Opinion

By Abdulhamid Abdullahi Aliyu

In Kano today, politics is no longer whispered in corridors; it is argued loudly in markets, mosques and on social media timelines. Since Governor Abba Kabir Yusuf’s reported decision to part ways with the NNPP, the city has become a theatre of competing loyalties, sharp sarcasm and deeper constitutional questions. Supporters have reduced complex political choices into street labels—Abba’s camp being teased as ’yan a ci dadi lafiya, while the Kwankwasiyya faithful wear wuya ba ta kisa as a badge of honour. Beneath the banter, however, lies a serious national issue: who truly owns a political mandate?

Governor Abba Yusuf did not emerge from a vacuum. His ascent to the Kano Government House was inseparable from the Kwankwasiyya political machinery, a movement painstakingly built by Senator Rabiu Musa Kwankwaso over two decades. From red caps to ideological messaging, the movement transcended party platforms and became a political identity. In the 2023 elections, many voters did not merely vote for a party; they voted for Kwankwasiyya as a symbol of continuity, defiance and populist appeal.

Yet, Abba Yusuf is no ceremonial beneficiary. He contested, won, survived legal battles and now governs with all the constitutional powers vested in an elected governor. His mandate, in law, is personal. Once sworn in, no political godfather—however influential—can legally issue directives from outside the Government House. This is where the tension lies: the clash between moral ownership of political capital and constitutional authority of office.

Those derisively tagged ’yan aci dadi lafiya by opponents argue that governance is about pragmatism, access to power and delivering dividends to the people. From their perspective, a sitting governor must build alliances beyond sentiment, protect his administration and ensure stability. Politics, they insist, is not a monastic vow of hardship but a strategic exercise in survival and results.

On the other side stand the wuya bata ƙi sa faithful—Kwankwasiyya loyalists who believe political struggle must be endured to preserve ideology. To them, Abba Yusuf’s move is not strategy but betrayal. They see it as an attempt to reap the fruits of a movement while discarding its architect. In their view, suffering with the movement, even outside power, is preferable to comfort without loyalty.

This divide exposes a recurring Nigerian dilemma: the uneasy relationship between political movements and the individuals they propel into office. From Awolowo’s disciples to Aregbesola’s rupture with Tinubu, Nigerian politics is littered with fallouts between founders and beneficiaries. Kano’s current drama is simply the latest chapter.

Kwankwaso’s influence in Kano politics is undeniable. Beyond elections, he represents a moral compass for millions who see him as a symbol of resistance against elite dominance. His supporters’ anger is therefore not merely partisan; it is emotional and ideological. To them, Abba Yusuf’s political identity was inseparable from Kwankwaso’s shadow.

However, governance demands autonomy. A governor who appears perpetually tethered to an external authority risks administrative paralysis and legitimacy questions. Abba Yusuf’s defenders argue that Kano cannot be governed from outside its constitutional structures. They insist that the electorate voted not just for Kwankwaso’s endorsement but for Abba Yusuf’s promise to lead.

The real casualty in this contest, unfortunately, risks being governance itself. When political energy is consumed by loyalty tests and factional supremacy, policy focus suffers. Kano’s challenges—urban congestion, youth unemployment, educational deficits, and security concerns—require a governor fully immersed in administration, not in constant political firefighting.

There is also the electoral implication. While Kwankwasiyya remains a formidable grassroots force, incumbency is a powerful weapon. State resources, visibility, and administrative control can quickly reshape political narratives. The assumption that loyalty automatically translates into electoral dominance may underestimate the pragmatism of Nigerian voters, especially when power dynamics shift.

Yet, Abba Yusuf’s path is equally fraught. Detaching from a movement that delivered his victory carries political costs. Kano’s electorate is emotionally invested, and symbols matter. If his administration fails to convincingly outperform expectations, the narrative of ingratitude could harden into electoral punishment.

Ultimately, this is not just a Kano story; it is a Nigerian one. It forces a national reflection on whether mandates belong to parties, movements, godfathers or the individuals elected by the people. The Constitution is clear, but politics rarely is.

Perhaps the wisest outcome lies not in triumph or humiliation but in recalibration. Political movements must learn to institutionalise beyond personalities, while elected officials must acknowledge the moral debts that brought them to power. Neither absolute loyalty nor total independence offers a sustainable path.

As the dust settles, the sarcasm of ’yan a ci dadi lafiya and wuya ba ta kisa may fade, but the questions will linger. In Nigeria’s democracy, mandate is both a legal instrument and a moral contract. Kano’s unfolding drama reminds us that ignoring either side of that equation comes at a cost—sometimes higher than any political suffering.

Abdulhamid Abdullahi Aliyu is a journalist and syndicate writer based in Abuja

By Zayyad I. Muhammad

Nigeria’s Fourth Republic, which commenced in 1999, introduced a distinctive political culture that has since become entrenched in the nation’s democratic practice. Governors automatically emerge as leaders of their political parties in their respective states.

Although this arrangement is not expressly written into the 1999 Constitution or party constitutions as a rigid rule, it has evolved into an accepted political convention. In practical terms, once a governor belongs to a political party, he becomes the undisputed leader of that party in the state.

This “default” leadership status flows from the enormous constitutional powers, financial control, and political influence vested in state governors. Under the 1999 Constitution, governors are the chief executives of their states, control significant public resources, influence appointments, and play central roles in policy direction. These powers naturally position them as dominant actors within the political structure of their states. Political parties, being vehicles for acquiring and exercising power, inevitably gravitate toward the governor as their rallying point.

Critics often argue that this arrangement departs from earlier republican experiences. During Nigeria’s First, Second, and even Third Republics, governors and presidents were not automatically regarded as the formal leaders of their parties at the state or national levels. Party structures were often more independent, with clearer institutional separation between party leadership and executive office holders. However, Nigeria’s political system has evolved significantly since then. The current democratic framework places far greater burden, administrative authority, fiscal control, and political leverage in the hands of governors than was previously the case. It’s about the position!

The emergence of governors as de facto party leaders is not accidental but a result of political evolution shaped by key realities. The 1999 Constitution centralises executive authority in governors, making them the most powerful figures in their states. They also control critical political resources, finances, networks, appointments, and patronage, which are essential for party survival and electoral success. In a competitive electoral environment, incumbency provides structure, visibility, and mobilisation strength that few others can match.

Above all, political parties require unified command; without clear leadership at the state level, factionalism and instability can easily arise.

Imagine the chaos and unhealthy rivalry that could engulf a political party if a sitting governor chose to remain indifferent to party affairs. Competing factions would struggle for supremacy. Conflicting directives could weaken party cohesion. Such fragmentation could easily cost the party elections and governance effectiveness.

Furthermore, when it comes to interfacing between the executive arm at the federal level and party structures within the states, particularly in matters relating to appointments, political negotiations, federal-state collaboration, and reward systems, the governor’s role becomes indispensable. Governors serve as the bridge between national party leadership and grassroots political actors. In fact, Presidents often rely on Governors to win a state 

Just as the President functions as the leader of his party at the national level, governors serving as party leaders in their states create symmetry within the political order. This structure promotes stability, clarity of authority, strategic coordination, and internal discipline.

It is therefore not surprising that across Nigeria’s 21 registered political parties, this practice is widely accepted. Once a governor joins a party, he naturally assumes leadership of that party in the state, not necessarily by proclamation, but by political reality.

While debates may continue about whether this system strengthens internal party democracy or concentrates excessive influence in one individual, its practical utility in maintaining order, direction, and electoral viability cannot be ignored.

The emergence of governors as party leaders in their states reflects the reality on the ground, political necessity, and democratic evolution in Nigeria’s Fourth Republic.

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

By Hadiza Abdulkadir 

I am speaking out as a concerned sister after my younger brother from Kano, Nigeria, Ismail, was repeatedly contacted on TikTok by individuals claiming to be football agents.

They asked about his football journey and promised trials in another state where “European agents” would scout talented players. However, there was one condition: he had to pay for the registration form.

When I advised Ismail to ask what the form looked like, the so-called agent sent a blurry screenshot of a flashy, unprofessional document with no official logo, no verified organisation, and no connection to recognised bodies like the Nigeria Football Federation or FIFA. That was a big red flag.

According to people with deep knowledge about scouting, real agents do not randomly scout players on TikTok and demand upfront payments. Thankfully, Ismail asked questions before making any decision and did not send any money.

Many young footballers dream of playing professionally, and scammers are exploiting that dream. Parents and players must verify every claim, research every agent, and never pay fees without confirmed legitimacy.

Patience and due diligence can protect young talents from becoming victims. Beware.

Hadiza is Nigerian but writes from Cologne, Germany. She can be contacted via hadiza225@gmail.com.

By Umar Sani Adamu (Kawun Baba)

The defection of Kano State Governor Abba Kabir Yusuf from the New Nigeria Peoples Party, NNPP, to the All Progressives Congress, APC, has exposed more than a political shift. It has laid bare the fragility of slogans elevated above reason and the contradictions within Kano’s dominant political movement.

For years, the phrase “Mayiyan Kano” was used by followers of Senator Rabiu Musa Kwankwaso whenever events did not go their way. It served as a blanket response to court rulings, electoral outcomes, and opposing views. What began as a casual expression gradually hardened into a political shield used to dismiss criticism rather than engage it.

Ironically, Governor Yusuf was once celebrated as the ultimate proof of loyalty to the Kwankwasiyya structure. A report by The Daily Reality during the early phase of his administration went to remarkable lengths to present him as a devoted disciple of his mentor and political godfather. His actions, his rhetoric, and even his body language were framed as evidence of unquestionable allegiance. At the time, loyalty was portrayed as a virtue, and Yusuf was held up as its finest example.

That narrative has now collapsed under the weight of political reality. Following his defection, the same voices that once applauded his loyalty have rushed to brand him disloyal. The sudden moral outrage is striking not because politicians change camps but because of the selective memory at play. If loyalty were absolute, then it should have been defined beyond convenience. If it were conditional, then honesty demands admitting that politics is transactional, not sentimental.

The revival of Makiyan Kano, that’s “The enemy of Kano” or “One who works against the interests of Kano”. In this context reveals its emptiness. Rather than interrogate why a sitting governor would abandon the platform that brought him to power, some loyalists have retreated to slogans. It is easier to chant than to reflect. Easier to accuse than to accept that political authority ultimately rests with individuals, not movements.

What this moment exposes is a deeper problem within Kano politics: the attempt to freeze loyalty in time while ignoring changing realities. Governance is not sustained by personal allegiance to a mentor but by navigating power structures, resources, and national relevance. To pretend otherwise is to confuse political romance with political responsibility.

Supporters of the governor argue that his decision was informed by pragmatism and the pursuit of Kano’s broader interests. Whether one agrees or not, it is a position that deserves debate, not dismissal. Slogans do not govern states. Decisions do.

Makiyan Kano has returned to public discourse, but its meaning has shifted. It no longer signals confidence. It now sounds like frustration. In the end, movements that rely on chants instead of ideas often struggle when reality refuses to cooperate. Kano politics appears to be learning that lesson the hard way.

Umar Sani Adamu (Kawun Baba) wrote via umarhashidu1994@gmail.com.

By Zayyad I. Muhammad

Out of the estimated 1.68 million registered voters in the Federal Capital Territory (FCT), only about 239,210 turned out to vote, representing roughly 14–15% voter participation. This figure is not only worrisome but also indicative of a deeper democratic challenge that cannot be ignored.

The 2026 FCT Area Councils elections, therefore, require a thorough post-mortem, an autopsy, so to speak, to uncover the root causes of this low turnout. Was it voter fatigue, dissatisfaction with political actors, lack of awareness, logistical shortcomings, security concerns, or a general loss of confidence in the electoral process? These questions must be carefully examined through data-driven analysis and stakeholder engagement.

Some observers believed the imposed restriction on movement contributed significantly to the low turnout, as it may have discouraged or inconvenienced many eligible voters. Others pointed to what they described as the ruling APC’s overwhelming posture, which some voters perceived as so dominant that their participation would not alter the outcome. In their view, even if they turned out to vote, the APC was certain to win, and their individual votes would not make a meaningful difference.

Addressing this level of voter apathy is critical, especially with the 2027 general elections approaching. The Independent National Electoral Commission (INEC), political parties, civil society organisations, and other relevant authorities, including students of politics, must take proactive steps to rebuild public trust, strengthen voter education, review election-day policies such as movement restrictions, improve logistics, and enhance transparency, as well as conduct an academic analysis of ‘Why’.

A democracy thrives on active citizen participation. If such low turnout persists, it risks weakening the legitimacy of elected officials and undermining public confidence in the democratic system. The lessons from the FCT elections should therefore serve as an urgent call to action to ensure broader voter mobilisation and participation in future electoral cycles.

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

In the ever-shifting landscape of Nigerian politics, few moves have sparked as much outrage and disillusionment as Abba’s recent defection from the New Nigeria People’s Party (NNPP) to the All Progressives Congress (APC). This decision, announced amid fanfare at the Sani Abacha Stadium in February 2026, is not merely a political realignment but a stark revelation of ideological convergence—one centered on the plunder of public resources. Abba’s embrace of the APC, under the guise of seeking federal support for Kano’s development, mirrors the very looting ethos that defined Abdullahi Ganduje’s tenure as governor. It is no coincidence; the two share a disturbing similarity in their approach to corruption and the mismanagement of Kano’s treasury, turning the state’s wealth into personal fiefdoms while ordinary citizens suffer.

Ganduje’s legacy in Kano is synonymous with brazen corruption, epitomized by the infamous “Gandollar” scandal. In 2018, video footage surfaced showing Ganduje allegedly stuffing bundles of U.S. dollars—amounting to about $5 million—into his pockets, bribes extracted from contractors for state projects. This was no isolated incident; contractors revealed that Ganduje routinely demanded 15 to 25 percent kickbacks on every contract awarded during his administration from 2015 to 2023. The scandal led to investigations by the Kano Public Complaints and Anti-Corruption Commission (PCACC), which uncovered evidence of theft, abuse of office, and familial involvement in graft. Yet, even as charges piled up, including a $413,000 bribery case, Ganduje evaded full accountability, with court rulings limiting state probes and documents mysteriously vanishing during protests in 2024.

More damning is Ganduje’s role in the multi-billion naira Dala Inland Dry Port scandal. As governor, he awarded a N4 billion infrastructure contract for the port, which was meant to include a 20 percent equity stake for Kano State. Instead, he secretly transferred this stake to private entities, making his own children co-owners and denying the state its rightful share. This act of self-enrichment not only siphoned public funds but also exemplified a pattern of mismanaging state assets for personal gain. A key witness in the case was arrested at the airport in a suspicious twist, further fueling suspicions of cover-ups. Ganduje’s administration left Kano’s treasury depleted, with allegations of embezzlement running into billions, all while infrastructure crumbled and public services faltered.

It was precisely this rampant corruption and mismanagement of the public treasury that led to the overthrow of Ganduje and his allies in the 2023 elections. The people of Kano, long burdened by empty promises and drained coffers, had awakened to the realities of governance. They followed every misstep— from the kickback schemes to the vanishing funds—and channeled their frustration into the ballot boxes. The Kwankwasiya movement, with its red cap revolution, swept in on a wave of accountability, electing leaders who pledged to restore integrity. This seismic shift proved that when citizens are vigilant, no looting ideology can withstand the power of an informed electorate.

Now, turn to Abba, whose defection to the APC in January 2026—alongside 22 state assembly members and nine federal lawmakers—has exposed a parallel track record of corruption. Despite campaigning on a platform of zero tolerance for graft, Abba’s administration has been mired in scandals that echo Ganduje’s playbook. In August 2025, a N6.5 billion fraud scheme came to light, involving Abba’s Director-General of Protocol, Abdullahi Rogo, who allegedly diverted state funds through front companies, bureau de change operators, and personal accounts. The Independent Corrupt Practices and Other Related Offences Commission (ICPC) and Economic and Financial Crimes Commission (EFCC) launched probes, revealing how these funds were siphoned from the treasury under the noses of top officials.

The scandal widened when Abdulkadir Abdulsalam, then Accountant General and now Commissioner for Community and Rural Development, admitted to authorizing a N1.17 billion payment that formed the basis of the larger fraud. Investigators described it as a sophisticated money laundering operation, diverting resources meant for Kano’s development into private pockets. Civil society organizations, numbering about 20, demanded accountability, accusing Abba’s government of hypocrisy after it had vowed to prosecute Ganduje-era crimes. Even former Secretary to the State Government, Abdullahi Baffa Bichi, lambasted the administration for corruption “tenfold” that of Ganduje’s, citing evidence of mismanagement that could collapse the government before 2027.

These parallels are undeniable: Both leaders have been accused of using state contracts and equity deals to enrich allies and family, with billions vanishing through opaque channels. Ganduje’s dollar-stuffed pockets find a modern echo in Abba’s alleged BDC diversions, both representing a looting ideology that prioritizes personal gain over public welfare. Abba’s defection, justified as a bid for “federal backing and development,” is nothing more than a safe harbor in a party that has shielded Ganduje from full prosecution. It’s a union that undermines the anti-corruption promises Abba once made, aligning him with the very forces that bled Kano dry.

But history teaches us that the people of Kano will not stand idle. Just as they rose in 2023 to dismantle Ganduje’s corrupt empire, they are even more awakened today. Citizens are closely monitoring every government action, from budget allocations to contract awards, and they will not hesitate to enforce change through the ballot boxes come 2027. This defection is a desperate grasp at power, but it will only fuel the resolve of those who demand transparency.

Kano deserves better than this cycle of betrayal. The Kwankwasiya movement, with its unwavering commitment to transparency, education, and equitable development, stands as the true alternative. Founded on principles of integrity under Rabiu Musa Kwankwaso, it has consistently exposed and fought such graft, from Ganduje’s era to now. As Abba cozies up to the APC, let this be a wake-up call for Kano’s people to rally behind a movement that puts the treasury in service of the masses, not the elite. The fight against looting ideologies must continue—stronger, unyielding, and rooted in the red cap revolution that truly represents hope for our state.

Dr Umar Musa Kallah is a writer and community advocate and can be reached via kallahsrm@gmail.com.

By Bashir Uba Ibrahim, PhD 

“I have learned that people forget what you said, people forget what you did, but people will never forget what you made them feel”, Maya Angelou (1928-2014). 

Prof. Umma Abdulwahid Dabi is the kind of person captured by the above quote. Prof. was not just a scholar of high repute, but also an academic mentor to hundreds of academics. My last meeting with Prof. Umma was about two weeks ago, during our 3rd convocation speech-writing sub-committee meeting. 

“Mommy”, as we fondly used to call her, would admonish us to always utilise our intellectual rigour in our academic engagements. She always used to tell me that Bashir, you still have time to be mentored on academic engagements, as you are very young. She was also always challenging us on community development services, especially in her dear state, Jigawa. 

It is an understatement to say that Prof. Umma is one of the most patriotic indigenes of Jigawa State, and of her local community (Ringim) in particular. When I brought her the idea of reviving the moribund Ringim Indigenous Students Association (RISA) in SLUK and serving as its grand patron, she enthusiastically welcomed it.

Mommy is a humanist par excellence, as she is often called “Uwar Marayu” for her philanthropic gestures. Her home is heaven for the children of the have-nots who couldn’t afford to live during their school life. As a psychologist, she also used to offer counselling and psychological therapy to students, especially females. 

I can remember the story of one of our brilliant female students in the Department of English and Literary Studies, SLUK, who had a first-class CGPA. When she moved on in her academic pursuit, her performance drastically reduced due to the depression she found herself overwhelmed by. So, her coordinator took her to Mommy. Mommy graciously offered her free accommodation in her house, along with free feeding and psychological therapy, until the student stabilised. Thus, Mommy was not only a scholar, but also a promoter of girl-child education, a mentor, a counsellor, and a psychological therapist. 

Prof. Umma met her final days on her way back from Kaduna along the Kano-Kaduna Road in a fatal car accident. The death of Mommy is indeed an irreparable loss not only to Ringim but to SLUK and Jigawa State. We pray for Allah to forgive her shortcomings and grant her Jannatul Firdaus. 

Postscript

The group picture was taken last year when I accompanied the EXCOS of the Ringim Indigenous Students Association (RISA) SLUK Chapter to her office to solicit her to serve as the grand patron of the union, which she gladly accepted.

By Dr. Saifullahi Shehu Imam

Politics is often debated in abstract terms of strategy and alignment. But sometimes, it is written in the language of the streets, the markets and the stadiums.

The formal reception of Governor Abba Kabir Yusuf into the All Progressives Congress (APC) was one such moment, but to define it merely as a “defection” is to miss the profound human story at its core.

From the moment the Vice President of Nigeria, Alhaji Kashim Shettima’s delegation touched down at Malam Aminu Kano International Airport, it was clear this was not a routine political event; it was a historic convergence of federal intent and grassroots will.

The journey to the Sani Abacha Stadium was, in itself, a powerful political narrative. The first stop was not a politician’s lounge, but the fire-ravaged Singer Market. There, amidst the charred remains of shops and livelihoods, the Vice President Shettima delivered more than just a condolence message, where he also announced a concrete federal commitment of ₦5 billion to support the affected traders. This was not a symbolic politics; it was governance meeting grief with action.

For the traders of Kano, this single act transformed a political realignment into a tangible promise of partnership. It signaled that Kano’s alignment with the centre has already started yielding immediate, practical and tangible support for its people in their moment of need.

From the market, the procession to the stadium became a rolling testament to the depth of this new alliance. The mammoth crowd that lined the streets and filled the venue was not a rented gathering. It was a cross-section of Kano’s very soul. This massive turnout was more than a welcome party; it was a clear and potent signal of electoral mathematics. Public energy of that magnitude rarely gathers around symbolism alone; it gathers around expectation. It was a strong indication that the APC, now fortified with Governor Yusuf’s leadership and grassroots structure, is poised for a landslide in 2027.

The message from the crowd was unambiguous. The coast is clear for President Bola Ahmed Tinubu to secure Kano’s votes, for Governor Abba to secure a second term, and for the party to sweep elections from the National Assembly down to the State Assembly.
In his address, Governor Yusuf framed the move not as a personal ambition, but as a strategic decision to bring Kano into the “mainstream of our national politics” and align with President Tinubu’s Renewed Hope Agenda. The logic is undeniable. Kano, as the North’s commercial and demographic powerhouse, has often been held back by being at odds with the federal government. This realignment changes that equation overnight. It means Kano will no longer be a political outlier but a primary beneficiary of federal infrastructure, economic investment, and developmental programmes. It means a direct pipeline from the Renewed Hope Train to the heart of Kano. This is what “Kano First with Renewed Hope” truly means. It means a new compact where federal power is not a distant concept but a present partner in progress. The foundation has been laid, not in sand, but in the solidarity of its people. Now, the work of building a greater Kano begins.

Dr. S.S. Imam is a senior researcher and a political analyst from Bayero University, Kano, Nigeria. He can be reached via: saifaz2005@gmail.com

By Asma’u Sa’adu Waziri

For many students of Usmanu Danfodiyo University, Sokoto (UDUS), academic life extends beyond lecture halls and classrooms. While lectures form the core of university education, a growing number of students now engage in side hustles to support themselves and cope with the realities of campus life.

Across the university and its surrounding communities, students can be seen involved in small-scale trading, tutoring, and other income-generating activities. These engagements are often carried out after lectures, on weekends, or during free periods. For many students, such activities are not driven by choice but by necessity.

Rising living expenses, transportation costs, and the need for basic learning materials have made it increasingly difficult for some students to rely solely on home allowances. As a result, combining academics with part-time work has become common among many undergraduates.

A student reads on campus, reflecting the academic demands students balance alongside other responsibilities.

Balancing academic responsibilities with side hustles, however, comes with its challenges. Managing time effectively remains a major concern, as students must attend lectures, complete assignments, and still find time to work. During test and examination periods, pressure increases, with students striving to meet academic expectations while maintaining their sources of income.

Despite these challenges, some students view their experiences as part of personal development. Engaging in side hustles has helped many students develop discipline, responsibility, and basic financial management skills. It has also exposed them to real-life experiences beyond academic learning.

University life is often perceived as a period solely dedicated to education, but for many UDUS students, it also involves navigating economic realities. Between lectures and side hustles, students continue to adapt, balancing academic goals with the practical demands of everyday life.

By Abdulhamid Abdullahi Aliyu

Nigeria has seen political fallouts before, but few are as unsettling as the growing public rupture between Nasir El‑Rufai and Nuhu Ribadu. What makes the moment troubling is not merely the personalities involved, but what their dispute threatens to do to national cohesion, public trust and the already fragile boundary between politics and security.

If two men who once symbolised reformist zeal and institutional courage now choose a path of mutual destruction, they should pause and reflect—on their faith, their region, and the national interest. Because stripped of rhetoric and television soundbites, this is no longer about governance, security reform or leadership ethics. It is the bare-knuckle politics of succession, alignment and survival ahead of the next election cycle.

There was a time when this clash would have been unthinkable. Both men emerged from the same political generation shaped by the reformist moment of the early 2000s under Olusegun Obasanjo. El-Rufai, the outspoken technocrat as Minister of the Federal Capital Territory, and Ribadu, the dogged anti-corruption crusader as Chairman of the Economic and Financial Crimes Commission, were once celebrated as “Obasanjo’s boys”—symbols of a new order that promised discipline, accountability and institutional renewal.

They shared proximity to power, similar access to the president, and a reputation for fearlessness. Their friendship appeared not only political but personal—jolly, confident, mutually reinforcing. That such men could become open adversaries a decade later is not just strange; it is genuinely shocking.

What, then, went wrong? Part of the answer lies in the nature of Nigerian elite politics, where alliances are often forged by circumstance rather than conviction. Power rearranges loyalties. Ambition redraws friendships. And as the political terrain shifts, yesterday’s allies can quickly become today’s obstacles.

But there is a deeper, more consequential problem. When elite rivalries migrate into the realm of security narratives and intelligence insinuations, the damage goes far beyond the individuals involved. Allegations and counter-allegations—especially those touching on surveillance, coercion or misuse of state power—can corrode public confidence in institutions that should remain above partisan struggle.

This is why the current El-Rufai–Ribadu episode deserves sober national reflection, not cheering from partisan sidelines. Nigeria is a country where trust in institutions is already thin. Security agencies operate in an environment of suspicion, insurgency and widespread fear. When senior political actors publicly weaponise security claims—whether substantiated or not—they risk weakening the very structures holding the state together.

It is also important to situate this dispute within the broader northern political landscape. Both men command followings. Both are seen, rightly or wrongly, as voices of influence in the region’s political future. Their feud therefore does not remain personal for long; it reverberates across communities, factions and aspirations. In a region already grappling with insecurity, poverty and political fragmentation, elite infighting of this nature sends the wrong signal.

Faith, too, imposes restraint. Public officials who openly profess moral and religious values must recognise that conduct matters, not just intent. Politics may be a rough trade, but there are lines that, once crossed, are difficult to redraw. The public expects elders of the political class to rise above personal grievances when national stability is at stake.

None of this is to deny that grievances can be real, or that power can be abused. Whistleblowing has its place. Accountability is essential. But there is a difference between principled dissent and public escalation that inflames tension, invites speculation and drags sensitive institutions into political theatre. Mature democracies resolve such disputes through discreet inquiry and institutional processes, not media duels.

Perhaps the most sobering lesson here is how quickly reformist legacies can be overshadowed by personal wars. History is rarely kind to public figures who allow ambition to consume perspective. Nigerians may forget policy details, but they remember conduct—especially when it appears reckless or self-serving.

As the country edges closer to another election cycle, the temptation to settle scores early and loudly will grow. That is precisely why restraint is needed now. The question is not who wins this clash, but what Nigeria loses if it continues.

El-Rufai and Ribadu have both served the Nigerian state at critical moments. Their names are etched into recent political history. They owe the country—and perhaps themselves—something better than mutual ruin. Because when elephants fight, it is not the elephants that suffer most, but the grass beneath them.

Nigeria cannot afford to be that grass.

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