Opinion

By Bilyamin Abdulmumin, PhD

One of my grandfather’s wives, Hajiya Ba’u, survived to live with us till last year, when she passed away. She was fond of sharing history, and in me she found a devoted student. One particular period stuck with her was the early years of her marriage, which was a few years before Nigerian Independence. She once narrated to me how oranges and bananas were considered costly gifts at the time. They only got to see such fruits when my grandfather travelled to Ibadan; these fruits were shared meticulously, as they were seen once in a blue moon.

These fruits, which were once rare luxuries, have now become common in every household, regardless of the season. One can wake up at any odd hour, walk to the main street, and easily find them. Both oranges and bananas are now available in many varieties. The sweetest orange is Dan Boko, named after its place of origin, while the sweetest banana is the variety known as Senior; it has a taste beyond ordinary bananas. Beyond oranges and bananas, fruits like apples, pineapples, and coconuts have also become ubiquitous, and the richness of fruits reaches its peak in the form of fruit salad. People of the 1960s could only dream of fruit salad in Heaven.

Hajiya Ba’u also mentioned that soap was a rare luxury in those days, and they would only use it once in a while. The equivalent of soap, if I didn’t forget, is Bagaruwa (Gum Arabic tree); the pods and bark of this tree contains substance called saponins, like in the case of sodium salts of fatty acids of modern soap, the hydrophobic part of the saponins binds to oils on skin, clothes, or utensils while hydrophilic part binds to water, this creates micelles, which trap dirt and wash them away. Some rural areas still use Bagaruwa as a means of cleaning. In other words, these rural areas are just as advanced as my community of the 1960s. This is why going to rural areas is reminiscent of time-travelling.

Today, whether it’s table soap or liquid soap, it comes in various types, sizes, colours, and fragrances. My memory was reset in 2019 when I lodged at Hotel 17 in Kaduna. There, I saw just how far the customisation of everyday items had gone: single-use soaps, single-use rubbing Vaseline, single-use sugar, single-use perfume, milk, and more. People of the 1960s would think such convenience could only be found in Heaven.

My grandma was also nostalgic about the advancement of packaging. Polyethene (black nylon, etc) was non-existent in those days, so instead they used Tumfafiya—a broad leaf large enough to serve as a wrapper. In fact, I myself bought zogale da kuli (Moringa oleifera and groundnut cake) wrapped in Tumfafiya. In a chemical process called polymerisation, thousands of two-carbon alcohols (ethylene) are woven together to form polyethene. That is more or less like laying thousands of bricks together to make a block. Thanks to the Polyethene revolution, it has now taken over, from shopping bags to “leda” bags, “Santana” bags, water sachets, milk sachets, and stretch wraps in different sizes, brands, and designs. Our packaging revolution extends to cardboard boxes, aluminium foils, plastic containers, and resealable pouches. Those living in the 1960s could only have been left speechless.

Far back in the 1960s, donkeys and camels were the standard vehicles. So, when my Fiqh Sheikh travelled to Zamfara in the 2000s, we only closed for one day. He reminded us that in earlier times, such a journey would have required at least two weeks. Similarly, cellular communication, once a dream of the 1960s, now happens in a split second. One day in the lab, a colleague, who was fond of observing social change, sent a message to England using his mobile phone. Our conversation would revolve around the miracle: the efficiency of sending the message at a negligible cost of only about ten naira.

The paradox is this: even as social change is undeniable in contemporary Nigeria, the strength of our institutions has nosedived and been reversed. A small clinic in a district in the 1960s would treat patients better than what is obtainable in our modern general hospitals. Teachers, even at the primary school level, were treated like kings. We are still in touch with the rural communities my father taught in the seventies and eighties. In one viral clip, late former President Buhari recalled how immediately after secondary school graduation, he was offered a managerial job, a new motorbike, and a competitive salary. 

Late Chief Audu Ogbe, in a Daily Trust reminiscence, noted that in the 1960s, the Central Government even borrowed from the Native Authorities, which now became local government authorities. A former permanent secretary from Kebbi State once told me how, during his days at ABU in the 1980s, students had meal tickets and even their clothes washed. All these examples point to one fact: institutions were working then.

With remarkable social change beyond recognition and technological advancement beyond imagination, if our institutional trajectory is redirected, Nigeria could go to the moon.

Happy Independence Day.

By Bashir Uba Ibrahim, PhD.

Two weeks ago, I visited Prof. Isa Mukhtar after we concluded one of the parallel sessions organised for a national conference on the works of Aliyu Kamal, in which I served as a rapporteur. The event was held at the Department of Linguistics and Foreign Languages, which was renamed the Department of Linguistics and Translation following the unbundling and upgrade of the former Faculty of Arts and Islamic Studies to the College of Arts and Islamic Studies.

Prof. Isa Mukhtar is one of the most academically generous teachers I know. After exchanging greetings, he gifted me his newly published book titled An Introductory Hausa Linguistics, which I intend to review here briefly. Unlike previous books on Hausa grammar and linguistics, Mukhtar, in this thirteen-chapter book, attempts to simplify the branches of linguistics by extensively drawing on examples from the Hausa language and redefining some linguistic terms. This review is by no means exhaustive or comprehensive, as it would be difficult to do full justice to the book in this limited space.

Chapter one, which is entitled ‘Views on the Origin of Language’ (Ra’ayoyi a kan Asalin Harshe), dissects some of the speculations regarding the origin of language. He addresses the speculations regarding the origin of language by citing Zarruk’s views on the phenomenon, including divine creation, man’s discovery, man’s invention, and man’s evolution from a human perspective. He thus attempts a glottochronological examination of Hausa and Amharic, the language of Ethiopia, and Hausa and Coptic, the language of Egypt, in his effort to relate the origin of Hausa with its cognate languages in Africa.

Chapter two, titled ‘Introduction to Language’ (Gabatarwa a kan Harshe), discusses various functions of language. Citing relevant examples from doyen linguists like Fowler (1974) and Leech (1974), he nominally examines the general functions of language, buttressing the thesis with examples from Hausa. The chapter also briefly explains numerous linguistic forms (nau’oi a cikin harshe) in which he shows arbitrary and non-arbitrary forms of language.

The third chapter is titled ‘Historical Linguistics and Stylistics’ (Tarihin Nazarin Harshe da Ilimin Salo). Here, the author provides a historical analysis of the origin and development of linguistics as a field of study from antiquity to the present day. Various schools and movements that shaped major linguistics trends and ideas, such as structuralism (bi-tsari) and its subsidiaries like the Copenhagen school (makarantar Copenhagen), American structural linguistics (Bi-tsari a marajtar harshe ta America), French structuralism (Bi-tsarin Faransa), Prague school (makaranyar Prague), rationalism (na tunani), and empiricism (gogayya). The chapter also attempts to link structuralism with stylistics by discussing some of the stylistics scholars influenced by structuralism, such as Charles Bally, Roman Jakobson, and Michael Riffaterre. These scholars developed their theory on the style of communication and contributed to generative stylistics.

Chapter four, ‘Functional Linguistics and Stylistics’ (Harshen Aiwatarwa da Ilimin Salo), builds on the previous chapter by examining stylistics (ilimin salo) from a systemic functional linguistics perspective. In this chapter, the writer attempts to appropriate Halliday’s theory of stylistics and apply it to Hausa data by extensively drawing examples from it. Thus, Halliday’s main conception of the stylistics function of language into ideational, interpersonal and textual was heavily domesticated and linked with Hausa.

The fifth chapter titled ‘Classification of African Languages’ (Rarrabewa Tsakanin Harsunan Afirka). In this chapter, the author bases his classification of African languages on Greenberg (1966), in which he classified African languages into four phyla, namely, Afro-Asiatic, Khoisan, Niger-Congo and Nilo-Saharan. He attempts to trace the Hausa language to the West-Chadic branch of the Afro-Asiatic language family. He establishes its relationship with cognate languages in Nigeria, such as Bole, Kare-Kare, Warji, Ron, and Bade.

Chapter six, which is entitled ‘Syntax and Grammar’ (Ginin Jumla da Nahawu), makes a historical examination of grammar from a Greek grammarian, Dionysius Thrax, traditional grammar (Nahawun gargajiya), structural grammar (nahawun bi-tsari), finite state grammar (nahawun kwakkwafi), phrase structure grammar (tsarin nahawun yankin jumla), generative grammar (nahawun tsirau), transformational grammar (nahawun rikida/taciya), transformational generative grammar (nahawun taciya mai tsira), etc.

The seventh chapter, ‘Advanced Syntax’ (Babban Nazarin Ilimin Harshe) served as a build on its preceding chapter. The chapter makes a deeper examination of the extended standard theory by Chomsky, looking at Government and Binding Theory of Syntax and its application in the Hausa language. While chapter eight, which is titled ‘Issues in Hausa Syntax’ (Muhimman al’amura a tsarin jumla), builds on the previous one by examining extended standard theory and its syntactic operators and how they can be applied in Hausa.

Chapter nine, which is entitled ‘Phonetics and Phonology’ (furuci da sauti), makes an extensive examination into Hausa phonetics and phonology. It looks at articulatory, acoustic, and auditory phonetics, drawing heavily from Sani (2010). It also discusses Hausa phonological inventories and processes as the backbone of generative phonology, such as assimilation, dissimilation, palatalisation, labialisation, nasalisation, metathesis, polarisation, etc. Meanwhile, chapter ten titled ‘Morphology’ (Ilimin Tasarifi) discusses Hausa morphological structure, morphemes, types of morphemes, criteria for identification of morphemes, morphological processes and word formation processes by citing Abubakar (2001) to exemplify his discussion.

 Chapter eleven, ‘Dialectology’ (Ilimin Karin Harshe), explores the relationship between language and society by examining major sociolinguistic aspects and relating them to Hausa languages, including argot, slang, jargon, sociolects, Hausa dialect variety, and language and culture. Chapter twelve, which is entitled ‘Semantics’ (Ilimin Ma’ana), makes a historical examination of the term ‘semantics’ and shows how it is problematic in relation to linguistic analysis. The chapter also examines the relationship between semantics and linguistics, as well as Hausa semantic change, collocations, componential analysis, speech-act, descriptive semantics, theoretical semantics, and general semantic theories. The chapter also delves into the relationship between semantics and other branches of linguistics, such as morphology, phonology, and syntax, in what can be called a ‘linguistic interface’. 

Meanwhile, the thirteenth chapter, which is the final chapter, is titled ‘Sociolinguistics’. It examines the issue of multilingualism in Nigeria, with Hausa as one of the major languages. It examines how sociolects served as social varieties of language that are determined by social factors rather than geography, citing examples with Hausar masu kudi, Hausar sarakai, Hausar malamai, Hausar ‘yan daba, Hausar likitoci, etc.

Overall, this book, intended as an introductory text, aims to acquaint readers with foundational topics in Hausa linguistics. Its straightforward presentation and accessible language make it especially useful for beginners. However, the author’s effort to simplify the content may have been overextended, leading to notable gaps. Crucially, important subfields such as psycholinguistics, neurolinguistics, applied linguistics, forensic linguistics, and computational linguistics are not mentioned at all.

Another significant omission is the absence of Ferguson (1970), particularly given the discussion on dialectology—a field in which Ferguson was a major contributor—as well as the exclusion of key works on Hausa dialectology such as Musa (1992). Similarly, in Chapter Twelve, the focus is limited to structural semantics, with no mention of Hausa cognitive semantics or relevant contributions like Bature (1991) and Almajir (2014).

The book appears to lean heavily towards stylistics and syntax, dedicating two chapters to the former and three to the latter, specifically Chapters Six through Eight. While these topics are undoubtedly important, the focus becomes somewhat disproportionate. For instance, in the discussion of Government and Binding Theory and complementation, the author omits important works such as Yalwa (1994), Issues in Hausa Complementation and Mukhtar (1991), Aspects of Morphosyntax of Hausa Functional Categories, both of which could have enriched the analysis from a Hausa linguistic perspective.

In conclusion, as Ibrahim (2008: 260) aptly states, “There is no perfect text. But as human life itself, the various imperfections of our life provide a constant challenge to us as scholars embroiled in the learning process.” Despite the criticisms above, Mukhtar’s ability to present complex topics clearly and subtly remains commendable. This book stands out as one of the more accessible introductory texts on Hausa linguistics, suitable for both students and newcomers to the field.

By Ibraheem A. Waziri

In the Hausa Islamic civilisation, or what one might call the moral order and cultural refinement that grew from Islam’s deep roots in Hausaland, the word mutuwa (death) is a curious thing. It is harmless, ordinary, and adaptable. One can say mutum ya mutu – “the man has died” – regardless of who the man is. The same word can apply to an animal, a tree, or even an inanimate thing whose usefulness has come to an end. It can carry tones of mockery, pity, or finality. We say ya mutu mushe when some living thing has worthlessly ended, ya mutu murus when silence or defeat takes over.

Yet, our language is not without tenderness. When someone beloved passes away, whether out of affection or courtesy, we soften the word. We say ya rasu. Rasuwa is a form of loss tinged with grief and respect. It refuses the bluntness of mutuwa. It gives the heart its due.

When it comes to the Prophet Muhammad (SAW), the most noble of all creation whose departure shook the heavens and all generations after, our forebears chose words such as wafati (a peaceful return to Allah), fakuwa (withdrawal or disappearance), and rasuwa (loss imbued with yearning). These were not accidental choices; they were marks of reverence. The Prophet’s message, after all, did not die with him. His presence lingers, like fragrance after rain. Thus, Hausa Muslims avoided the word mutuwa not because it was wrong, but because it was too plain for such a sacred absence. Language itself became a form of prayer and praise, salati towards the Prophet of Islam, as the Qur’an commands the faithful to always offer.

This sensibility reflects a civilisation shaped by Islam yet polished by Hausa thought. It has endured for over a millennium, blending revelation and reason, piety and poetry, into a coherent moral fabric. Scholars such as Professor Mahdi Adamu have rightly argued that Islam is now part of the defining essence of being Hausa. Indeed, no serious student of culture can separate the two.

When Professor Samuel Huntington, in his 1993 popular thesis The Clash of Civilisations, classified the great Islamic civilisations as Arab, Turkic, and Malay, I once protested, mildly but firmly, in my column of 22 July 2013 in LEADERSHIP Newspaper, “Egypt: Western World, Egypt, Political Islam and Lessons.” For he omitted the fourth: the African, which includes the Hausa Muslim civilisation. Perhaps he did so because we in West Africa have not been diligent in documenting our own intellectual heritage. Our scholars mostly built souls rather than libraries. Their wisdom lived largely in hearts, not in manuscripts. Yet civilisation is not measured by ink alone.

By the eleventh century, Islam had already entered Hausaland through kings, scholars, and merchants. It mingled with the social elite, who naturally became custodians of what was right and proper. Over centuries, Islamic principles and Hausa customs intermarried. Law, governance, poetry, and etiquette became fused with faith. The result was not confusion but coherence. Nothing central to Hausa civilisation contradicted Islam at its core, unless one judged too quickly or too superficially.

That is why scholars such as Murray Last, in his work The Book in the Sokoto Caliphate, observed that even the nineteenth-century jihad led by Shehu Usman Ɗanfodio did not reinvent Hausa Islamic learning; it merely revived and restructured it. The civilisation was already mature, only in need of renewal and discipline.

After colonial rule and the birth of Nigeria, this historical balance was tested. Contact with global Islamic thought from Egypt, Saudi Arabia, Iran, and beyond brought new currents of theology and reform. Many who studied abroad returned believing they had discovered a purer Islam, one untainted by “local innovation.” Movements such as Jama’atu Izalatul Bid’ah Wa Iqamatissunnah (founded in 1978) sought to purify faith and democratise knowledge. Their zeal achieved much good, spreading Islamic learning to wider circles.

The unintended cost, however, was subtle: a growing suspicion towards the inherited Hausa sense of decorum, the gentle courtesies and expressions through which Islam had long been lived here. Many young preachers, both from Izala and other traditions, began to attack words, proverbs, and customs without studying their origins or meanings. They mistook refinement for deviation. They forgot that ladabi—good manners—is itself part of faith.

In the curricula of the Arab world, where some of them studied, there was no course on “Islam and Hausa civilisation.” Thus, they returned unaware that many Hausa forms of reverence, formal linguistic expressions, and proverbs had already been filtered through the sieve of Islamic thought over centuries. They saw impurity where there was actually depth. And when a people are cut off from the noble patterns that dignify their past, they begin to doubt themselves. This self-doubt, or inferiority complex, becomes more dangerous than ignorance itself.

Still, there is light in the dusk. From the 1990s onwards, a new generation of researchers began delving into precolonial manuscripts and oral traditions, recovering the intellectual dignity of old Hausaland. They showed how Islamic education, Sufi scholarship, and Hausa ethical thought intertwined long before the arrival of Europeans or the rise of the Sokoto Caliphate. Yet this work has mostly been carried out by Western-trained scholars, the so-called yan boko. Our purely religious scholars have been slower to engage, preferring imported frameworks to indigenous memory.

The road ahead, however, must bring both together. The Hausa Muslim future—steady, confident, and intelligent—will depend on producing scholars grounded in both the Islamic sciences and the lived wisdom of Hausa culture. Not a nostalgic culture, but one aware of its thousand-year conversation with faith.

If the Turks, Arabs, and Malays take pride in their civilisational imprint upon Islam, why should the Hausa not do the same? Our civilisation too has carried the Prophet’s light for centuries, shaping it into our language, our etiquette, and even our choice of words.

So, when we say Rasuwar Manzon Tsira or Wafatin Manzon Tsira, it is not mere politeness. It is theology—lived, spoken, and refined in our own tongue. To call it otherwise is to forget who we are.

Ibraheem A. Waziri wrote from Zaria, Kaduna State, Nigeria.

By Zayyad I. Muhammad

It was only a matter of time. Everyone paying close attention knew that Uche Nnaji, the former Minister of Innovation, Science, and Technology, could not survive the certificate forgery storm. The handwriting was on the wall, and it finally happened. Nnaji bowed out.

The truth is simple and damning: Nnaji himself admitted that the University of Nigeria, Nsukka (UNN), never issued him a degree certificate. So the million-naira question is, where did the one he brandished come from?

UNN has washed its hands off the matter. The institution categorically stated that Nnaji never completed his studies and was never awarded a degree. In short, the certificate he paraded is fake.

And that’s not all. The National Youth Service Corps (NYSC) has also distanced itself from Nnaji’s so-called NYSC certificate, describing it as “strange.” A Premium Times investigation revealed yet another oddity: Nnaji’s NYSC record shows that he supposedly served for 13 months. Thirteen months! Even the NYSC found that hard to explain.

Of course, Nnaji claims that political enemies are behind his ordeal. But even if he knows the truth, no opponent can forge a certificate on your behalf. He laid the trap himself and walked right into it.

Let’s remember the facts. Nnaji was admitted into UNN in 1981 to study Microbiology/Biochemistry and was expected to graduate in 1985. But he reportedly failed some courses and never graduated. That means for over 40 years, Uche Nnaji neither regularised his academic records nor obtained a valid certificate, yet he rose through political ranks, occupying sensitive positions and waving fake credentials. Nnaji was careless, so to speak

Forty years of deception finally caught up with him. And this time, not even political connections could save him.

But beyond Nnaji’s personal fall lies a bigger question: how many more “Nnajis” are out there, quietly occupying sensitive positions in government, hiding behind forged papers and political influence? Some commentators are beginning to say that Nnaji’s case might just be the tip of a very large iceberg.

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

By Dikko Muhammad, PhD

Dear Governor Malam Dikko Radda, PhD., with honour and regards befitting of your office and esteemed personality, the people imploring you to address the urgent matters of Umaru Musa Yar’adua University, Katsina, are your friends, not your foes. They don’t want to see the beautiful pumpkin planted about two decades ago uprooted by your administration. If that calamity, God forbid, would happen, it mustn’t happen under the administration of the most credentialed person in the history of our state. 

Sir, UMYU isn’t just a mere state university. It was an ambition and a dream of our revered Malam Umaru Musa of blessed memory. UMYU is the culmination of the sweat and toil of many prestigious individuals from our dear state, impeccable individuals who embraced Malam Yar’adua’s dream and made it a reality.

Men and women who spent sleepless nights, travelled far and wide, to ensure that UMYU isn’t just a prestige project, but a strategic and need-based initiative that addresses the higher education deficit of our dear state and the Northern region. Many of these important individuals are alive today. Please, Sir, as they inch nearer to their graves, don’t make them feel that their labour is in vain. UMYU alone is a fulfilling mission for many of them.

Sir, forgive my repetition– UMYU isn’t just a mere state university. It’s a solution to our century-old gender gap in access to educational opportunity. It enables thousands of parents to educate their daughters to the level of degree certification at a time when interstate and intercity travel are becoming increasingly dangerous by the day. 

When UMYU collapses, may Allah prevent that, it will sink with the dream of thousands of girls who aspire to become educated mothers, productive members of society, and contributors to the future knowledge-driven economy. You just need to look left and right in your own extended family to see the impact this university has already made. 

Your Excellency, Sir, look into the posterity. It’s very long. And it remembers all. Save this system. The university workers are not asking for the impossible. They simply ask that you respect the law establishing this university. They’re only asking you to give the equivalent of whatever is obtainable in federal universities. This is enshrined in the laws that established UMYU. 

I’m deeply sorry if I sound boring. I want to remind your esteemed person that at the point of inception, no state across the Northern region has invested resources in its university as UMYU. Billions have been spent on the training of staff. I am a product of UMYU. I got my first degree here. My teachers called me to join them and serve UMYU. The university has spent millions training me for my master’s and PhD degrees. The same happened to hundreds of others.

Unfortunately, the tasteless, unmotivated and uninspiring condition of service has frustrated many out of UMYU. Many others are awaiting the bond period to japa or to move to another university. In my faculty (pictured here), I know of more than 10 people who have left this institution with their PhD financed by UMYU. UMYU has failed to retain its most precious investment. It has also fallen short of attracting other people with the highest degrees into its corridors. 

As tens of PhDs are leaving UMYU, the university can only attract people with a first degree or, at most, a master’s degree. In practical terms, UMYU is gradually positioning itself as a training ground while Katsina continues to be short-changed in the process. 

Your Excellency, I may disagree with many of your policies. But I never doubted your resilience in moving our dear state forward. Please look into UMYU. Write your history on the footprints of time. You have all that is required to save the most important legacy of Malam Umaru Musa Yar’adua, a statesman, your political mentor, a person you hold dear and a man related to you in other equally important capacities. 

Dikko Muhammad writes from the Department of English and French, UMYU. He can be reached via dikko.muhammad@umyu.edu.ng.

By Binta Spikin

Today is indeed a memorable and joyous day for students of the Federal University of Education, Kano. It marks the dawn of a new era in their educational journey, one defined by opportunity, compassion, and visionary leadership.

Senator Dr. Barau I. Jibrin, Deputy President of the Nigerian Senate, once again demonstrated his commitment to education and youth empowerment by awarding scholarships to every student of Kano North extraction in the university.

This gesture is not an isolated act of generosity. Within just a few weeks, Senator Barau has rolled out a series of educational interventions that have touched thousands of young lives across Kano State.

It began with the payment of scholarships to students of Bayero University, Kano, followed by those of Northwest University, Kano, and now, the newly upgraded Federal University of Education has joined the list of beneficiaries.

According to the Senator, the scholarships are his contribution toward developing human capital and building a knowledge-based economy that can enable Kano to compete with other regions and nations of the world. He emphasized that education remains the most powerful tool for empowerment and development, and that the youths of today are the builders of tomorrow.

He also commended President Bola Ahmed Tinubu for approving his proposal to upgrade the former Federal College of Education to a full-fledged University of Education,a transformative step for the advancement of teacher education and research in the region.

It is important to note that Senator Barau Jibrin is not just a political ally of President Tinubu, but also a leader whose style of politics is defined by optimism, humility, and human connection. His warmth and charisma are infectious.The scholarship announcement was a source of joy, but his presence itself,his genuine concern and the energy he brought left a lasting impression on everyone in attendance.

As I watched the event unfold, it became clearer to me that in Kano’s political landscape, Senator Barau Jibrin has emerged as a formidable force — a man whose political relevance stems not from rhetoric but from action. He is, without doubt, the one politician today with the vision, clout, and stamina to match the state government’s influence, especially in matters of youth development and education.

While the Kano state government struggles to justify a controversial scholarship programme, Senator Barau’s foreign scholarship initiative, which sent 71 Kano indigenes to study Artificial Intelligence in India, stands as a testament to his foresight. This is in addition to the numerous local scholarship schemes that have brought relief to both students and parents across Kano North.

His impact extends beyond academics. Recently, he launched the “Auren Gata” (Mass Marriage) Programme, which has been uniquely structured to ensure sustainability and happiness for the couples involved. A dedicated monitoring team has been set up to provide post-marital support and ensure that these unions thrive a rare approach that reflects thoughtful leadership and genuine care for community wellbeing.

In every sense, Senator Barau Jibrin, fondly known as Maliya is a game changer for Kano and the All Progressives Congress (APC) in the North. His strategies are deliberate, his projects are people-centered, and his commitment is deeply rooted in the desire to uplift the youth and empower the less privileged. He exemplifies a brand of leadership that is visionary, inclusive, and development-driven.

Senator Barau is a builder of people, not just of projects. His investment in education, youth, and social welfare is an investment in the future of Kano and Nigeria at large.

He is smart, strategic, and sincerely dedicated to human development — a man whose impact will echo for generations to come. Truly, Senator Barau Jibrin is not only investing in education; he is investing in you.

By Muhammad Isah Zng

Marriage in Islam is not just to bind together; it is an institution that preserves faith, protects men and women from immoralities, and creates harmony between men and women. It’s also a way of raising and nurturing children on the right path.  

Allah (S.W.T) describes marriage as one of His most significant signs, saying: “And among His signs is that He created for you spouses from among yourselves, so that you may find tranquillity in them; and He placed between you affection and mercy. Surely in that are signs for a people who reflect.”
(Qur’an 30:21)

In the above verse, Allah (S.W.T.) highlights the true purpose of marriage, emphasises peace, love, and mercy between husband and wife. 

Similarly, Imam Al-Ghazali, a prominent Islamic scholar, said: “Marriage is companionship, not domination. It is a place of comfort, where both husband and wife share love, trust, and cooperation.”

We can also notice that marriage is also built on trust from both husband and wife, because trust brings comfort and increases love between the spouses. Without it, marriage won’t be last in any relationship. 

Therefore, apart from being a way of sharing love, peace, and trust between husband and wife, it is also a means of having children who would be beneficial to society.

That’s why Allah called the attention of both husband and wife in this verse: “O you who believe, protect yourselves and your families from a fire whose fuel is people and stones…”
(Qur’an 66:6)

This verse emphasises the responsibility of couples towards the good upbringing of their children by ensuring that they provide them with proper guidance and support throughout their lives. 

Marriage in Islam is an avenue where both husband and wife share love, mercy, peace, and trust; it’s also a way of raising children that benefits themselves and their society. 

Muhammad Isah Zng is a student of Mass Communication, Bayero University, Kano (BUK). 

By Abdulhamid Abdullahi Aliyu

Every rainy season in Nigeria, when the skies darken and rivers swell, millions brace for the inevitable. In states like Kogi, Benue, and Bayelsa, families keep bags packed, ready to flee at the first sign of danger. Flood season has become a season of exile, not a question of if disaster will strike, but when.

The devastation of 2022 serves as a poignant reminder of what is at stake. That year, floods claimed more than 600 lives, displaced over 1.4 million people, and destroyed livelihoods on a massive scale. Croplands vanished under water, homes crumbled, and dreams were swept away. Three years later, communities still carry those scars, and the new flood alerts for 2025 have revived fears of a repeat.

It is against this grim backdrop that the National Emergency Management Agency (NEMA) is repositioning itself. For years, the agency was primarily seen as the responder of last resort, arriving with relief materials after lives and property had already been lost. Today, under the leadership of its Director General, Mrs Zubaida Umar, NEMA is making a deliberate shift: from being merely reactive to becoming a driver of foresight and prevention.

“Emergency management must no longer be about sympathy after the tragedy,” Mrs Umar insists. “It should be about preparedness that saves lives before the waters rise.”

That vision is beginning to take root. NEMA now works more closely with the Nigerian Meteorological Agency (NiMet) and the Nigerian Hydrological Services Agency (NIHSA), ensuring that seasonal forecasts and dam release alerts are translated into action at the grassroots level. Through community training, simulations, and sensitisation, the agency is attempting to close the gap between warnings and response, a gap that has cost too many lives in the past.

Yet the challenge remains daunting. Nigeria’s geography makes it naturally vulnerable, with the Niger and Benue rivers cutting across states where millions depend on farming. Poor urban planning compounds the danger, as blocked drainage and informal settlements in flood-prone areas turn cities into ticking time bombs. Climate change, with its unpredictable rainfall patterns, only worsens the threat.

In Lokoja, often referred to as the “confluence of suffering” during flood season, traders recall markets transformed into lakes, while fishermen lament the cruel irony of drowning in abundance. In Borno, families already displaced by insurgency were uprooted again when torrential rains washed away their shelters. These stories underscore a sobering truth: floods in Nigeria are not just natural disasters, but also humanitarian emergencies that exacerbate existing vulnerabilities.

Still, there are signs of progress. NEMA has strengthened partnerships with state governments and agencies, such as the Hydroelectric Power Producing Areas Development Commission (N-HYPPADEC), to broaden the response framework. The agency has also invested in early warning systems, ensuring that flood alerts do not remain stuck in Abuja press briefings but reach local leaders, town criers, and community radio stations.

For NEMA, the real battle is not only about deploying relief materials but about changing mindsets. Preparedness must become a culture. Farmers adjusting their planting calendars to forecasts, families relocating from high-risk flood plains, and local leaders treating disaster drills as seriously as security meetings. These are the shifts that make prevention real.

But as Mrs Umar acknowledges, transformation takes time. Resources remain limited, and relief supplies can only go so far in a country where millions are at risk. Disaster management will therefore continue to be a delicate balance between urgent response and long-term prevention.

What is clear, however, is that the old model of waiting until floods wreak havoc before acting is no longer sustainable. With new alerts already issued for 2025, the real task is ensuring that early warnings translate into early action. The coming seasons must not repeat the mistakes of the past.

Floods will always come. The question is whether they remain an annual tragedy or become a manageable threat. For NEMA, the answer lies in standing not just as a responder to disaster, but as a shield against it. For the millions who live in the shadow of swollen rivers, that shift could mean the difference between despair and survival.

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

By Oladoja M.O

There’s a video, “Why did Mrs X die?” that is very popular in the public health sphere. At first, the video seemed like the tale of one woman, faceless, nameless, known only by a letter. But the more I analyse and reflect on it, the more it has dawned on me that Mrs X was never just one person. She was and still is the embodiment of Nigeria’s healthcare story. Her death was not a singular tragedy, but a parable. A mirror held up to a nation’s bleeding system.

Mrs X died, not simply because of childbirth complications, but because everything that could have worked didn’t. Everything that should have stood for her failed her. Her death was not a moment; it was a long, silent, accepted process. In her story, there was the collapse of planning, access, and empathy. She died from a slow national rot that had found flesh in her body.

The story of Mrs X began not with the bleeding, but with the absence of preventive orientation that characterises the experience of many Nigerian pregnant women. She went through pregnancy the way most Nigerians face illness, hoping it would not demand too much. She never considered going for checkups, not because she was reckless, but because the culture of prevention was never truly instilled in her.

In a society where survival itself is a daily hustle, prevention often feels like a luxury. There was a health facility, yes, but it was far, tired, and overstretched. The system had blood, but not enough. Staff, but overworked. Beds, but unclean. And behind it all were the silences of policymakers, the rust of forgotten community health centres, and the dust on abandoned government project files. So, when she finally needed help, it was already too late to start looking. 

That story, the scramble at the end, is too familiar. We see it in Ekiti, Katsina, Owerri, and Makurdi. Patients running from one hospital to the next, files in hand, hope on lips, only to be turned back by bureaucracy, distance, or a quiet “we have no space.”

But beyond the infrastructure and logistics, Mrs X bore the weight of something heavier: culture. She was told, directly and indirectly, that her place was to endure. To cook. To clean. To birth. Her pain was duty. Her tiredness was weakness. To seek help was indulgent. So, she bore her cross in silence. Culture had taught her that a good woman asks for little, demands nothing, and dies quietly.

Gender inequality was not just in her home; it was in the policy rooms that never included her voice. It was in budgets that prioritised politics over health. It was in the subtle shrug of indifference that attends women’s complaints in clinics, especially poor women in rural areas. Her being female had already placed her lower on the ladder.

But perhaps what haunts me most is how everything seemed normal until someone opened the files. That day, long after she had gone, someone went back to the data room and began to look. Patterns emerged. Cases connected. Questions rose. “How many more like her?” they asked. “Could we have seen this coming?” It was research that awakened conscience. Data that pulled the curtain back. And isn’t that Nigeria’s truest shame that we often act only after counting the dead?

Mrs. X, for all her anonymity, is Nigeria. She is our health system in human form: underserved, overburdened, overlooked. Her blood loss is our policy hemorrhage. Her silence is our governance gap. Her death is our diagnosis.

It’s easy to talk about reforms. There have been many. Policies, papers, pilot schemes. But for every speech made in air-conditioned halls, there’s a Mrs X still sitting miles from care, still unsure if help will come. Nigeria does not lack ideas. It lacks continuity. It lacks compassion in implementation. It lacks the urgency that comes when you see the system as your own mother, your own sister, your own unborn child. We must stop planning in the abstract. We must stop building for applause and start building for impact. 

Health must become a right, not a privilege wrapped in bureaucracy. We must fund primary health care not as a checkbox but as a foundation. We must decentralize emergency care so that help is never more than a few kilometers away. We must invest not only in infrastructure but in mindsets, teaching every citizen that prevention is not a scam, and that seeking help is not weakness.

And crucially, we must disaggregate our data and listen to it. Research must not be something we dust off only when we need donor funds. It must be lived, continuous, grounded in our local realities. Because without data, we’re only guessing in the dark, while more Mrs. Xs are buried under statistics that came too late.

So, no, the story of Mrs X is really not about maternal mortality. It is about us. All of us. It is the story of a system that watches a woman bleed and scrambles for gauze. That waits until the final breath before asking the first question. That blames culture, then feeds it. That builds hospitals without building access. That speaks to the importance of health equity while communities barter herbs in silence. I saw Mrs X die. But more than that, I saw Nigeria in her eyes; tired, forgotten, hoping someone would care enough to fix what’s broken. 

Maybe, just maybe, if we learn to listen to her story, we won’t need another parable. Maybe her death won’t be in vain.

Oladoja M.O writes from Abuja and can be reached at: mayokunmark@gmail.com.

By Zayyad I. Muhammad 

Since February 6th, 2013, when the All Progressives Congress (APC) was formed, the party has been the darling of the North. In the 2015, 2019, and 2023 presidential elections, the North was instrumental in bringing and maintaining the APC in power at the centre. However, in President Bola Ahmed Tinubu’s just two years in power, there is widespread aggrievement against the Tinubu government in the North. This is surprising and unsurprising as well:

Out of the 8.7 million votes that brought President Ahmed Bola Tinubu to power, the North collectively contributed 5.6 million votes, accounting for approximately 64% of his total. In contrast, the South contributed 3.2 million votes, or 36%. Given this overwhelming support, it is surprising that the President has allowed the North to slip from his political grip so easily.

To be fair to Tinubu, every President seeks to reward close associates, loyalists, and political allies, including in his own way of governing. However, Tinubu appears to have gone too far in prioritising his inner circle, often at the expense of the region that gave him his strongest mandate.

The good news is that Tinubu still has ample time to regain the North’s confidence. But to succeed, he must act based on facts, not emotions, nor the filtered narratives he hears from those around him.

Broadly, Tinubu must focus on four urgent actions, grouped under two components: one political and three socioeconomic.

The President has made good progress in building elite consensus but must expand to persuade more politicians and elites. Some seek recognition, relevance, appointments, or contracts. Tinubu can quickly address this: by calling, offering appointments, or granting contracts. There’s room for more Advisers, Special Assistants, and ambassadorial positions.

Furthermore, he should establish a Presidential Advisory Council in each state, a small team of respected voices who can meet quarterly to brief him directly on the needs and aspirations of their people. This will give Northern leaders a sense of inclusion and shared ownership in governance.

The second component, socioeconomic, comprises three elements: Agriculture, Livestock, and security and infrastructure.

This is where Tinubu must be most deliberate. Socioeconomic issues directly affect the masses, the real voters. The August 16, 2025, by-election has already shown that money politics will have limited influence by 2027.

Tinubu has tried to stabilise food prices, but the cost of farm inputs has skyrocketed. The North urgently needs a dedicated agricultural recovery program. Past initiatives, such as the Anchor Borrowers’ Programme, the Presidential Fertiliser Initiative (PFI), Youth Farm Lab, Paddy Aggregation Scheme, Agricultural Trust Fund, PEDI, and the Food Security Council, were well-conceived. Yet implementation failures meant that benefits rarely reached genuine farmers.

For instance, under the PFI, fertiliser blenders made fortunes, but farmers, who should have been the real beneficiaries, still buy fertilisers at ₦45,000–₦52,000 per bag, far above the ₦5,000 target price.

Tinubu must ensure that agriculture is reconnected to ordinary farmers, not just middlemen. The Ministry of Agriculture should recalibrate its projects and programs to target real farmers directly.

The creation of the Federal Ministry of Livestock Development was a brilliant and forward-thinking step. Yet, it has made little impact so far.

With proper funding and direction, this ministry can: transform nomadic herders into more settled, educated, and productive citizens; address the farmer-herder conflict that has claimed thousands of lives; reduce cattle rustling, banditry, and kidnapping, which are often linked to herder communities.

If effectively managed, the ministry can become one of Tinubu’s most enduring legacies in the North.

Security remains the North’s most pressing concern. The kinetic and non-kinetic strategies being coordinated by the Office of the National Security Adviser (ONSA) are yielding some positive results, but much more is needed.

Tinubu should expand the non-kinetic approach through security communications, utilising massive public relations and grassroots outreach, particularly in the Hausa and Fulfulde languages. Talking directly to communities and even to at-risk groups will deepen trust, reduce misinformation, and weaken extremist recruitment.

Another way to rewin the North is through concerted efforts to make sure the ongoing and stalled infrastructure projects are fast-tracked, especially the ongoing rehabilitation of the Abuja-Kaduna expressway, some deplorable roads in the Northeast, especially along the Gombe-Adamawa axis, the Mambila hydroelectric project, Sokoto-Badagry Freeway/Highway, Kaduna-Kano Standard Gauge Rail Project, and Kano-Maradi Rail Link.

The North gave Tinubu his strongest mandate in the 2023 election. Losing its trust would be politically costly in 2027. To recover lost ground, the President must move beyond token gestures and adopt a deliberate, structured engagement strategy that balances elite consensus with grassroots socioeconomic transformation.

If Tinubu can act decisively on these four fronts, more political inclusion, agricultural recovery, livestock reform, enhanced security, and fast-track ongoing infrastructure projects, he will not only rewin the  Northern confidence but also secure massive votes in 2027

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