Opinion

By Khairat Sulaiman

Globally, across different cultures, parents, especially mothers, are known for their unconditional strength, love, and countless sacrifices. From conception to childbirth to raising a child, mothers make innumerable sacrifices, and while some of these choices may not always be in the best interest of the child, they often stem from a place of love and concern. Yet as time passes, a subtle shift unfolds. The caregiver becomes the one who needs care, particularly in Africa, the Middle East, and Asia, where elderly homes are uncommon.

This partial role reversal is particularly complex when dealing with African mothers, whose identities have long been shaped by cultural values, religious beliefs, and deeply rooted notions of motherhood. To correct, guide, or suggest new ways of thinking often feels like a violation of cultural norms and everything they’ve ever believed in. But the truth is, just as we evolve into different stages of adulthood, our mothers are evolving too. One major transition is menopause.

Many women begin their journey into womanhood with fears, myths and half-truths. Until recently, parents and guardians often shied away from conversations around reproductive health and menstruation. 

The body undergoes a host of changes, from an increase in the size of particular body parts to hormonal fluctuations and emotional rollercoasters. She begins to adapt to this new normal, each month bringing a different experience, all of which she’s expected to bear gracefully and quietly. And as with all things that begin, there must also be an end. The end of menstruation is menopause.

Menopause isn’t just the quiet departure of menstruation. It marks the biological full stop to a woman’s fertility, typically arriving in her late 40s or 50s. Menopause brings hot flashes, mood swings, weight gain, sleep disturbances, hair thinning, memory fog, and a decline in oestrogen levels, which impacts everything from skin elasticity and bone density to a sense of identity. 

In many African societies, where motherhood defines a woman’s value, the end of fertility can feel like “the end of usefulness” or “an expiration date”. It’s an intensely physical, emotional, and psychological shift. Many mothers enter this phase in silence. 

Studies have shown that only a minority of women explicitly discuss menopause with their children, so it remains largely unspoken and unacknowledged, especially in conservative African settings. As a result, few children know how to help their mothers navigate this transition, and understanding these sudden personality changes can be both confusing and painful. It’s also difficult for mothers to acknowledge that they, too, need support.

As the first daughter, my mother’s menopause affected my life as profoundly as it did hers. The mood swings, the tears over seemingly trivial things, the constant irritation, I didn’t know how to manage. So, I misread it as hostility and dislike, and I withdrew. When it was time to choose where I would study, I picked somewhere far away, hoping distance would shield me from what I was too young to understand, but looking back now, I realise how much she must’ve been going through physically, emotionally, and mentally. 

Menopause wasn’t just a phase for my mother; it was a transformation, one that demanded compassion, not avoidance. I wish I had been able to see that then. I wish I had asked more questions, offered more hugs, and stayed present instead of pulling away.

As our parents age and evolve, it is crucial to create a relationship of mutual growth and understanding. It’s essential to lead with empathy rather than confrontation. Her reactions are often shaped by unspoken trauma, generational expectations, and physical changes beyond her control. So, meet her emotions with calm curiosity instead of matching frustration. Preserve her dignity using language that empowers rather than instructs. 

Gently introduce new ideas like therapy, rest, or lifestyle adjustments by sharing relatable stories or easing her in with familiar examples. Bear in mind that these suggestions might not sit well with her, but patience, consistency, and a little diplomacy could work magic. Normalise open conversations about menopause and ageing, just as we would with menstruation, to help her feel less isolated. Above all, women love compliments and support, so continue to affirm her worth beyond her role as a mother; remind her she is still loved, beautiful, needed, and valuable, just as she is.

Khairat can be reached via khairatsuleh@gmail.com.

By Garba Sidi.

It is with deep concern and growing anxiety that we observe the unfortunate political manipulation of development projects initiated by the former Chairman of Hadejia Local Government, Hon. Abdulƙadir Umar Bala, popularly known as T.O. Instead of initiating new projects of his own, the current Chairman, Honourable Yaro Abba Ari, has resorted to politicizing the legacy of his predecessor by either repainting existing infrastructure or dismantling projects completed under T.O.’s administration.

One glaring example is his unnecessary repainting of the town’s main gate — a project that had already been fully executed and completed before T.O.’s exit from office. Rather than embarking on a new initiative, the current chairman chose to repaint the already beautified gate just to claim credit, an act which many see as wasteful and driven by political jealousy.

Even more disturbing is his decision to demolish the small market built by the former chairman at Kofar Mandara within the town of Hadejia. That market had provided a much-needed business environment for local traders and also brought ease to residents in the neighbourhood who could access daily essentials without travelling far. This demolition represents not only a disregard for community welfare but also an irresponsible squandering of public funds invested in the project — an act that is completely unjust and alarming.

As it stands today, Honourable Yaro Abba Ari has spent a whole year in office as the new Chairman of Hadejia Local Government. Yet, there are no visible new projects or initiatives that have directly benefited the people of Hadejia. All we witness are his constant movements and public appearances with little or no tangible impact. The people of Hadejia continue to ask what exactly his administration is focused on, but we have yet to find a convincing answer.

Under the leadership of the former Chairman, Hon. Abdulƙadir Umar Bala (T.O), every ward or neighbourhood facing electricity challenges was provided with solar-powered streetlights. This significantly reduced crime and improved safety at night in those areas.

Moreover, the former Chairman supported the initiative of His Excellency Governor Malam Umar Namadi (Ɗanmoɗi), who had trained young people in borehole repairs. T.O. ensured that these skilled youths were employed by the local government to repair all faulty boreholes within Hadejia, thereby empowering them and improving access to clean water.

Recognising the water challenges faced by communities that rely on electric-powered boreholes, T.O. made it a point to distribute petroleum to every ward whenever there was a power outage. This allowed residents to run generators and continue to access water without interruption.

During his time in office, when Hon. Bala (T.O) noticed an increasing number of beggars — including women, young girls, and children — which was becoming a social problem, he initiated a reintegration program. He sent them back to their hometowns and provided them with startup capital to help them become self-reliant.

He also took decisive action against the growing problem of prostitution, especially among independent sex workers residing in the Gandun Sarki area. He ensured their relocation to their families and provided support to improve their lives, thereby contributing to the moral and social well-being of the entire Hadejia community.

In addition, the former Chairman did not forget the prisoners. He routinely visited the correctional facility in Modaci, Hadejia, to provide food and welfare materials to inmates, showing that his concern extended even to those behind bars.

He constructed numerous shops, aiming to stimulate the local economy and provide employment opportunities for the youth, paving the way for economic self-dependence.

Given all these progressive and people-centred efforts made by Hon. Abdulƙadir Umar Bala (T.O.) during his tenure, it is truly disheartening and alarming to witness the destruction and politicisation of his legacy. This act is motivated by political rivalry and not the public interest.

I am calling on the people of Hadejia to rise and take action — to rescue our town from the regressive direction it is being pushed into. We must unite to defend and preserve the progress that has been made, and ensure that our leaders are held accountable, not driven by political envy but by the duty to serve.

By Malam Aminu Wase

The Peoples Democratic Party (PDP), once Nigeria’s foremost opposition force, is currently grappling with a profound internal crisis that threatens to undermine its political relevance ahead of the 2027 general elections. At the heart of this turmoil is the controversial role of the Acting National Chairman, Umar Damagun, whose leadership has come under intense scrutiny amid allegations of collusion with President Bola Ahmed Tinubu’s administration.

Sources within the party allege that Damagun has entered into a clandestine, financially motivated agreement reportedly worth billions of naira, prioritising personal enrichment over the party’s integrity and survival. Such accusations, if substantiated, confirm long-standing suspicions of internal sabotage that have contributed to the erosion of the PDP’s foundational structures and cohesion.

Compounding the party’s woes is the recent defection of two of its most influential stalwarts, former Jigawa State Governor Sule Lamido and former Kaduna State Governor Ahmed Mohammed Makarfi, who have openly declared their support for an emerging opposition coalition. Their departure signals not only a significant loss of political capital but also highlights growing dissatisfaction with the current leadership’s direction and strategy.

Within the PDP, a palpable divide has emerged. While some factions advocate for strategic alliances with other opposition groups to challenge the ruling party effectively, others insist on reinforcing the PDP’s internal mechanisms and rejecting any coalition that could dilute the party’s identity. Calls have also intensified for Damagun’s removal, citing constitutional provisions that mandate the national chairmanship be zoned to the North Central region, a directive the current leadership has been accused of flouting.

Despite these fractures, Damagun has publicly dismissed claims of disloyalty and sabotage, reaffirming the party’s commitment to reclaiming power in the upcoming elections. However, the growing unrest among party loyalists and the departure of key figures underscore the urgent need for the PDP to address its internal challenges decisively.

As Nigeria approaches the 2027 elections, the PDP faces a critical juncture. The party must navigate this internal upheaval with transparency, unity, and strategic foresight to restore confidence among its supporters and maintain its position as a viable opposition force. Failure to do so risks not only political marginalisation but also the erosion of a legacy built over decades as a pillar of Nigeria’s democratic landscape.

Malam Aminu Wase writes from Kaduna. He can be reached at aminusaniusman3@gmail.com.

By Abdulhamid Abdullahi Aliyu

In yet another reminder of Nigeria’s vulnerability to climate shocks, the Nigerian Meteorological Agency (NiMet) has issued a fresh flood alert affecting 20 states across the country. From Sokoto to Bayelsa, Delta to Kaduna, and Lagos to Yobe, millions of residents in high-risk areas have begun fleeing or taking preventive steps. At the same time, emergency management agencies race against time to prevent a repeat of past tragedies.

The warning, coming in July at the peak of Nigeria’s rainy season, forecasts intense rainfall in the weeks ahead—an event that could trigger flash floods, landslides, and mass displacement. Already, parts of Lagos, Yobe, Ondo, Benue, and Imo states have begun witnessing early signs of flooding, raising anxiety and putting public preparedness efforts to the test.

In the eye of this looming storm is the National Emergency Management Agency (NEMA), which has intensified its pre-disaster strategy in partnership with state emergency agencies. Over the past few weeks, the agency has supported community sensitisation campaigns, mapped out temporary shelters, coordinated inter-agency response frameworks, and closely monitored vulnerable zones through real-time disaster surveillance.

Speaking during a recent stakeholder briefing, NEMA’s Director-General, Mrs Zubaida Umar, reiterated the need for state and local governments to go beyond issuing alerts and activate their flood mitigation plans. “Preparedness is not a choice. It is the only guarantee against irreversible loss,” she noted. Her message captures a reality that has plagued Nigeria for over a decade: early warnings often fail to inspire early action.

From the 2012 flood disaster that displaced over two million people, to the more recent 2022 crisis that killed over 600 and affected 4.4 million Nigerians, the patterns are familiar—and sobering. The annual flood season has become a cycle of warnings, delayed responses, avoidable deaths, and post-disaster relief efforts.

This year, however, there is cautious hope that lessons from the past are prompting swifter action. In Kaduna, for instance, the state emergency agency (KADSEMA) has launched haven centres across flood-prone LGAs, in partnership with NEMA, the Federal Fire Service, and others. Dredging of the River Kaduna has begun, and awareness campaigns are ongoing across radio and community platforms.

In Adamawa State, the government has released ₦700 million to support preemptive evacuation, warehousing of relief materials, and sensitisation in at least 15 vulnerable local government areas. “We don’t want to be caught unprepared again,” said Dr Celina Laori, Executive Secretary of the state’s emergency agency.

Elsewhere, NEMA’s field offices are working closely with state authorities to mobilise communities. In Imo, the agency has carried out public sensitisation and positioned ambulances and emergency supplies ahead of potential displacement. In Edo and Jigawa, residents in floodplains have begun self-evacuating following community engagements supported by emergency officials.

But beyond government actions, ordinary Nigerians are taking charge of their safety. In Lekki, Lagos, residents like Olumide Samuel have moved their families out ahead of expected flooding. “We do this every year—it’s not ideal, but it’s better than waiting to be rescued,” he said. In Benue, parents have relocated their children from vulnerable areas even as water levels on the River Benue slowly rise.

Despite this, concerns persist about the capacity of some states to manage what lies ahead. A 2022 report showed that over ₦620 billion in ecological funds have been allocated to state governments over the past decade, yet many states lack sustainable flood defence infrastructure. Environmentalist Mayokun Iyaomolere argues that while awareness has improved, it is not backed by adequate investment or enforcement. “Drainages are still blocked. Buildings still rise on waterways. We’re preparing with buckets when we need bulldozers,” he said.

Part of the challenge lies in the intersection between environmental degradation and urban planning failures. Deforestation, sand dredging, and the uncontrolled construction of buildings on floodplains have eroded the natural barriers that once absorbed rainfall. In many cities, rapid urbanisation has outpaced infrastructure, leaving gutters choked with refuse and floodwaters with nowhere to go.

To bridge this gap, NEMA has not only issued advisories but also strengthened its simulation exercises and inter-agency coordination. Earlier this year, mock flood drills were held in Anambra and Kano states, simulating real-time evacuations and testing communication chains. The goal is to make preparedness a routine rather than a reaction.

Nonetheless, simulation alone is not a substitute for policy reform. Experts insist that Nigeria must move beyond warnings and develop a national flood resilience plan—one that prioritises sustainable drainage, the relocation of communities in high-risk zones, and long-term investment in ecological restoration.

For now, the battle is one of time and commitment. Floods are not a surprise event in Nigeria—they are a certainty. What remains uncertain is how well-prepared the nation is to confront them.

As rivers swell and the skies darken, millions of Nigerians await what may come. But unlike in years past, there is a growing realisation—within government agencies like NEMA, state actors, and among citizens themselves—that early warnings must finally lead to early action.

Abdulhamid Abdullahi Aliyu writes on disaster management, humanitarian affairs, and national development.

By Fatima Ishaq Muhammad 

Kano, the city of ancient walls, now bears a heavy burden of the haunting presence of women and children who line its streets, begging for survival. From Sabon Gari to Kofar Ruwa, from traffic lights to mosque entrances, their stretched palms have become a renowned yet disturbing sight, painting a picture of poverty, moral negligence, and broken systems.

What was first considered a social crack has now widened into a full-blown crisis. Most of these street beggars are displaced women, widows, divorcees, and children.

Some as young as four roam the streets daily in search of food, coins, or sympathy. For the women, it’s often the last resort after being abandoned or driven from rural homes. For the children, it’s a stolen childhood, spent in sun-scorched rags rather than classrooms.

The roots of this problem run deep, encompassing widespread poverty, displacement from conflicts in the Northeast, the collapse of social welfare structures, and the controversial Almajiri system, all of which contribute to the cycle. 

While religious and cultural values once nurtured compassion and communal responsibility, they have been distorted over time to excuse neglect and indifference.

Government efforts, while numerous in announcements, remain largely cosmetic. Street begging has been “banned” multiple times in Kano State, but the bans vanish as quickly as they are declared. 

Relocation schemes and rehabilitation centres are often poorly managed or underfunded, leading many beggars to eventually return to the streets, as it is the only place they know.

Even worse, some of these children are exploited, trafficked, or “hired” to pose as beggars in a growing underground network. Women, too, face harassment, sexual violence, and daily humiliation. 

The streets that should offer opportunity are now a stage for public suffering, and this suffering is becoming normalised.

The situation is more than a humanitarian concern; it is a social and security time bomb. The longer these vulnerable groups remain on the streets, the more likely they are to fall into crime, radicalisation, or permanent poverty. And as the city’s population grows, so does the danger of institutional failure.

But all hope is not lost. With the right political will, inclusive policies, and collaboration between government, religious institutions, and civil society, change is possible.

 Empowering women with skills and microloans, integrating Almajiri children into formal education, investing in social welfare, and offering proper shelter to displaced families are realistic solutions not just dreams.

Kano must reclaim its dignity. The crying voices on its streets are not just those of beggars; they are those of citizens, future leaders, mothers, and children with untapped potential. Ignoring them is no longer an option. As the city grows, so should its compassion and responsibility.

Until we act, the story of Kano will not be written in its history books or palaces, but on the tired faces of women and children who call its streets home.

Fatima Ishaq Muhammad wrote via fatimaishaq021@gmail.com.

By ‎Sadiq Aliyu Waziri

‎With cliches such as the game of politics, playing politics, the political arena, politics is a dirty game, politics is a game of chess, politics is a game of power, politics is a game of cat and mouse, and many others alike, which metaphorically compare politics to a game, many that participate in it think it is a game-literally. It was Dr. Abdulaziz T. Bako who made the analogy, on Facebook sometime back, of how football fans supported their clubs to how many Nigerians took politics. However, is politics a game? 

‎The former Nigerian President, General Muhammadu Buhari, passed away two days ago. Moments after the announcement, photos of the widow of the late former President were seen circulating on social media. The images were captioned, stating that the deceased had bequeathed her to seek forgiveness from Nigerians on his behalf. She pleaded with Nigerians to forgive her husband before he was laid to rest. ‎

‎Since the announcement of the passing, followed by Aisha Buhari’s words, people became divided, with a section of them expressing their shock, forgiving and praying for the deceased. In contrast, others reminisce about Buhari’s time in office, voice out their dismay, and even go to the extent of publicising their rejection of the late President’s prayer. Again, there has been another section of people who even publicly celebrate the death. 

‎Let us recall that Buhari, just two years ago, was the most powerful, famous, and arguably the most loved Nigerian politician before he came to power in 2015. Who would have thought then that people would say unkind words about him or even celebrate his death? People idolised him; they fought and died for this man to gain power. 

‎Perhaps seeing Buhari’s widow, who at once felt she could not put up with a teasing statement from an immature university student, at people’s mercy, begging on her husband’s behalf, might make those who “play” the “game” of politics rethink their position, to realise that it is not a game. It never has been and never will be. 

‎To many of the player-participants, politics is merely a game to be played and won, with the ultimate goal of securing leadership positions and staying relevant. To many of the supporter-participants, it serves as an avenue to support and cheer the players, making money, securing appointments in some cases, and engaging in trolling one another. They come out and defend whatever wrong their bosses do and discredit and blemish whatever right their rivals do, simply because it’s all a game to them.‎

‎If they take politics as a game, it is at their own peril. And, it is high time that the people who participate in politics and take it as such understood that politics touches people’s lives. And that they do not have separate lives from their political activities. Every action, decision, cheer, support, defending, discrediting, blemish, etc., will be accounted for. They could view politics as a game, if that is what they choose, but it’s about this world for the next one.   

‎

‎Sadiq Aliyu Waziri wrote via sawaziry@yahoo.com.

By Zekeri Idakwo Laruba

Many years ago, though I can’t quite recall what class I was in at the time, I read with deep suspense the secondary school play The Gods Are Not to Blame, a gripping adaptation of Sophocles’ Oedipus Rex by Ola Rotimi. The story left a lasting impression on me.

‎‎The play retells the classical Greek tragedy in a Yoruba setting, replacing Delphi with Ifa, but retains the central tragedy: a prophecy that Odewale would kill his father and marry his mother. The oracle had spoken. His parents, terrified and confused by the fate foretold, did everything to avoid it. They gave the boy away, hoping to cheat destiny. But in doing so, they unknowingly set in motion the very events they hoped to prevent.

‎Like a mirror held up to society, the play reminds us that fate, while powerful, is often enabled by human choices. And as I reflect on Nigeria’s present economic and political situation, I am compelled to draw a parallel. The gods, be they ancestral spirits, destiny, or structural circumstances, are not to blame for our predicament. The fault lies within us, among the citizens, and in our daily conduct. Nigeria’s crisis is not rooted in some divine curse, leadership, or preordained calamity. The tragedy is man-made, self-reinforced, and perpetuated by generations of unchecked habits.

‎The go-to culprit for our country’s dysfunction is always leadership; yes, he must be voted out. And in fact, we have had our share of weak, corrupt, selfish or visionless leaders. But to lay the entire burden of national failure on leaders alone is to ignore the broader ecosystem that produces and enables them. Leadership, in many ways, reflects the society from which it emerges.

As the former national secretary of the Congress for Progressive Change (CPC), Buba Galadima, recently argued on Arise TV, the problem isn’t merely the constitution or even the political structure. The constitution may have its flaws, yes, but no document, no matter how perfectly worded, can save a people who refuse to uphold its spirit. The rot goes deeper, into the very fibre of society.

‎The average Nigerian seeks change, including better roads, reliable electricity, transparent governance, and reduced costs for transportation and foodstuffs, but is reluctant to make the personal sacrifices necessary for this transformation. We want leaders who won’t embezzle funds, but we are ready to bribe our way out of traffic offences, rig student union elections, or inflate business invoices for profit. We demand accountability from the top while practising impunity at the grassroots.

‎‎What we face is not a constitutional crisis, but a moral and cultural one. An attitudinal crisis. A society where dishonesty is normalised and rewarded cannot produce integrity at scale. A nation where people cheat customers, underpay staff, evade taxes, and applaud fraudsters as “smart” will always find itself circling the drain of underdevelopment.

‎‎You see it in business, in education, in religious institutions, even in our homes. The trader who mixes sand/stones in beans to increase weight; the employer who withholds salaries while funding a lavish lifestyle; the pastor or imam, even herbalist, who uses fear to manipulate followers; the teacher who extorts students for grades; the parent who teaches a child to lie to visitors, these are not the acts of the gods. They are human choices.

‎‎Much is said about fighting corruption in public office. But who will fight it in the private lives of citizens? In that small business of yours, are you sincere? Do you treat your staff the way you demand to be treated by your political leaders? Do you keep your promises? Are your scales balanced? Do you honour contracts? These questions are not rhetorical; they are foundational.

‎Corruption does not begin at the national budget office; it begins in the market stall, the classroom, and the family dinner table. Before it becomes institutionalised, it is psychological. We must cleanse the mindset that normalises dishonesty, excuses shortcuts, and praises the rich regardless of how their wealth was acquired.

‎What Nigeria urgently needs is a complete national reorientation campaign, not the kind that involves empty slogans or jingles on the radio, but a sustained, grassroots movement to rebuild ethical standards. We need to teach honesty not just as a virtue, but as a power. We must reintroduce shame where wrong is done and rekindle collective pride in doing things right.

‎This means rethinking our educational curricula to emphasise civic duty and moral reasoning. It means reforming religious institutions to prioritise substance over spectacle. It means applying social pressure on influencers, celebrities, and community leaders to model ethical behaviour. It also means supporting the rare public officials who dare to lead by example.

‎‎If the gods are not to blame teaches us anything, it is that destiny is not an external enemy; it is a consequence of our own decisions. Nigeria is not doomed. It is not a failed state by fate. But we must be honest: we are dangerously close to reaping the full harvest of our collective neglect.

‎To change our national direction, we must start with the mirror, not the ballot box. Reforms must begin in the marketplace and the family unit before they can translate to public office. Only then will the constitution come alive. Only then will good leadership be sustained. Only then will Nigeria’s story turn from tragedy to triumph.

‎The gods are watching, yes. But they are not to BLAME. WE ARE!

Zekeri Idakwo Laruba is the Assistant Editor of PRNigeria and Economic Confidential. He can be reached via idakwozekeri93@gmail.com.

By Haroon Aremu Abiodun

It all began like any other viral moment on Nigerian social media, but then it took a turn. Popular TikTok sensation Hamzat Habeeb Adelaja, popularly known as Peller, shocked followers recently with a post that seemed almost too generous to be true. He was hiring a cameraman for a monthly salary of ₦500,000. The news spread like wildfire, and in no time, graduates, yes, university graduates, trooped in for interviews, hoping to clinch the role under the young entertainer’s banner.

But beneath the glitz of that social media post lies a stark irony, a brutal reflection of Nigeria’s current socioeconomic reality: a secondary school certificate holder interviewing degree holders for a position in the gig economy. Is this a triumph of hustle over education or a symptom of a failing system?

This scenario has ignited widespread controversy. Should someone with Peller’s academic background employ graduates? Is he flaunting success in a way that undermines the value of formal education? Or is he, in his own unorthodox way, contributing to job creation in a country where unemployment is a ticking time bomb?

Regardless of where you stand, one truth remains: Nigeria’s youths are not only unemployed, they are disillusioned.

But, beneath the glamour, is Peller’s youth the key to his controversial rise? At age 20, can Peller truly shoulder the weight of fame, fortune, and the emotional toll that comes with being in the public eye? Fame is a double-edged sword, and wealth earned in the public space, especially in a country like Nigeria, where social values matter, can either elevate or destroy a brand.

Some have attributed his behaviour to immaturity, a lack of exposure, or poor guidance. Others question the roles played by his management and inner circle. Are they enabling his excesses or helping him stay grounded?

Peller’s youth and maturity seem to be dancing to different tunes at times in sync, at other moments, sharply distinct. While his age brings the energy, creativity, and audacity that fuel his rise, it may also limit the depth of judgment that comes with lived experience. Despite his fame and financial success, one thing remains true: maturity isn’t measured by wealth or followers. 

He may be richer or more popular than his advisers, but that doesn’t make guidance obsolete. In fact, the higher one climbs, the more essential wise counsel becomes. No matter our age or status, we all need mentors, correction, and continued learning because growth, like fame, should never outpace wisdom.

This is not Peller’s first brush with public criticism. During the heated JAMB controversy months ago, he was branded a poor role model. Critics say he misuses his influence. Admirers say he is just being himself. But the question is not just what Peller does, it’s what he represents.

When individuals like Peller become the aspiration of thousands of young people, what message are we sending? That fame, regardless of how it’s earned, trumps knowledge, experience, and decorum?

One might ask, is this a systemic failure or a personal flaw? But the deeper question is this: Can we really blame Peller for being a product of a broken system? Or should we point fingers at the society that created him, a society where education is devalued and unemployment drives graduates to accept roles from entertainers with no formal qualifications?

This is a national dilemma. Young people are no longer looking to engineers, doctors, or scholars as role models. They now look to influencers, many of whom may lack the maturity or training to handle such responsibility.

This isn’t just about Peller; it’s about perception, power, and public influence.

The Brand at Risk: PR Implications

From a public relations perspective, Peller’s every move is now under a magnifying glass. As a brand, his current trajectory presents both opportunity and risk. He is loved by many but also watched with scrutiny by an equal number. His brand power lies in his authenticity, but even that must be managed with intentionality because one viral moment can either grow his brand or ruin it.

In a society where cultural norms still dictate public perception, Peller must understand that his brand isn’t just about content; it’s about conduct. His platform gives him power, and with that comes responsibility.

PR experts warn that failing to manage this carefully could result in brand erosion, reduced partnerships, and a gradual loss of public trust. A sustainable career in entertainment requires more than charisma—it demands discipline.

Beyond the Buzz: What should Peller do? It’s easy to dismiss these concerns as envy or moral policing, but that would be a mistake. Peller is a Nigerian pride, a self-made entertainer who carved a niche and created employment. That in itself is commendable. But with influence comes expectation. With status comes scrutiny.

This article is not to tear Peller down. It is to offer a lens of accountability, reflection, and growth. The same media that celebrates must also question, not out of hate, but out of hope that Nigeria’s influencers will see themselves not just as entertainers, but as leaders in a generation gasping for direction.

Peller can choose to be more. He can use his platform to elevate the values of integrity, hard work, and education, even as he continues to thrive in entertainment. He can show that success does not require disrespect, and that influence is not a license for irresponsibility.

Whether he likes it or not, Peller is not just a content creator. He’s a movement. And movements, when misdirected, can lose their magic or worse, mislead millions.

Final Thought

Peller’s story is still unfolding. He is talented, young, and full of potential. This is not a final verdict, but a cautionary tale. The camera is rolling, the nation is watching.

The real question is: What will Peller do next?

Haroon Aremu Abiodun, An Author, public Affairs Analyst. He wrote in via exponentumera@gmail.com

By Abdulrahman Sani

I went to Sudan to study Arabic. That was the beginning, simple and deliberate. But in truth, Arabic was only the surface. Sudan offered more than language. It stirred old questions I had carried with me since adolescence. Questions about memory, exile, and what remains after collapse.

My first encounter with the Sokoto Caliphate’s legacy wasn’t through archives or oral traditions. It was through theatre. I was in secondary school when I read Attahiru by Ahmad Yerima. The image of the Caliph fleeing colonial forces, defiant to the end, burned itself into my mind. I didn’t fully understand the politics then, but I felt the tragedy. That single text became a spark.

Later, I found the writings of Dr. Usman Bugaje, measured and searching. And then came Muhammad Shareef, the African American founder of Jamaa’at Danfodio in the United States, whom I had the pleasure of interviewing [here: https://youtu.be/_5Uj1S0lXQM?si=1BpJ9vusnW2HqWf4]. His writings were rich, wide-ranging, and full of overlooked geographies. It was through him that I first read about Maiurno, a small village in Sudan that held the echoes of Sokoto’s fall.

The very idea of it intrigued me. Remnants of the Caliphate had not only survived but also resettled, rebuilt, and renamed. I wanted to know what happened after Burmi. I wanted to know what exile looked like, generations later.

I mentioned this to my friend Malam Hassan, and soon after, we were on our way — me, him, and our guide. Before Maiurno, I spent some time in a Hausa village in Sudan. The familiarity was immediate. I saw areas named after Illela, heard idioms that sounded like home. It was as though Sokoto had sent a whisper into the desert, and it had echoed back in Sudanese tones.

Maiurno came into view quietly, without ceremony—a flat, sun-beaten village, carrying itself without fanfare. But history rarely announces itself. You feel it in the silences.

We made our way to the Sultan’s palace early in the morning. As we approached, an elderly man greeted me in Fulfulde. I hesitated, then responded in Arabic, admitting I didn’t understand. It was one of those quiet humiliations. A Fulani, abroad, unable to answer in the language of his own people. He smiled politely and said nothing.

We waited. There were others before us, people from another town in Sudan who had come to report a case. In the meantime, I noticed the crocodiles. Yes, crocodiles. They lay in their enclosure like royal guards, unmoving. It felt surreal but somehow fitting. The Sultan was no mere figurehead. He was the acknowledged leader of Hausa and Fulani communities in Sudan, a man of both presence and authority.

When he finally emerged, he received the guests before us. He listened without interruption or impatience. Then he settled their matter with a wisdom that didn’t need to explain itself. That kind of clarity is rare.

Then he turned to me.

I told him why I had come. I said I was interested in the Fodiyawa manuscripts said to be preserved in Sudan. He nodded with understanding, but explained that the key lay with the Sardauna of Maiurno, a scholar of great standing who, ironically, had travelled to Nigeria, my own country.

The Sultan was fluent in Hausa, Arabic, and Fulfulde. He spoke with the calm rhythm of someone used to being listened to. He smiled and said, “I know in Sokoto your Fulfulde doesn’t go beyond Balinjam.” It was said lightly, but it landed with accuracy.

He spoke of his relative, Professor Mukoshay, the author of the Fulani-Hausa dictionary. Then, briefly about Hayat ibn Sa‘id, a name that deserves more telling than time allowed. Before long, I realised I should be recording this. I asked his permission. He agreed with grace.

He began narrating how their ancestors had come to Maiurno after the fall of the Caliphate, how they had built their homes, mosques, and memory on Sudanese soil, and how they still kept contact with their families in Nigeria. He spoke too of the Jamaa’at Danfodio in America with quiet admiration, amused by how history had found new shapes and tongues.

After the conversation, he did something unexpected. He asked, gently, for my contact. I gave it. We shook hands, and I took my leave.

What struck me wasn’t just the story. It was the clarity with which he carried it. My visit to Maiurno took place in 2019. At the time, the country was in a fragile transitional moment, unsure of what lay ahead. But even then, the Sultan stood out–quiet, composed, and principled. In later years, during the war with the RSF militia, I would hear that he remained steadfast and stood with the state when others hesitated. The president himself visited to thank him.

Maiurno wasn’t just a trip. It was a quiet, necessary crossing, from curiosity to memory, from story to place. The Sokoto Caliphate may have fallen in Burmi, but it lives on. In names. In speech. In places like Maiurno, where its sons still remember.

Abdulrahman Sani can be reached via X: @philosopeace.

Dear Honourable Yaro Abba Ari,

I write to you as a deeply concerned indigene of Hadejia Local Government Area, more specifically, a resident of Dubantu Quarters. I do so with a strong sense of responsibility and hope, believing that your esteemed office, under your capable leadership, will give due attention to the pressing issues that have plagued our community for quite some time.

First and foremost, I would like to sincerely commend your administration for the developmental strides made in various parts of the local government area. These achievements reflect your commitment to progress and service delivery. However, I am compelled to draw your immediate attention to some ongoing challenges that continue to affect the people of Dubantu Quarters — challenges that, if not addressed, may further deteriorate the well-being and safety of our community.

The first major issue of concern is the worsening condition of the drainage systems in Dubantu Quarters. Every year, particularly during the rainy season, our community suffers from excessive waterlogging and flooding. Rainwater, due to the absence or blockage of proper drainage, flows freely over the roads and into homes, causing significant disruption and damage. The situation has unfortunately become a recurring crisis that leads to the destruction of properties and, in the worst cases, loss of innocent lives. Residents live in constant anxiety as heavy rains turn roads into rivers, making movement dangerous and threatening the safety of families.

Secondly, I would like to bring to your kind attention the growing security and social concerns in specific parts of Dubantu Quarters — particularly areas that remain in complete darkness at night due to a lack of public lighting infrastructure. These dark zones have become gathering points for immoral and misguided youths, who often engage in illicit activities such as the abuse of toxic substances — including syrul (codeine cough syrup), ganja, and other harmful drugs. These activities not only endanger the lives of the individuals involved but also pose a significant threat to the safety and peace of law-abiding citizens, especially during the night hours.

Despite numerous efforts by responsible members of the community to curb this growing menace, their attempts have been largely ineffective due to the absence of necessary support, tools, and enforcement capabilities. The community is doing its best with the limited resources at its disposal, but the situation clearly calls for strong governmental intervention. 

As a result, and in the spirit of community development, I humbly and earnestly appeal to you to take the following specific actions:

Reconstruction and proper maintenance of Drainage systems in Dubantu Quarters will help ensure that rainwater is channelled correctly, reducing the devastating impact of seasonal flooding and safeguarding the lives and properties of the residents.

Installation of solar-powered Street lights in critical dark areas within Dubantu Quarters. Improved lighting will not only enhance visibility and security but will also deter criminal and immoral behaviour that currently thrives under the cover of darkness.

Collaborative Engagement with Law Enforcement Agencies and Community Leaders to Develop and Implement a Strategic, Community-Driven Solution to the Issue of Drug Abuse. This should include awareness campaigns, youth sensitisation programs, and the creation of positive alternatives that engage our young people in meaningful and productive activities.

Your timely intervention in these matters will go a long way in alleviating the hardship currently faced by the residents of Dubantu Quarters. Moreover, it will serve to reaffirm the trust and confidence that the people of Hadejia Local Government Area have placed in your leadership.

We remain optimistic that you will treat these concerns with the urgency and seriousness they deserve, and that your office will take immediate steps to implement lasting solutions.

Thank you very much for your time, attention, and anticipated positive response.

Yours sincerely,

Garba Sidi

An Indigene of Hadejia Local Government Area

sidihadejia@gmail.com