Opinion

By Kamal Alkasim

As I embark on writing about the history of our community, I am compelled to share the remarkable story of Sheikh Lawan Makama. His life’s work has had a profound impact on thousands of students, including myself, through his tireless dedication to teaching the Qur’an and founding a prestigious Islamic college.

We affectionately called him ‘Baban Makaranta’ (Father of the School) because of his unwavering presence and guidance. He would often be seen at the school, writing on the Allo (wooden slate) for students, mentoring teachers, and caring for us like a father.

When I spoke to one of my teachers and his son, Shehu Lawan Makama, about his father’s legacy, he shared a profound insight: ‘In our family tradition, every child is expected to teach in school before pursuing any business venture.’ This legacy lives on through the Ma’ahad Sheikh Lawan Makama, a renowned college for Qur’anic studies in our community, Kofar-Ruwa.

The college offers a comprehensive curriculum, with morning and afternoon sessions focused on Qur’anic studies, followed by evening classes on Hadith and Islamic theology. The quality of education in our community is a testament to the excellence of his school. Sheikh Lawan Makama’s impact extends beyond the classroom, as his commitment to community service has left an indelible mark on our society.

Sheikh Lawan Makama’s contributions to community services were multifaceted. His children would often lead Islamic events, including Ramadan prayers in various mosques. As students, we would attend school during the day and participate in community services in the evenings.

Growing up in a family that values the Qur’an, I had the privilege of attending many of these events. Sheikh Lawan Makama instilled in us strong moral values and good habits, emphasizing the importance of integrity and character. His reputation was such that if someone from his school misbehaved, the community would say, “This isn’t the habit of Sheikh Lawan Makama’s students.” His legacy is built on the principles of good character, and those who know him can attest to this.

Sheikh Lawan Makama’s family reflects his commitment to the Qur’an. All 16 of his children are Qur’an reciters, and thousands of students have memorized the Qur’an through his school. The students who lived in his house were treated like family members, receiving food, clothing, and care. One of my classmates shared that they felt no difference between themselves and Sheikh Lawan Makama’s biological children.

As someone who values documenting history, I aim to preserve Sheikh Lawan Makama’s legacy accurately, ensuring that future generations can learn from his remarkable life and contributions. May God bless him with knowledge, wisdom, and eternal peace.

Kamal Alkasim wrote from Kano, via kamalalkasim17@gmail.com.

By Nazeer Baba

For context, Mr Tanimu, in defence of the economic freefall under the current administration, claimed that the naira has bounced back to dominance as a result of Nigeria’s non-oil commodity exports. In reality, however, non-oil exports accounted for only about 9% of Nigeria’s total exports between Q1 2024 and Q4 2024, while mineral fuels, mainly crude oil, maintained their traditional dominance with 91% of export volume. In other words, nothing has fundamentally changed in Nigeria’s dependence on a major oil-exporting economy.

Yes, non-oil exports indeed rose from $2.696 billion in H1 2024 to $3.225 billion in H1 2025—a 19.62% growth. Much of this was driven by the naira devaluation, which makes our commodity cheaper in the foreign market at the expense of Nigerians. Another reason is the climate challenges that disrupted cocoa production in major producers like the Ivory Coast and Ghana, temporarily creating space for Nigerian cocoa. But this is both an incidental and a policy blunder.  

The more urgent question is how this growth affects the key aspects of development. Poverty, unemployment, and inequality, especially for the 133 million Nigerians living in multidimensional poverty? As the economist Amartya Sen argued, real development should be gauged by what happens to these three dimensions. Unemployment

The official unemployment rate fell to 4.3% in Q2 2024, down from 5.3% in Q1. But this decline has little to do with any job boom under President Bola Tinubu. Instead, it is the product of a statistical adjustment. In the past, the NBS only counted those aged 15–64 who worked at least 20 hours per week as employed. Under the new guidelines, anyone 15 years or older who worked for pay—even for just a single hour in a week—is now considered employed. At best, this is a manipulation of numbers.

For young people, the reality is harsher. Unemployment among 15–24-year-olds was 6.5% in 2024 under the new formula, but under the previous methodology, it had peaked at 53.4%. The World Bank confirms this paradox: low official unemployment rates coexist with widespread poverty. Millions are “employed” but still trapped in poverty. Job quality, not misleading headline numbers, is what truly matters. Today, most Nigerians endure insecure, informal, and underpaid work.

Poverty

Nigeria has long been an economy under strain, but the shock of 2024–2025 has been unprecedented. Over 54% of Nigerians now live in extreme poverty, surviving on less than $2.15 per day. Rural poverty is staggering at 75.5%, while urban poverty stands at 41.3%. According to Reuters, by August 2025, an estimated 33 million Nigerians are facing acute food insecurity. Inflation, naira devaluation, fuel subsidy removal, recurrent floods, and internal displacement have left two-thirds of households unable to afford food.

Inequality

Nigeria’s inequality gap has never been wider, despite being Africa’s largest economy. With abundant human capital and vast resources, Nigeria has the economic potential to lift millions out of poverty. Yet the wealth distribution remains grotesquely skewed. According to Oxfam, the combined wealth of Nigeria’s five richest men $29.9 billion, could end extreme poverty nationwide. Meanwhile, over 5 million Nigerians are at risk of hunger and starvation. More than 112 million people live in poverty, yet the richest Nigerian man would need to spend \$1 million a day for 42 years to exhaust his wealth. His annual earnings alone could lift 2 million people out of poverty for a year. This is the textbook case of an economy trapped in extreme inequality.

Policy Recommendation

If Nigeria is serious about reversing this deterioration, the government must move beyond statistical gimmicks. A realistic policy response would be to mandate a Commission that directly links export earnings to job creation and poverty reduction. This means:

1-Mandating that a percentage of non-oil export revenues be reinvested into agro-industrial value chains to generate decent jobs.

2-Expanding targeted social protection programs funded from windfall oil revenues to cushion the poorest households against inflation and food insecurity through deliberate and direct cash transfers.

3- Enforcing progressive taxation on extreme wealth to finance healthcare, education, and rural infrastructure. Areas where inequality is most glaring.

Without policies that directly address poverty, unemployment, and inequality, Nigeria’s so-called “export-led rebound” will remain nothing more than a statistical illusion.

Nazeer Baba wrote from Abuja, Nigeria, via Babanazeer29@gmail.com.

By Aminu Babayo Shehu

The recent move by Senator Shehu Buba Umar, representing Bauchi South, to convert Abubakar Tafawa Balewa University (ATBU), Bauchi, from a University of Technology to a conventional university has stirred deep concern among stakeholders, alumni, and advocates of science and technology education. The bill, which has already passed second reading in the Senate, risks undoing decades of progress that ATBU has made in advancing technology-driven learning and innovation in Nigeria.

In an era when nations are competing through science, technology, and innovation, Nigeria cannot afford to take a step backwards. Around the world, technology is driving development, job creation, and national competitiveness. From Artificial Intelligence to Robotics, Biotechnology, and Cybersecurity, the future of work and industry is being reshaped by technology. It is therefore troubling that, instead of strengthening one of Nigeria’s most respected technology-based universities, the discussion is now about diluting its identity.

ATBU has earned its reputation as one of the country’s leading technological institutions. For decades, it has produced graduates who are not only competent but highly sought after in both the public and private sectors. Alumni of the university are excelling in software engineering, telecommunications, construction, fintech, and data science. Many are leading teams, building products, and contributing to the growth of major organisations across Nigeria and abroad.

In recent years, the university has made even more progressive strides. The Faculty of Computing, for instance, has expanded its curriculum beyond traditional Computer Science to include new, globally relevant courses such as Artificial Intelligence, Data Science, Software Engineering, and Cyber Security. These additions are clear evidence that ATBU is aligning itself with international trends and preparing students for the realities of the modern digital economy.

Instead of seeking to convert ATBU into a conventional university, the Federal Government and relevant stakeholders should focus on strengthening its technological capacity and research base. There are better, more visionary ways to make the institution self-sustaining and impactful. Establishing Artificial Intelligence research laboratories, cybersecurity and digital forensics hubs, robotics and automation labs, and technology incubation centres would attract both local and international partnerships. Such facilities could become national assets for innovation, startups, and industrial research.

Globally, top universities have achieved great success by maintaining and deepening their technological focus. The Massachusetts Institute of Technology (MIT) in the United States, Tsinghua University in China, and the Korea Advanced Institute of Science and Technology (KAIST) are shining examples of institutions that have transformed their nations through technology-driven education and research. Nigeria should be learning from these models, not abandoning its own.

Turning ATBU into a conventional university would water down its focus and weaken the very foundation on which it was established. What Nigeria needs today are more institutions that specialise in applied sciences, engineering, and emerging technologies; not fewer.

This proposal, though perhaps well-intentioned, is ill-timed and misdirected. The challenges of the 21st century demand more innovation, not less. The future will belong to nations that invest in science, technology, and knowledge creation.

ATBU should remain what it was meant to be: a University of Technology dedicated to building Nigeria’s next generation of innovators, engineers, and researchers. To do otherwise would not just be a loss for Bauchi or Northern Nigeria, but for the entire country.

Aminu Babayo Shehu is a Software Engineer and alumnus of Abubakar Tafawa Balewa University, Bauchi. He writes from Kano via absheikhone@gmail.com.

By Ibraheem A. Waziri

(My other essay, Against The Hadith Problem, discussed how Muslim empires in the past lived on a quartet of paradigms produced through the synthesis between the Qur’an, the body of Hadith, and reason. That provoked questions regarding the future of Muslim societies and states, hence these reflections and projections into 2075.)

It is 2075, and the world I walk through feels at once strange and familiar. The glass towers still gleam, drones still hum, algorithms still rule, yet beneath the circuitry there is a slower pulse: the rhythm of old fiqh and older faith.

For all our talk half a century ago of a secular age, the present belongs to hybridity. Constitutions speak the language of the Qur’an without calling it revelation. Western democracies borrow the moral grammar of Medina without feeling conquered. The four old schools of law (Mālikī, Shāfiʿī, Ḥanafī and Ḥanbalī) and the three great theologies (Ashʿarī, Māturīdī and Atharī) are no longer museum exhibits. They are living systems quietly moderating the noise of modernity.

West Africa: The Mālikī Republics

I began this journey in Abuja. The city has doubled in size, but its heart beats in rhythm with the Mālikī canon. In the courthouse, digital panels display sections from Mukhtaṣar Khalīl beside constitutional clauses. When a judge calculates inheritance shares, the algorithm he uses is Mālikī too: transparent, fair and incorruptible.

Even non-Muslim states around the Sahel now use these formulas. Ghana’s civil code borrows Mālikī inheritance rules, while Benin’s marriage registry follows the Islamic ʿaqd nikāḥ (marital contract) model because it ensures equity and consent better than the older colonial templates.

Banking has gone moral. Nigeria’s hybrid finance sector runs on maṣlaḥa-based smart contracts, while interest systems survive only in history syllabi. The ulama sit on the Council of Moral Economies, auditing state budgets for ethical imbalance. “Sharia,” an elderly economist told me, “is not our government; it is our conscience.”

Arabia: The Neo-Atharī Technocracy

From the Sahel, I flew east to Riyadh. The skyline looks like circuitry: solar glass towers, sky bridges humming with data. The Atharī–Hanbalī paradigm still shapes law, but it is encoded now in a literal sense. Hanbalī jurists work with AI engineers who have trained “Hadith logic engines” to map rulings from canonical texts.

The constitution speaks of dual sovereignty: divine law for the moral order, human law for function. A court clerk showed me how every regulatory draft is first run through an algorithm trained on Ibn Ḥanbal and Ibn Taymiyyah, then reviewed by human jurists.

Even cinema has turned pious. Historical dramas about early scholars play in multiplexes. Young Saudis quote Ibn Ḥanbal as easily as they quote quantum code. The result is not rigidity but confidence. They see tradition not as a wall but as a coordinate system for the future.

Southeast Asia: The Shāfiʿī–Ashʿarī Democracy

Jakarta feels like the world’s conscience. The call to prayer threads through a metropolis of electric trams and vertical gardens. The parliament convenes only after the Majlis al-Maqāṣid, the Council of Objectives, certifies that each bill meets four of Sharia’s six ethical aims: life, intellect, property, faith, lineage and justice.

This “maqāṣid democracy” has become the envy of the developing world. Corruption is rare because legislation itself is filtered through moral metrics. University students still memorise al-Nawawī and al-Ghazālī, but they also code in Python and quote maqāṣid theory in debates on climate law.

Shāfiʿī jurisprudence has not stifled freedom; it has disciplined it. A new civic pride glows here. Islam and democracy are no longer hyphenated; they are married.

Ankara: The Ḥanafī–Māturīdī Continuum

And then there is Turkey, the quiet custodian of the Ottoman inheritance. Its universities still teach Māturīdī theology as the bridge between revelation and rationalism. The state calls itself secular, yet its courts and social policy breathe Ḥanafī air.

In 2075, the High Directorate of Moral Logic, a successor to the old Diyanet, reviews every national reform for philosophical balance: does it protect reason (aql) and faith (īmān) equally? The framework is pure Māturīdī.

Turkey’s digital constitution, ratified in 2060, encodes “Ḥanafī modularity,” a principle allowing law to flex with circumstance. The same logic shapes its AI governance, its family law, and even its diplomacy.

From Istanbul outward, this Ḥanafī–Māturīdī ethos has spilt into Central Asia and the Indian subcontinent. Uzbekistan’s civic schools teach both Avicenna and al-Māturīdī. Pakistani fintech startups run on ḥiyal-based smart contracts. The Ottoman blend of faith and rational statecraft has found its second life in circuitry and policy code.

Europe: The Mālikī Renaissance

In Paris, I walked past a law office advertising “Islamic Equity Contracts.” Mālikī inheritance rules, once exotic, are now embedded in the French civil code for their mathematical clarity. Every December, the city hosts La Nuit des Saints, honouring figures from both faiths such as ʿAbd al-Qādir al-Jazāʾirī, Rābiʿa al-ʿAdawiyya and Francis of Assisi. The night ends with poetry readings under the Louvre’s glass dome.

Across the Channel, the United Kingdom has normalised Sharia arbitration. The Hanafi–Maturidi tradition, brought long ago by South Asian immigrants, is now part of national legal pluralism. Judges quote Abū Ḥanīfa in footnotes. Friday sermons mingle Qur’an with Shakespeare, and the term Anglo-Muslim has lost its hyphen; it has become a cultural fact.

The Global Drift Towards Muslim Norms

What surprises me most in 2075 is not conversion, though that too has surged, but imitation. The world has adopted Muslim social standards almost unconsciously.

The ʿaqd nikāḥ, once seen as a religious marriage, is now the global model for civil unions, prized for its symmetry and consent clauses. UN inheritance reforms draw on Mālikī logic for equitable estate division. Even secular citizens in Europe and East Asia now choose contracts modelled after fiqh because they feel fairer, cleaner and more human.

Reverence for saintly figures, long dismissed as superstition, has made a comeback. Shrines to al-Ghazālī, Rūmī, Ibn ʿArabī and even non-Muslim sages now form a new “pilgrim’s circuit of wisdom.” Modern psychology calls it “ancestral grounding.” We simply call it barakah.

As for conversions, some call them reversions; they grow yearly. Not by the sword of argument, but by exhaustion. People wanted meaning, proportion and discipline. They found it in Islam’s cadence: prayer as pause, zakat as fairness, fasting as freedom from appetite. In Europe, nearly one in five now identifies as Muslim or Muslim-shaped; in North America, one in ten. Many of them began not with belief but with admiration for the order that belief produced.

The Entangled Civilisation

By 2075, no state is purely Islamic or Western. The categories have dissolved.

The UN’s Council on Civilisational Ethics opens its sessions with verses from the Qur’an alongside Kantian aphorisms. Global digital charters cite ʿadl, justice, as their guiding principle. Algorithms that allocate water or distribute vaccines carry lines of fiqh-based code to ensure fairness.

The old paradigms have not conquered the world; they have simply proven indispensable. Mālikī–Ashʿarī, Shāfiʿī–Ashʿarī, Ḥanafī–Māturīdī and Ḥanbalī–Atharī each remain alive, shaping ethics, finance, law and art. Their jurists now sit on international boards beside secular philosophers, arguing about AI morality and interplanetary law. The conversation is no longer between faith and reason, but between kinds of reason.

A Closing Reflection

As I write this letter from a café in Fez, the call to prayer blends with the hum of an electric tram. A group of students nearby, Muslim, Christian and atheist, argue over a verse from the Qur’an, not as a theological claim but as a piece of political philosophy. The verse speaks of balance: “We made you a middle community.”

Perhaps that is what we have become by 2075: a middle community for a weary planet. The Western world brought machinery; Islam preserved measure. Together they built a civilisation that still argues, still hopes and still prays. The paradigms the world once thought ancient turned out to be the most modern of all.

By Abdulrahman Abdulhameed

With the few years I have spent living in Lagos, a city with a visibly strong Muslim community, I have come to understand that Islam here requires continuous teaching and reawakening, especially among the youth. The struggle to uphold Islamic values in Lagos is not just about faith; it is about identity, discipline, and conviction in a society constantly influenced by competing social norms and religious diversity. Many young Muslims, unfortunately, have become lax in their practice due to peer pressure, exposure to alternative lifestyles, and the limited presence of scholars and institutions dedicated to nurturing sound Islamic knowledge.

Despite these challenges, one thing I used to console myself with was the thought that Muslims in Northern Nigeria, my home region, were doing much better in terms of religious consciousness and adherence to Islamic principles. I often believed that while Muslims in the South might be struggling to preserve their Islamic identity amidst pluralism, those in the North had a stronger foundation, firmer faith, and a more disciplined approach to Islamic life.

However, recent developments have shattered that assumption and left me deeply unsettled.

The emergence of one Masussuka on social media, a man preaching the dangerous ideology of the Qur’aniyun (those who reject the Hadith and rely solely on the Qur’an), has opened my eyes to an uncomfortable reality. His teachings, reminiscent of the destructive ideology of Maitatsine, blatantly deny the authority of the Hadith and the traditions of the Prophet (SAW). According to him and his followers, the sayings of the Prophet are fabricated, unnecessary, and irrelevant to the practice of Islam. For them, the Qur’an alone is sufficient, a claim that defies fourteen centuries of Islamic scholarship, understanding, and consensus.

What shocked me even more than his heretical claims is the growing number of Northern Muslims who not only listen to him but also defend and promote him as a reformer and a revolutionary voice of truth. The very society I had thought was deeply rooted in authentic Islamic knowledge is now producing followers who cannot discern truth from falsehood. How can a people so privileged with access to Islamic institutions, scholars, and history fall for such shallow and misguided teachings?

This is not merely a question of ignorance; it is a mirror reflecting a deeper decay, the decay of critical Islamic education, sincerity, and spiritual depth among many northern Muslims. For years, people have mistaken proximity to mosques, Arabic inscriptions, and outward religiosity as evidence of true faith. But now, the rise of Masussuka and the applause he receives expose the emptiness that has long existed beneath that illusion of piety.

Ironically, in the South, where Muslims are fewer and face constant societal pressures from adherents of other faiths, many have developed stronger conviction, deeper understanding, and firmer identity in Islam. Because they have to strive to remain Muslims, they often take the faith more seriously. While they may lack the resources and numbers that the North boasts of, their sincerity and eagerness to learn often surpass those who were born into environments steeped in Islamic culture.

It is a painful paradox: the North, blessed with scholars, Islamic heritage, and institutions, is now breeding confusion and gullibility. The South, struggling against odds, is producing Muslims who, when exposed to sound Islamic knowledge, may practice the faith more sincerely than many of their northern counterparts.

Masussuka’s ideology is therefore not just a threat from an individual but a symptom of a larger sickness, a failure of our educational systems, religious institutions, and community leadership to nurture Muslims who understand why they believe, not just what they believe. The north is becoming the example of what happens when faith becomes culture instead of conviction, when religion becomes identity instead of practice, when people stop questioning falsehood in the name of belonging to the majority.

As painful as it is, perhaps this is a wake-up call. It is time to go back to the basics, to teach Islam as it was revealed and practiced, to remind ourselves that being born into a Muslim family or a Muslim-majority region does not guarantee understanding or faith. The danger Masussuka represents is not just in his words but in the fact that he has found an audience among those who should know better.

And that, truly, is the greatest tragedy.

18th October, 2025.

By Muhammad Isyaku Malumfashi

What is happening in Katsina under the present APC administration is a shameful outcome from a government that once boasted of being widely read, widely travelled, and experienced. In fact, from the campaign period to its first year in office, the government bragged that it had all it took to make Katsina a “new Dubai.” That was why a high educational background was used as a symbol of the administration. Even in appointments, only so-called “learned” people were considered, irrespective of whether they were truly experienced or trustworthy.

The most pressing challenge of this government is denial. This denial is even more dangerous than the insecurity bedevilling the state. When you acknowledge the existence of a problem, you will be open to every advice on how to tackle it. But if you keep denying or boasting that you have eliminated it. At the same time, the menace still exists—and perhaps in a more deadly form than during the previous administration—then no matter the energy you invest, you will not succeed. The government and its loyalists continue to deny the bold existence of Fulani terror groups in the state.

Before the recent banditry attack on Muslim worshippers during dawn prayers at Mantau town in Karfi Ward, Malumfashi Local Government—which drew attention from outsiders to what we have long been saying about the APC government’s ill-conceived security surveillance approach—there had already been several incidents of bloodshed, property destruction, and abductions across about nine local governments daily. In places like Malumfashi, where I come from, the banditry menace has worsened since Governor  Dikko Radda assumed office.

The government’s approaches to fighting terror are either ill-planned or manipulated by vested interests, gambling with people’s lives and properties. If we are to judge by the capacity and fanfare displayed by the governor in the past two years—boasting about his readiness and zeal to wipe out criminals from their hideouts—then this government has no excuse for failing. By now, Dr Dikko Umaru Radda himself must have realised that governance, especially in a state with millions of residents, is hectic and demanding. It is unlike how he portrayed it during his campaign. Thus, Katsina is bigger than Charanchi, and the State Government House Office is not an ordinary SMEDAN office.

Notwithstanding, I read with dismay some comments by APC loyalists denying the existence of rampant banditry. According to them, the present government has curbed it. But I was gladdened by how people tackled them in the comment sections, pointing to multiple banditry incidents under this government—incidents worse than anything seen before.

Meanwhile, I do not waste my energy trying to rebut these “data boys” because I know they are either sponsored to promote the government and whitewash its failures, or they do it voluntarily to secure appointments. That is why I stopped engaging in the comment section of my friend Hamis Nababa whenever he appears on air defending the government, because I know he has a personal target. Let alone the unfortunate lawmakers or appointees like Surajo Abdu Kwaskwaro, representing Kaita, who went on air denying the recurrence of bandit attacks in Katsina.

When people are desperate for food, not everyone can remain true to their conscience. Hunger is a terrible thing; it pushes some people to compromise their integrity. But one should not put one’s reputation at stake simply for survival. This is where business security matters—because if those “data boys” were truly independent or well-established in their own ventures, they would not be engaging in such disgraceful acts of defending a failed government whose shortcomings are already too glaring.

One doesn’t even need to doubt whether Governor Dikko is a Grade II certificate holder or truly a PhD holder. Just look at how his government executes projects and the questionable funds allegedly spent on them. Even when figures appear clear on paper, the blunders make them impossible to explain convincingly. At the end of the day, there is nothing tangible to show.

As many have opined, the only candidate that will be extremely difficult to sell in 2027 is that of the APC. If you doubt this, let us wait for time to tell. Those bragging that APC will still win should remember: unless the ruling party uses force, manipulative tactics, vote-buying, intimidation, or pre-stuffed ballot papers, it will be unseated before noon on Election Day if the election is free and fair. Mark my words—because no sane person can campaign for APC in its present state without appearing utterly ridiculous.

Muhammad Isyaku Malumfashi wrote via muhammadisyakumalumfashi@gmail.com.

By Usman Abdullahi Koli

Miss Nafisah Abdullahi is only 17 years old, yet she has already taken Nigeria to places many nations only dream of reaching. From Yobe, a state too often mentioned only in the language of poverty and conflict, she stood before more than 25,000 contestants from 69 countries in the TeenEagle Global Final Competition and emerged as the champion. She carried Nigeria’s name to the intellectual stage and defeated children from nations where English is not just learned in classrooms but lived in homes. That was her priceless gift to Nigeria. And what did Nigeria offer her in return? A handshake, a press release, and two hundred thousand naira that cannot even pay for a single semester in a good university. A priceless victory reduced to pocket change.

Nafisah’s story is about values. It is about what we choose to honour as a people. In this country, when footballers return with medals, they are welcomed with parades and rewards. When entertainers make noise abroad, we turn them into national idols. But when a young girl conquers the world with her mind, we greet her with silence. That silence is not empty; it is a lesson. It tells millions of children that brilliance does not count here. It tells them that books are useless, that the talent of the mind will never be celebrated in their own land.

Think of where she comes from. Yobe is not a place filled with world-class schools or endless opportunities. It is a place battered by poverty, scarred by insecurity, and haunted by the highest figures of out-of-school children in the country. It is a place where girls are too often married off young, their dreams cut short before they can even begin. Nafisah could easily have been one of those forgotten numbers. Instead, she fought through the darkness, studied where others gave up, and rose to defeat students from the United States, the United Kingdom, and Canada in their own language. That is not only radiant. That is defiance. That is resilience. That is Nigeria at its best.

Other nations know how to treat their treasures. Pakistan stood by Malala Yousafzai until she became a Nobel Prize winner and a global voice for education. India lifted Gitanjali Rao, a teenager named TIME Kid of the Year, and gave her platforms to inspire millions. Kenya celebrates its brightest minds with scholarships and presidential recognition.

In the United States and the United Kingdom, children who win with their minds are given opportunities that change their lives forever. These countries understand that the true strength of a nation lies not only in athletes or entertainers but in the prowess of its children.

Nafisah’s victory should not be another forgotten headline. It should be the spark of a national movement. She deserves a scholarship that secures her future. She deserves to be made an ambassador for girl-child education, carrying her story into classrooms and villages where girls are still told their only destiny is marriage. The First Lady should stand with her. The Yobe State Government should lift her up publicly so her story becomes a source of pride and hope. Philanthropists, NGOs, and corporate leaders should support her not as charity but as an investment in the future of Nigeria.

And if tomorrow Nafisah leaves Nigeria for a country that values her, who will we blame? If she becomes a professor abroad, a world-class innovator, or even a global leader, will we cry about brain drain? What moral right do we have to lament when we refused to keep her light burning here?

Nigeria must stop dimming the dreams of its brightest children. We cannot keep clapping for dancers and athletes while ignoring the Nafisahs who show us that talent can rise from the roughest soil. If we want respect in the world, we must first respect knowledge at home.

History will not remember the leaders who ignored genius. It will remember those who lifted it. Let it not be written that Nigeria built stadiums for athletes, celebrated singers with riches, and abandoned a 17-year-old girl from Yobe who conquered the world with English. Her triumph is Nigeria’s triumph. Our silence, however, is Nigeria’s shame.

Usman Abdullahi Koli wrote via mernoukoli@gmail.com.

By Hauwa Mohammed Sani, PhD

I thought I was making a simple, kind gesture—choosing an older gentleman’s cab late one night after a long flight. I figured it would be an easy ride. What unfolded next wasn’t just a navigation problem; it was a bizarre, real-time collision between the old way of the world and the new, AI-driven one. This true story of a taxi ride truly happened to me last week.

​It was late, the kind of late where the airport lights look sickly and the air is thick with fatigue. I needed a ride. Looking over the line of sleek, modern taxis, my eye landed on one driven by an old man—a true gentleman of the road, old enough to be my own grandfather. A small surge of pity, mixed with a desire to give him the fare, made me choose him. Little did I know, I wasn’t just hopping into a cab; I was walking into a generational drama.

​The man knew the general area of my destination, but finding the exact estate became an odyssey. We drove, we turned, we asked passersby—a frantic, real-world search in a fog of darkness and street names. Frustrated, I reviewed the apartment information on my phone and saw a contact number within the address details. I called it.

​The voice on the other end was bright and American. “Oh, that’s my apartment, but I live in the U.S.,” she cheerfully informed me. “I’ll have someone call you.”

​True to her word, a local contact called back. “I’ve sent you the location,” she said. “Just Google it.”

​And there was the rub. My driver—a man whose mind held a living map of the city’s every alley and backstreet—and I, a modern traveller, stared at each other. Neither of us was familiar with using Google Maps.

​The poor old man was desperate. “What are the landmarks? Describe the building!” he pleaded into the night air. The girl on the phone, however, was stubbornly one-dimensional: “Just follow the GPS. Google the location.”

​That’s when it hit us both. In that moment, the taxi cab became a time capsule. Here were two people operating on landmarks, intuition, and human description, battling against an AI generation that has completely outsourced its sense of direction. Simple communication—a left at the bakery, a right past the big tree—was utterly lost.

​The driver was absolutely fuming. He kept grumbling, “Where is our sense of reasoning? They’re being machine is programming them!” To him, this reliance on tech wasn’t progress; it was the crippling of a fundamental human skill. He saw creativity and simple reason dying, replaced by a glowing screen that gives an answer but can’t hold a conversation.

​We eventually found the place, not by Google, but by a final, desperate, human description from a local. But the lesson lingered: Technology is fantastic, but sometimes, when it replaces basic common sense, it really can feel useless. We need to remember how to read the world, not just the map.

The Climax: The Race for the Flight

The next day, it was time for my return. The old man—who I now affectionately called Papa—had promised to pick me up. He came, but he was late. I kept calling, reminding him of my flight and the town’s busy roads. He assured me we would take an “outskirt” route with no traffic.

We found otherwise.

The clock was racing, and the roads were choked. In his confusion, the poor man even pulled into a station to buy fuel, a detour that felt catastrophic. But the beautiful part? He kept accepting his mistakes. He was frantic, not defensive. We kept running against the clock, fueled by mutual anxiety.

By the time we reached the terminal, the counter was closed.

“Hajiya,” he said, using the Hausa honorific reserved for me, the Yoruba man’s passenger. “Don’t worry about the fare. Just run. Run and make your flight first.”

I rushed in and had to beg the counter staff to issue my ticket. I became the last passenger on the flight, all thanks to a desperate sprint.

The Unbreakable Trust

A display of profound, inter-tribal trust eclipsed that moment of panic. Here was Papa, a Yoruba man, sending off Hajiya, a Hausa woman, without a dime for his service, instructing me not to worry about payment until I was safely at my destination.

He kept calling me after I took off, checking on my travel and praying I made my connection. Not once did he mention money.

It wasn’t until I reached out and said, “Papa, please send me your account details,” that the drama of the day resumed (as expected, getting that detail was another adventure!). But in the long run, I paid Baba a generous amount—one he met with a flood of heartfelt prayers for my future.

This journey, from a confusing GPS battle to a race against the clock, taught me the most significant lesson: amidst all the conflict and generational friction, there is still peace and trust in connection. 

As I work on our research for the University of Essex London on conflict resolution and prepare for my ‘Build Peace’ conference in Barcelona, I realise that sometimes the greatest examples of peace aren’t in treaties, but in a simple promise between a Yoruba taxi driver and his Hausa passenger.

Hauwa Mohammed Sani, PhD, teaches at the Department of English and Literary Studies, Ahmadu Bello University, Zaria.

By Tijjani Usman Dalhatu

The recent announcement that Mathematics will no longer be compulsory for admission into Arts and Humanities programs in Nigerian universities has generated both relief and concern. While it may appear to remove a long-standing obstacle for many students, it also raises a deeper philosophical question about the role of Mathematics in shaping thought itself.

Mathematics is far more than a subject in the school curriculum; it is a philosophy of reasoning, structure, and truth. It disciplines the mind to detect order in complexity, to question assumptions, and to think with clarity. It is the silent philosopher that underlies all genuine understanding, whether in the sciences, the arts, or the humanities.

History is rich with thinkers who embodied this union of logic and imagination. Bertrand Russell, both philosopher and mathematician, sought truth through reason and ethics. G. H. Hardy regarded pure mathematics as a creative art, not just an academic pursuit. Lewis Carroll, a mathematician, used logic and paradox to craft timeless literary classics. And Omar Khayyam, celebrated as a poet of destiny, was first a master of algebra and astronomy.

Their lives remind us that the boundaries we draw between science and the humanities are artificial. Every discipline, whether it studies numbers or narratives, still depends on logic, pattern, and evidence. Even the modern historian employs statistics to interpret migration, the linguist applies probability to syntax, and the sociologist uses data to understand society.

Removing Mathematics from the foundation of Arts education risks cultivating thinkers who may feel deeply but reason shallowly. They may be fluent in expression yet uncertain in structure. In an age governed by data, where information is quantified and measured, even the humanities must remain numerate to stay relevant.

Mathematics sharpens the intellect not by teaching us to count, but by training us to think precisely. One may exclude it from certificates, but never from the mind.

For to reason is to calculate, and to imagine is to measure the infinite.

Tijjani Usman Dalhatu is a lecturer and researcher in Chemistry Education at the Federal University of Technology, Minna, Nigeria. He can be reached via tijjani.usman@futminna.edu.ng.

By Abdulhamid Abdullahi Aliyu 

When President Bola Ahmed Tinubu announced a presidential pardon for 175 convicted persons across the country, Nigerians received the news with mixed emotions. But among the list, one name struck a raw national nerve: Maryam Sanda, the woman convicted of killing her husband, Bilyaminu Bello, in what remains one of the country’s most chilling domestic murder cases.

For many, it was not just another item in the roll call of mercy; it was a haunting reminder of how justice can sometimes be undone by power, privilege, and politics. The presidential prerogative of mercy, though constitutional, has now become a moral battlefield where the grief of the victim’s family collides with the influence of the powerful.

The late Bilyaminu Bello’s story is a tragic one. Murdered in cold blood by his wife in 2017, his death tore through the conscience of the nation. From the Federal Capital Territory High Court to the Court of Appeal, and finally to the Supreme Court in 2023, every judicial panel reaffirmed her guilt and upheld the death sentence. For many Nigerians, that long, painstaking journey through the courts was justice done and seen to be done.

But when the same Maryam Sanda walked free through the gates of presidential pardon barely two years later, the wounds of that tragedy reopened. In a country where thousands of convicts languish for years without the benefit of mercy, her release looked less like compassion and more like privilege dressed in forgiveness.

What deepened public unease was not just the pardon itself, but the drama that followed. As the late Bilyaminu’s family protested the decision, a man claiming to be his biological father suddenly appeared before journalists in Abuja beside Maryam’s own father to bless the President’s gesture. He pleaded that the woman should be allowed to raise his “grandchildren.”

Yet, investigative accounts reveal that this man, Alhaji Ahmed Bello Isa, had been absent from his son’s entire life. A retired storekeeper from the old Sokoto State, he reportedly disappeared shortly after the boy’s birth in 1981, never to return, not during his son’s childhood, not during his marriages, and not even during the long, high-profile murder trial that went all the way to the Supreme Court. His sudden reappearance, looking frail and poor, has been widely viewed as an orchestrated spectacle to give moral cover to an otherwise controversial pardon.

Meanwhile, Dr Bello Haliru Mohammed, OFR, the Ɗangaladiman Gwandu and uncle who raised Bilyaminu from childhood, issued a deeply moving statement titled “When Prerogative of Mercy Inflicts Inexorable Pain.” In it, he lamented that the pardon had reopened the family’s wounds, describing it as “the worst injustice any family could be made to go through.” He reminded the nation that the accused had shown “no remorse even for a fleeting moment” throughout her trial, and that her release mocked the memory of a life lost in cold blood.

Dr Bello’s words resonate beyond his family. They echo the silent frustration of many Nigerians who see the selective use of presidential mercy as a reflection of the country’s deeper moral decay. In this system, the powerful can always find their way out, while ordinary citizens drown in bureaucracy and neglect.

At this point, I must confess that I, too, find the whole episode unsettling. Mercy, in its truest form, should heal, not wound. It should reconcile, not re-traumatise. What purpose does clemency serve when it is perceived as a reward for influence rather than repentance? How do we explain to millions of Nigerians that justice can be reversed overnight, not because the convict was wrongly judged, but because connections spoke louder than conscience?

The case of Maryam Sanda is not just about a family’s pain; it is a mirror reflecting the cracks in our collective sense of fairness. When the law becomes a ladder, only the privileged can climb; justice loses its soul. When mercy is granted without genuine repentance, it ceases to be mercy; it becomes mockery.

Perhaps the President acted out of compassion, perhaps on counsel. But genuine compassion would have considered the pain of the victim’s family, the moral lessons for society, and the need to preserve faith in the justice system. Instead, what we have witnessed is a decision that reopens grief and reinforces the notion that justice in Nigeria bends easily for those with the right surname.

Now, as the nation debates and families mourn afresh, one cannot help but reflect on Dr Bello’s final words: that ultimate justice lies only with the Supreme Judge — Allah. That truth should haunt every conscience involved in this affair. Because when human mercy wounds justice, divine judgment will, in the end, heal what man has broken.

Abdulhamid Abdullahi Aliyu writes on disaster management and national development.