gap in your work, he would catch it from a single glance. He could smell unpreparedness from a mile away, and he had no patience for laziness or carelessness, which led some to assume he lacked warmth. He didn’t. He was simply a principled man who valued hard work and honesty. Behind that exacting exterior was a humble, selfless, generous soul who helped more people than most of us will ever know.

I remember a conference in Gombe, when he learned I was staying with family friends instead of with him. He was furious and immediately tried to change the arrangement. “Aisha ba ki da inda ya fi cancanta ki zauna fiye da gidana a garin Gombe”. Aisha, there is nowhere more fitting for you to stay in Gombe than my house. He was on sabbatical at the time. When my hosts came to collect me, he kept insisting, “Diyata ce fa. Babanta yana nan” …She is my daughter. Her father is right here. Eventually, we compromised: two days with my hosts, two days with him. He opened his home to so many students, and those days were full of warmth and laughter.

When I finished my master’s defence, relieved and overjoyed that I was finally done, he called my father to congratulate him and urged him to push me back for a PhD. My father called and said, “Babanki Dr Kaugama ya ce ki dawo PhD”. Your father, Kaugama, says you should return for your PhD. I told him I would, just not yet, in sha Allah, someday soon.

My father never let it go. Every time we spoke, while I was in Ogun, he reminded me about the PhD. Your father, Ahmad, says you will have all the support you need. That was how I found myself buying the form and sitting the aptitude test. When he saw me in the exam hall, he lit up. “Aisha, I know you’ll ace this,” he said. “Kina da ƙoƙari da himma” Those words carried me through. I told myself I would not let down everyone who believed in me. Alhamdulillah, I passed and was given admission number 00001 that year.

During my PhD coursework exams, he once noticed my hands trembling and asked what was wrong. “I’m hungry, sir, I haven’t eaten,” I admitted. I had been reading and lost track of time. He told me, plainly, that as an educational psychologist, I ought to know better that the brain runs on food. He said, You need it to read, to understand, to recall, to organise your thoughts. He asked what I wanted to eat and went out himself to arrange it. I couldn’t write a word until I had eaten. Once I was full, he said, “Now continue your paper. I won’t add a single second for you. Time off is time off, for everyone.” I wrote as fast as I could and managed to answer every question. I never made that mistake again.

After my PhD viva, I asked to take a photo with him. “Aisha, ba ni da lokaci,” he teased. “Baba, you forced me to come back for this program,” I reminded him. “Remember how you called my father?” He laughed. “Yes, I remember everything.” “Then I’m forcing you to take this picture with me,” I said. “You’re part of my academic journey. You’re the reason I fell in love with educational psychology.” We took a few photos together and said our goodbyes.

Baba Ahmad was a father to many. His home was always full of orphans and relatives from Kaugama. He was a comrade, a tireless community man, a teacher in the truest sense. His death is an immense loss to his immediate family, to the NISEP family, and to every endeavour he poured himself into. May his contributions to academia continue to benefit him in this life and the next.

When I heard the news, my first thought was: Will he meet my father there? Allah ya yi musu rahama da gafara duka. Allah ya kula da bayansa. Allah ya hada mu duka a Aljanna.

May Allah grant them mercy and forgiveness, watch over those they left behind, and reunite us all in Paradise.

Aisha Musa Auyo, PhD, is an Educational Psychologist, author, and media professional passionate about translating research into practical, everyday impact. She writes on parenting, family dynamics, and education, drawing from both professional expertise and personal experience. Aisha is also a parenting and relationship coach and the founder of Eesher Auyo’s Empire. She is based in Abuja, Nigeria.