Opinion

By Abdulhamid Abdullahi Aliyu

In the early hours of Friday, April 12, 2025, Zike village in Bassa Local Government Area of Plateau State was reduced to a theatre of blood. At least 40 people, including women and children, were brutally killed by armed assailants who invaded the community under the cover of darkness.

Homes were set ablaze, farmlands destroyed, and hundreds displaced — once again. This is not an isolated tragedy. In less than four months, Plateau State has lost over 400 lives to mindless violence across Mangu, Bokkos, Riyom, Barkin Ladi, and Bassa LGAs.

According to data from local community leaders and humanitarian groups, more than 150 villages have been attacked since January 2024, with thousands displaced and properties worth billions destroyed.

Yet, the response from government authorities has been chillingly muted. Standard condolence statements have followed each carnage, but little in the way of justice or proactive security. For many in Plateau, it feels like being condemned to die in silence.

The question is painfully simple: for how long will this continue? The victims of these attacks are not armed militias or combatants. They are primarily farmers, traders, women, and children — people asleep in their homes, utterly unprepared for war but caught in its crosshairs.

The attackers, on the other hand, are described as well-coordinated, heavily armed, and operating with an eerie sense of impunity. The carnage in Plateau should not be seen as just a “communal crisis.” It is terrorism — plain and simple.

Any act that involves the targeted killing of innocent civilians on such a consistent and organised scale deserves to be treated as a national security emergency. The lack of urgency from both the federal and Plateau State governments is not just disappointing — it is dangerous.

The time has come for both levels of government to stop playing to the gallery and act. President Bola Ahmed Tinubu and Governor Caleb Mutfwang must rise above politics and confront this crisis with the seriousness it demands.

Enough of the empty press statements. The people of Plateau need protection, justice, and healing, not promises. There must be an immediate and thorough investigation into the Zike killings and all previous attacks across Plateau State.

The security agencies must identify and arrest the perpetrators. Communities cannot continue to bury their dead while those responsible roam free. Beyond this, a special joint military-police operation should be launched in Plateau — not as a temporary show of force, but as a sustained mission to flush out criminal elements and restore peace across all hotspots.

Such an operation should be intelligence-led, with active engagement from community leaders, local vigilantes, and civil society actors. Security operatives must also be adequately funded, equipped, and monitored to ensure professionalism and accountability in the course of duty.

Furthermore, there should be a comprehensive resettlement plan for displaced persons. The IDP camps in Plateau are filled with women and children who have been forgotten by a country that swore to protect them.

The government must support rebuilding destroyed homes, schools, and clinics in the affected communities. Most importantly, the culture of impunity must end. When killers are not punished, others are emboldened.

When justice is denied, peace remains a fantasy. Nigeria cannot claim to be fighting insecurity on one hand and tolerating unaddressed massacres on the other. This country must no longer treat the deaths of rural Nigerians as a footnote in national discourse.

The tears in Plateau are real. The graves are real. The trauma is real. And so must be our response. Plateau State is bleeding. Its people are tired. And the time to act is now — not with words, but with swift, firm, and visible action.

Abdulhamid Abdullahi Aliyu writes from the Centre for Crisis Communication (CCC) in Abuja.

By Usman Mujtaba

When Brigadier General O.O. Nafiu, the Director-General of the National Youth Service Corps (NYSC), announced that corps members would receive their monthly allowance of ₦77,000 starting from March 2025, they thought it was business as usual. This is because they had been receiving similar announcements since last year. 

Moreover, the minister also gave multiple assurances recently when he was interviewed on Arise Television, Channels, and even on the MicOn Podcast hosted by Seun Okinbaloye, a host of Channels Television’s program Politics Tonight.Perhaps corps members are tired of the DG’s words; they only want action. As one Hausa adage goes, “An gaji da sa ba’a ga kaho ba.”

Unknown to them, this time is different, whether because it comes from the new DG or that the bureaucratic procedure was ripe, I couldn’t tell. But on Wednesday, March 26, 2025, corps members were thrilled to start receiving the ₦77,000 as their allowance, which they call “Allawee.” The jubilation was palpable across all regions of the country. Social media was full of jokes about the development, with one post reading, “NYSC DG for President 2027.” See how the allawee makes people go crazy

After the alert, what’s next? Minimum wage increment and inflation are familiar bedfellows; in fact, many economic pundits are against it, arguing that it won’t increase the value of products sold or services rendered. I was shocked when one of my friends told me that a corps member is tasked with responsibilities at home when they start serving. After a fixed amount, they will send monthly, so many requests will follow from such a home, probably from siblings.

The corps member who serves and the ghost corps member (who does the thumbprint) when the month ends are Tweedledee and Tweedledum in terms of expenses. Here’s why: while the serving corps member will have to budget for foodstuffs and transport, the ghost corps member plans for transport mainly from their hometown in a different state and the amount they’ll probably give to the PPA and/or the secretariat, given the agency’s corruption, nepotism, and favoritism. As such, the expenses become balanced. It’s better for a corps member to calmly settle at their place of primary assignment (PPA) and serve their fatherland.

Is it decisive to reform NYSC at this juncture? As the saying goes, “Eat when the food is ready. Speak when the time is right”? I recently came across an article, “Time to Reform NYSC,” in Daily Trust on April 23, 2025, in which Babakura Aninigi suggests some ways forward for the initiative. Though holistic, his take is realistic. 

Aningi wrote, and I quote, “The federal government should consider restructuring the scheme… to reflect current realities.” This is apt because many believe that all is well with the adoption of a minimum wage. It’s not. Corps members will undoubtedly adjust, but only in the short term because inflation and additional expectations are inevitable. The call for reform of policy and strategy is the appeal for the long term.

The bustle and energy of graduates are palpable in towns whenever the NYSC opens its portal for registration. The energy will be doubled now that every graduate moves with additional zeal to enjoy the new approved allowance.

I discussed with one of my friends the possible addition of allowance from his PPA (a private school in Kano). I told him that it would be easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for him to get that addition with his ₦77,000.

He informed me they originally gave ₦5,000. Imagine! It’s indeed another challenge many corps members will face. Some will even withdraw what they usually give. As one of my friends jokingly observed, a corps member’s allowance is more than the salary of some private school headmaster.

₦77,000 is a commendable development, but it shouldn’t douse the energy and kill the idea of reforming the NYSC scheme.

Usman Mujtaba wrote via usmanmujtabashehu@gmail.com.

By Abdullahi Adamu

Whenever the Nigerian Electricity Regulatory Commission (NERC) announces an electricity tariff increase, Nigerians brace for even worse power supply. Due to incessant national grid collapses and inadequate transmission by the Transmission Company of Nigeria (TCN), poor generation continues to plague the sector, yet tariffs keep rising.

Now, the Nigerian Communications Commission (NCC) is following the same path, approving telecom companies’ hikes in call and data service prices. Meanwhile, Nigerians suffer from poor network quality and unreliable internet services.

It seems these regulatory agencies have forgotten that their primary mandate is to protect consumers and ensure efficient service delivery, not just to rubber-stamp tariff increases for the companies they regulate. When will they start holding these service providers accountable instead of burdening citizens with higher costs for declining service quality?

The recent price hike by telecom companies in Nigeria has affected subscribers’ wallets and seems to have impacted the quality of network services.

It’s frustrating when you pay more for a service, but the quality doesn’t meet expectations. Poor network provision and services can affect productivity, communication, and daily life.

Despite the widespread complaints from Nigerians, it’s disappointing that the services provided by telecom companies have not significantly improved.

The regulators’ lack of response, such as the Nigerian Communications Commission (NCC), is also concerning. It’s their responsibility to ensure that telecom companies provide quality services and protect consumers’ interests.

It’s time for Nigerians to continue to speak out and demand better services. 

Remember, collective action can lead to positive change.

Abdullahi Adamu wrote via nasabooyoyo@gmail.com.

By Isyaka Laminu Badamasi

In the move to ouster Bola Ahmed Tinubu’s administration and the All Progressive Congress (APC) from the mantle of leadership in 2027, the need for unity among our political leaders can not be overemphasised.

The recent visit by Atiku Abubakar and other top politicians to former president Muhammadu Buhari for the post-Sallah, cast serious doubts in the minds of Nigerians who are yet to recover from the shocks of the former president’s betrayal of 2015 – 2023. The Wazirin Adamawa clearly stated that the visit has nothing to do with the proposed merger.

Be that as it may, Atiku as the prominent opposition leader should also be very careful with the crop of politicians is aligning with to achieve this objective, as some of those seen in his entourage during the visit are people with questionable backgrounds, whose their reigns in power left an indelible mark of anger and uncertainty in the minds of their people, they are heartless with no sense of sympathy to the people, they are not different with Tinubu.

As the Hausa saying goes, one need not select water in an attempt to squelch a fire, but in some situations, there is a need for that, as some waters may be more harmful than the fire. The selection of who to join hands with towards emancipating this country from the hands of incessant geezers is of the utmost importance. Sending President Tinubu out of the villa in 2027 is non-negotiable and shouldn’t be handled with kid gloves.

As it stands today, Nigerians yearn for someone who is ready to implement policies and programs that will make their lives very easy and promising, someone who will bring an end to the wanton killings all over the country caused by one insecurity or another, someone who is ready to ensure that Nigeria remains one and united. 

For this, the need for the political leaders to unite and make necessary adjustments to face the heartless APC administration head om is very paramount,  any move that can not guarantee the aspirations of common man in the streets can not move to an inch, and, it will be for the advantage of Bola Tinubu and his APC to remain in power beyond 2027.

To those power drunk, who are making a mockery of the movement, should be reminded that the pre-2015 merger that brought APC to power is still workable. APC and Tinubu should get prepared.

Isyaka Laminu Badamasi,  a public affairs commentator and advocate for sustainable development,  writes from Bauchi. 

By Bilyamin Abdulmumin, PhD

There is much to learn from the politics currently unfolding between the Jega community, their constituency representative, and the Kebbi State government. 

It all began with rising criticism directed at the state government over the glaring lack of infrastructure development in the community. What made the criticism particularly serious was the surprise and visible projects by Hon. Mansur Musa Jega, the National Assembly member representing Jega, Gwandu, and Aliero. Unarguably, since the return of democracy, this constituency has never witnessed such a scale of project delivery. So, unsurprisingly, prayers and praise were poured in from all quarters.

With Senator Muhammad Adamu Aliero of Kebbi Central also delivering notable developments, public frustration quickly turned toward the state government—the governor, the state assembly member, and the local government chairman. During the latest Eid prayer, one fierce Imam echoed the sentiment in his sermon before thousands of faithful. 

In a bold rhetorical salvo, the Imam asked: “Where are the capital projects from the state governor? Or from the local government chairman? Has governance been reduced to merely paying salaries?” 

On the other hand, the Imam turns to the constituency member to invoke Allah’s blessings on him for conspicuous township developments. These prayers were the straw that broke the camel’s back. The video went viral, sending shockwaves through the state government and its supporters.

But then, almost immediately, something interesting happened. Based on the advice, the government mobilised contractors to immediately mark for dualisation one of the busiest roads (leading to the house of the town chief). Behold, performance-based politics (which should have been the case) has given birth. 

One interesting lesson from this development is that a politician’s performance speaks louder and travels faster than any political campaign: A politician’s performance becomes an automatic means of political campaigning. Imagine an Imam on Eid grounds before thousands campaigning for one candidate. That’s the power of visible performance.

Another interesting piece revealed by the saga was the political influence of the population. Jega is among the few local governments in Kebbi State with the highest population, hence one of the most influential politically. The old town forms what would be called a swing state in America for its political dynamism or K states in Nigeria for its sheer number of electorates, so winning it is a sign of success in Kebbi State. A reason why the state governor didn’t joke with the Imam and the electorate’s outcry. This shows that a large population, when strategically mobilised, can become a political asset.

 While delivering constituency projects also depends on what committees a representative belongs to, Mansur still deserves credit because there are allegations of constructors conniving with constituency members to divert billions of naira from constituency projects. 

We criticise politicians when they fail; we should also encourage them when they try.

By Abdullahi Abubakar Lamido

The dusty path to Al-Ma’arif Islamiyyah School was unusually quiet that Wednesday afternoon, except for the gentle crunch of sandals on gravel and the animated voices of two young girls wrapped in flowing white hijabs.

Unknown to many passersby, the conversation between these two girls wasn’t just about school or homework. It was about something deeper—something that could transform communities: the power of Waqf. As they walked, they debated a topic that many adults still struggle with: Should we prioritise spending on annual Umrah trips or invest in sustainable Waqf projects that empower girls through education and skill-building?

“Ameena, wait for me!” called out Hafsah, adjusting the corner of her veil.

Ameena slowed down and turned with a grin. “Wallahi, you’re always dragging your legs like an old lady.”

They both laughed.

But as they turned the bend, Hafsah lowered her voice and leaned in. “By the way, my aunt and her entire family are travelling for Umrah again this Ramadan. That’s like the fifth time in a row! Imagine the reward, subhanallah!”

Ameena nodded with a smile, but her eyes said more. “Masha Allah. No doubt, Umrah is virtuous. The Prophet SAW said in Sahih al-Bukhari, ‘Umrah to Umrah is expiation for the sins committed between them.’ And in another Hadith, ‘The performance of Hajj and Umrah removes poverty and sins just as a furnace removes the impurities from iron.’ So yes, it is beautiful.”

Hafsah beamed. “Exactly! That’s why they go every year. My aunt says you can never get enough of Makkah. The barakah there is like no other.”

Ameena stopped, picked a tiny stone, and tossed it thoughtfully. “I agree. But I can’t help thinking… what if, just what if, they did something different this year? Take the entire amount they usually spend—tickets, hotel, feeding, shopping—and invest it in a Waqf. A sustainable, income-generating waqf specifically for girls’ education and skills development.”

Hafsah blinked. “A waqf? Instead of Umrah?”

“Not instead of,” Ameena corrected gently, “but perhaps before another one. Let’s say they make a solid waqf just once. From then on, the proceeds can fund multiple Umrahs and sponsor tens—maybe hundreds—of girls like us. Wouldn’t that multiply the rewards?”

Hafsah frowned slightly. “Hmm. But that’s not the same spiritual feeling as being in Makkah.”

“True. But listen to this Hadith,” Ameena said, eyes lighting up. “The Prophet SAW said: ‘Whoever goes out to seek knowledge is in the path of Allah until he returns.’ That’s in Sunan al-Tirmidhi. And in Sahih Muslim, the Prophet said that feeding the hungry, helping the poor, or removing a harm from the road are all Sadaqah. These actions have also been likened in reward to Umrah.”

She continued, “In fact, Imam Ibn Rajab said some charitable actions—because of their benefit to society—can surpass voluntary Hajj and Umrah in reward!”

Hafsah looked unconvinced. “But those are small things. Can they compare to walking between Safa and Marwa?”

Ameena smiled knowingly. “Let me share a story about our Islamic heritage, as reported by Ibn Kathir—one of the great scholars and righteous predecessors, Abdullah ibn al-Mubarak, once set out for Hajj. Along the way, he passed through a town where a young girl was seen taking a dead bird from a garbage heap. 

Curious, he followed her and learned that she and her brother had nothing to eat, surviving off scraps and carrion due to poverty and oppression. Ibn al-Mubarak was so moved that he cancelled his pilgrimage, gave her all the money he had set aside for Hajj—except a small portion for their return—and said: ‘This is better than our Hajj this year!’

Can you imagine? A scholar of his stature suspended the journey of a lifetime because he saw a greater reward in feeding the poor.”

Hafsah bit her lip, thoughtful.

“And what of the Hadith in Sahih al-Bukhari,” Ameena continued, “where the Prophet SAW said: ‘He is not a believer whose stomach is filled while his neighbour goes hungry.’ Don’t you think our people—who travel yearly for Umrah with their entire household—should ask themselves if their neighbors are fed, educated, and safe first?”

There was silence for a while. Then Hafsah asked, “But maybe they feel their own worship is more important.”

Ameena didn’t flinch. “Worship is important. But Islam is both ‘ibadah and mu’amalat—personal devotion and social responsibility. A society where girls are unskilled, uneducated, and poor is a society in crisis. Allah says in Surah Al-Balad, ‘But he has not attempted the Ascent. And what will make you know what the Ascent is? It is freeing a slave. Or feeding on a day of severe hunger, an orphan of near relationship, or a needy person in misery.’ That’s the real struggle.”

She paused, then added, “And here’s a shocking stat: According to UNICEF, more than 50% of girls in Northern Nigeria are out of school. Many of them end up as child housemaids or hawkers. Imagine if we had waqfs in every state—centres for literacy, vocational skills, business mentorship. Wouldn’t that be more pleasing to Allah than redundant luxuries?”

Hafsah exhaled slowly. “You’re making too much sense. But some people say they don’t have the time or knowledge to create a waqf.”

“They can partner with existing foundations,” said Ameena. “Or even just dedicate a part of their wealth to it. Start with a shop, a farm, or a borehole project. Let it generate income. Let it teach a girl to write, to code, to recite Qur’an beautifully, to become a teacher, to stand tall.”

By now, they were at the gate of the Islamiyyah school.

Hafsah turned and looked at her friend. “You know, Ameena, if your words were a waqf, they’d be multiplying rewards already.”

Ameena chuckled. “Then let’s start the first one—with our pens, our voices, and our footsteps.”

They both stepped in, side by side, into a class that taught not just religion, but purpose.

Inside the classroom, the discussion continued to swirl in Hafsah’s mind. That evening, as they sat under the neem tree during Qur’an revision, she whispered to Ameena, “You know what? I’m going to talk to my parents tonight. I’ll share everything you said—every Hadith, every idea. Maybe they can be the first to try this new way: build a waqf before the next Umrah.”

Ameena smiled, eyes glowing. “And I’ll talk to mine too. If they see how serious we are, and how much it could benefit the Ummah, I believe they’ll listen.”

The next day, during break time, the girls called a mini gathering under the school’s mango tree. A handful of curious classmates sat cross-legged in the dust, munching on groundnuts and zobo. Hafsah stood up and declared, “We want to tell you about something that can reward you even after you die. Something more powerful than a yearly trip to Makkah…”

She spoke. Ameena backed her up. Together, they planted a seed.

Later that afternoon, they approached their teacher, Ustaz Sani, known for his stern look but soft heart. A little nervously, they explained their idea.

To their surprise, Ustaz Sani leaned back, eyes shining. “Ameen! This is the spirit of Islam! The Prophet SAW once said, ‘The most beloved of deeds to Allah are the most consistent, even if they are small.’ 

But let me add more,” he said, reaching for a worn book on his desk. “Imam Al-Ghazali wrote that a waqf is a shield for society, a way to preserve faith, knowledge, and dignity. Some waqfs in history lasted over 700 years, sponsoring scholars, doctors, and imams! Even the famous Al-Azhar University in Egypt started as a waqf.”

The girls’ faces lit up.

“Keep spreading the message,” he urged. “You are not too young. Let your classmates know. Let your family hear. Let the whole Ummah remember:

Before your next Umrah… build a Waqf.”

Amir Lamido wrote from Gombe and can be contacted via lamidomabudi@gmail.com.

By Kabiru Danladi Lawanti, PhD

By every objective measure, the People’s Democratic Party (PDP) has ceased functioning as a viable political entity in Nigeria. Its carcass continues to move but without pulse, purpose, or coherence. As a ruling party, the PDP had its moments, but its legacy is weighed down by monumental abuses of power, systemic electoral malpractice, and industrial-scale corruption. 

From the open manipulation of election results mid-process to the weaponisation of state institutions for partisan gain, the party leadership helped normalise impunity at the highest level. Two decades on, many of these cases—alleging theft of billions—are still unresolved.

But the party’s death didn’t happen overnight. It began in 2007, when President Olusegun Obasanjo imposed a sick candidate on Nigerians, followed by Goodluck Jonathan’s directionless presidency. In 2014, a mass defection gutted its internal cohesion, when five of its governors established the new PDP to challenge what they called a lack of internal democracy within the party. 

Losing power in 2015 should have been a moment for self-correction. Instead, the PDP lost its ideological compass. It abandoned the one role opposition parties must play in democracies: the duty to provide clarity, contrast, and credible alternatives. 

Even as the All Progressives Congress (APC) drifted into policy incoherence from 2017 onward and the confusion that followed – petroleum prices increase, ASUU and other university union strikes, economic recession, open stealing never seen before in the nation’s history, fuel subsidy removal, minimum wage controversy, etc.- the PDP remained inert—leaderless, rudderless, and largely invisible.

Today, what remains of the PDP is a loosely held patchwork of political actors in retreat. Governors are defecting. Its 2023 vice-presidential candidate has walked away. State-level structures are hollowed out. Internal leadership is fractured, and there is no unifying idea or strategic doctrine to rally around. What does this tell us? The PDP is not in decline. It is defunct.

Nigeria is experiencing a vacuum of governance across federal, state, and local levels. What is needed is a credible alternative with intellectual spine, strategic clarity, and moral authority. The PDP has forfeited that opportunity. Nigerians are now confronted with two bleak options: to stick with a failing ruling party or scavenge among opportunistic startups branded with catchy acronyms and no ideological soul.

The PDP’s collapse is more than a party’s fall—it is a signal of deeper systemic decay in Nigeria’s political architecture. But in every collapse lies an opening: for principled political entrepreneurship, grounded in values, competence, and execution. Who will offer that? The people that landed us in this mess in the first place or new faces? 

We need new faces in the political arena. These people parading themselves as opposition are no different from the PDP or APC; they are the same. Our youth need to return to their senses, and most people we see in leadership positions started showing their ability to lead in their early 20s. We must step forward if we want to see a Nigeria of our dreams. The time for lamentations is over.

The future belongs to those who can build systems, not just win elections.

By Lawal Dahiru Mamman

In countries where governance works in favour of the people, citizens always look forward to progress and innovation. In contrast, Nigeria often clings to nostalgia, with many, including those who never lived through certain eras, romanticising what they fondly call the “good old days.”

Believing that the past was always better than the present, some advocate for a return to free education and overseas scholarships. Others yearn for the days of kobo coins, arguing that Nigeria’s economy thrived when they were in circulation and the naira held strong against the almighty dollar.

The era of Native Authorities, which largely financed itself through poll taxes and prioritised education, is also missed. Back then, local administrators ensured students were transported to and from school dormitories at the beginning and end of each term, reinforcing a system that valued structured governance and community welfare.

These administrative units, established under British colonial rule, eventually led to local governments (LGs). Initially, the LGs performed well, maintaining orderly markets, paying teachers’ salaries, and addressing essential grassroots needs.

However, over time, they lost autonomy and are now seen as mere appendages of state governments. Recognised as the most crucial level of governance due to their proximity to the people, successive administrations have made efforts to grant LGs full autonomy.

Yet, these efforts have consistently faced resistance. In 2012, former President Goodluck Jonathan declared his commitment to local government autonomy, emphasising that meaningful national development was impossible without functional local councils.

He argued that empowering LGs would have mitigated the rising insecurity. Jonathan also opposed the state-local government joint account, insisting that councils had a pivotal role in his administration’s “Transformation Agenda.”

At one point, he took legal steps to actualise this vision, but the dream of LG autonomy remained unrealised. Former President Muhammadu Buhari also pursued this goal. In May 2020, he signed an Executive Order granting financial autonomy to the judiciary, legislature, and local government councils.

Experts hailed this as a landmark move toward a more people-centred governance structure. Buhari’s rationale was grounded in Section 7 of the 1999 Constitution, which mandates LGs to oversee primary, adult, and vocational education, develop agriculture and natural resources (excluding mineral exploitation), and maintain key public services.

Their responsibilities also include street naming, house numbering, waste disposal, public convenience maintenance, and the registration of births, deaths, and marriages—basic yet crucial civic functions that remain poorly executed in today’s Nigeria.

Additionally, LGs are tasked with assessing and collecting tenement rates, regulating outdoor advertising, and overseeing public health and alcohol control. However, despite Buhari’s efforts, his administration’s push for LG autonomy, much like Jonathan’s, ultimately failed.

Now, President Bola Ahmed Tinubu finds himself at the center of this enduring struggle. He successfully secured a Supreme Court victory affirming LGs’ constitutional rights and their role in advancing grassroots governance.

He hailed the judgment as a win for democracy. However, what initially appeared to be an achievement began to feel like a setback. Many believe that state governors, who have long controlled local government resources, are deliberately frustrating the implementation of this autonomy for personal gain.

The requirement that LGs must conduct elections to receive direct allocations has further complicated the issue, as state governments continue to manipulate the process to maintain dominance.

By its very nature, local government should be the most accessible level of governance, open to all—from the ordinary citizen who walks barefoot to the community leader who mobilises residents for communal projects.

Yet, it has become a political chessboard where governors install their loyalists as council chairmen or caretakers, reducing them to mere appendages rather than independent administrators. Governors have historically played a decisive role in shaping Nigeria’s presidential politics.

With the 2027 elections casting a long shadow, party defections and quiet coalition-building are underway. This leaves Tinubu in a precarious position: will he stand firm on his commitment to full LG autonomy for sustainable economic development, or will he yield to political pressures and look the other way as 2027 approaches?

The battle for local government autonomy remains unfinished. The question now is whether Tinubu will see it through or let history repeat itself.

Lawal Dahiru Mamman writes from Abuja and can be reached via dahirulawal90@gmail.com.

By Oladoja M.O

Across all health-related policies, discussions, and publications, maternal and child care undoubtedly ranks among the top three priorities of our national healthcare system. Without mincing words, it constitutes a core aspect of public health that rightly deserves every ounce of attention it receives. One might ask, why is this so? 

A report by the World Health Organisation (WHO) underscores the alarming statistics, revealing that, in 2020, a maternity-related death occurred nearly every two minutes. This equates to approximately 800 daily maternal deaths from preventable causes across various regions of the world. 

Similarly, UNICEF, in one of its latest reports, noted that while Nigeria constitutes only 2.4% of the world’s population, it accounts for a staggering 10% of global maternal deaths. Recent figures indicate a maternal mortality rate of 576 per 100,000 live births, ranking as the fourth highest globally. Furthermore, an estimated 262,000 neonatal deaths occur annually at birth, the second-highest national total in the world.

Beyond these mortality figures, numerous other health complications afflict this demographic, often with far-reaching, detrimental consequences. Some of these complications include hypertension, gestational diabetes, infections, preeclampsia, preterm labour, depression and anxiety, pregnancy loss or miscarriage, and stillbirth. These conditions may jeopardise the health of the mother, fetus, or both, and can be life-threatening if not properly managed. With such distressing statistics, it is impossible not to prioritise this critical issue.

Recognising the gravity of the situation, the government has implemented several initiatives to address maternal and child health concerns. Notable programs include the Midwife Service Scheme, which aimed to enhance the healthcare workforce by deploying midwives to provide maternal health services in rural areas, and the Saving One Million Lives Program for Results, a performance-based funding initiative aimed at improving maternal and child health outcomes at the state level.

Additionally, the Maternal Mortality Reduction Innovation Initiative (MAMII) prioritises life-saving interventions for women and newborns, strengthening healthcare services in the 172 most affected local government areas through supply- and demand-side strategies.

However, despite these concerted efforts and the significant attention accorded to maternal and child healthcare, a critical yet insidious aspect of this discourse remains grossly overlooked—oral health. Among the myriad etiological factors contributing to maternal and child health complications, the intersection of oral health and overall maternal well-being is frequently ignored. 

A 2024 study highlighted that a mother’s oral health status, knowledge, literacy, attitudes, behaviours, and socioeconomic status are pivotal determinants of childhood caries. Another recent study underscored the detrimental impact of poor oral health during pregnancy, linking it to adverse outcomes such as preterm birth, low birth weight, preeclampsia, gingival ulcerations, pregnancy granulomas, gingivitis, and pregnancy tumours (epulis gravidarum). 

According to a CDC physician, improving pregnant women’s oral health is one of the most effective strategies for preventing early childhood caries. She further emphasised that oral health is an essential component of prenatal care, as poor maternal oral health can significantly compromise both maternal and neonatal health, setting the foundation for lifelong health challenges. Additionally, periodontitis has been strongly associated with adverse pregnancy outcomes, including preterm birth and low birth weight.

Given these profound implications, one would expect a holistic approach to maternal healthcare—one that integrates oral health awareness and services into prenatal care. Unfortunately, this is far from reality. A 2024 scoping review revealed that dental service utilisation among pregnant women in Nigeria is alarmingly low, with visits largely driven by curative rather than preventive needs.

Despite the serious risks associated with poor oral health during pregnancy, oral health education remains conspicuously absent from antenatal awareness curricula, and primary healthcare centres lack dedicated oral health officers.

Thus, this serves as a call for urgent action and heightened awareness. The advocacy for integrating oral health education into antenatal classes must persist, as maternal knowledge of oral healthcare is often inadequate. 

Pregnancy is a critical period that necessitates heightened attention to oral health, and dental clinic visits should be regarded as an indispensable component of prenatal care. Most importantly, the government must prioritise the strategic deployment of public oral health officers to ensure that this vulnerable demographic’s unique oral healthcare needs are adequately addressed.

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

By Prof. Abdalla Uba Adamu

As we celebrate the World Book and Copyright Day (the UNESCO, not UK version) on 23rd April 2025, and even though it is targeted at children and youth, let’s reflect; after all, we were once children and youth. A historical excavation of our reading habits shows how lucky we were.

Hausa folks over 50 have always lamented the death of reading culture among contemporary Hausa youth. Such old fogies always hark back to the days of reading, mainly English language authors: James Hadley Chase, Denise Robins, Jacqueline Susann, Frederick Forsyth, Nick Carter, Stephen King, Robert Ludlum, Harold Robbins, Ayn Rand, Wilbur Smith, etc. Almost always English. Always British or American. The novels written by these authors, I would argue, laid solid foundations for their knowledge, command and mastery of the English language. 

And the comics. Tintin (actually, Tan-Tan), Asterix, Mad Magazine, Marvel comics (Spiderman, Fantastic Four, Thor, X-Men, etc). The entire comics of London’s Fleet Street. Evoking memories of Valiant, Thunder, Eagle, Commando, Cor!!, Buster, Tiger, Battle. Even football comics (even though I don’t particularly like football at all), such as Roy of the Rovers. The novels, the comics and the TV shows (Star Trek, Space 1999, Man from U.N.C.L.E., Man from Atlantis, Perry Mason, etc.), to be frank, laid the foundation of what I am today. Not much from Africa, though. But the little we had was superb as well. These included Lance Spearman’s African Film, Fearless Fang’s Boom, and a romantic tear-jerker, Joy.  

All were readily available at the Post Office in Kano and major supermarkets of Leventis and Kingsway. The latter in particular became a must-visit place for me in the 1970s. Nothing, absolutely nothing, beats the wonderful smell of fresh books being stacked on their shelves. And it wasn’t just books. I scrimped and saved pennies and shillings until I had enough to purchase my first vinyl record album – Rare Earth’s Get Ready in 1972, three years after it was released in 1969, when I first heard a single version on the radio. 

This was what defined reading culture, at least for those of us in the urban centres who grew up with it. And even if one can’t afford fresh new books and comics from Leventis and Kingsway stores, there are many places in Kano centred around Plaza in Fage, Coca Cola Roundabout, and even the main Post Office frontage itself, where hundreds of second-hand books are sold, even up to now. 

Exchanging books and discussing their plots, characters, and titles set the tone of conversations with friends. The most popular pulp fiction writer, of course, was René Lodge Brabazon Raymond, most popularly known as James Hadley Chase. Interestingly, his novels were written in the 1930s and later, painting an often-depressing picture of his setting (mainly the United States, even though he was British). Titles like Tiger By the Tail, Tell It to the Birds, Just a Matter of Time, Knock, Knock! Who’s There? There is a Hippy on the Highway that evokes our hastily copied Americanism. The garish covers, almost always graced by a long-legged sultry female model, made many truly judge the book by its cover. 

These foreign novels existed alongside African novels, particularly those published by Heinemann since 1969. The Heinemann African Writers Series produced a massive variety of novels, almost 225, many by people from the eastern part of Nigeria. For most of us, though, their postcolonial themes seemed too intellectual. Further, they were made part of the set reading for those offering literature, so again, many who want to read a novel just for pleasure rather than pan-African political philosophy simply avoided them. 

The struggle for the souls—and pockets—of school children in the 1970s continued in efforts to dislodge James Hadley Chase. In 1977, Macmillan Publishers decided to publish a low-cost paperback series under what they called the Pacesetters Series. These were published from 1979 to 1988 and became massively popular. I remember seeing one of the earliest, The Undesirable Element by Mohammad Sule from Kano, published in 1977, while we were students at ABU. 

When Sule finished the novel (which he wrote while a student at the now Rumfa College Kano), he initially took the manuscript to the Northern Nigeria Publishing Company (NNPC) in Zaria, which rejected it because it was in English. Luckily, Macmillan was in partnership with NNPC and the MD, a Briton, asked his wife to evaluate it. She did it positively and recommended it to Macmillan London, who were just about to start their Pacesetter series. See providence. If NNPC had accepted it, they would have created a large pool of English language novelists in northern Nigeria

For Baby Boomers (1946-1964) and Generation X (1965 to 1979), the Structural Adjustment Program (SAP) of 1986 severely affected their reading culture in one way: the books just dried up, whether foreign or local. Foreign became too expensive, local became too repetitive and static. We simply went back to the old classics and read them again and again. It was Robert Ludlum re-read (especially The Parsifal Mosaic) for me. 

All this was for ƴan boko. What about Hausa novels or reading materials? There are very few. By the 1980s, all the classics had been read, and no new ones were coming out. These included Magana Jari Ce, Ilya Ɗan Maiƙarfi, Gogan Naka, Nagari Na Kowa, Sihirtaccen Gari, Dau Fataken Dare, and a whole bunch of plays. Writing and publishing was very strenuous. Publishers could only publish if the books were to be made part of the set reading for WAEC, which limits the writer’s imagination and creativity. 

Then Hafsat AbdulWaheed came along with So, Aljannar Duniya in 1980. The first published Hausa language novel. The first by a woman from northern Nigeria. Plotting the classic Hausa marriage situation. A revolution was ignited in Hausa language fiction, leading to Mills and Boons style romantic fiction or Littattafan Soyayya. In less than five years, both male and female writers had emerged with stories to tell. Writers’ collectives were formed. The printing presses of party politics made it easier to self-publish. So, the writers ignored the snotty hoity-toity “big” publishers, especially NNPC (although NNPC can PRINT your book for payment, as they did with Balaraba Ramat’s early novels).  

In less than five years, the emergent authors have published more volumes than Heinemann (225) and Pacesetters (130). This made Hausa the most voracious reading public in Nigeria. Prof. Graham Furniss of the SOAS London even published a bibliography of the genre, including a whole website based at SOAS. When they became too much for the Kano State public culture, for that was where they flourished, a censorship board was created in 2001 to curb them. When that did not work, the Kano State government burned them in 2007 to cleanse the youth of the books. A harsher censorship regime debilitated them even more, throwing them out of business. The Hausa reading culture died. 

Then the Smartphone came in 2007—the then-Kano state Governor publicly burned Hausa books the same year. The same year, a harsher censorship regime was instituted in Kano that made life hell for the creative industries (Maryam Hiyana, anyone?). The iPhone, while not the first smartphone (Blackberry, anyone?), nevertheless revolutionised communication in its innovative approach to design. Clone copies with Android operating systems cemented the mass appeal of the smartphone. Eventually, it became commodified. 

Then, in 2013, Hausa novelists had their epiphany. They realised that with Facebook bubbling away, they could write their novels and escape censorship. Sure, no money, but they would be sharing their ideas. Things then blossomed from there. They created hundreds of Facebook pages for Hausa novels. When they became technologically proficient or engaged those who were, they created blogs sharing Hausa novels and creating massive readership throughout the Hausaphone world. For instance, Hafsat Hausa Novels (H²) had 471,000 members last time I checked. 

Then they discovered Wattpad, which had been in existence since 2006. They moved on the site with massive gusto, creating novels in three presentation modes – Hausa, English and Enghausa. Mainly by women. The migration online redefines “reading culture” if it is seen as engagement with text. Wattpad’s metrics alone convincingly show that the Hausa reading culture has been revived. For instance, Jewel by Maymunatu Bukar had 1.1 million reads. Thus, E-books and online literary content became increasingly popular, and social media can be used to share and discuss these resources

And let’s not ignore social networks and social media posts and COMMENTS. Agreements, disagreements (including insults typical of Arewa Social Media), expanded explanations – all are READING, and far livelier than just reading a book on your own. But again, social media gives us the opportunity to discuss – have a debate – about the books we like/hate (Goodreads, anyone?). 

“Reading culture” is a dynamic and evolving concept that encompasses more than the mere act of reading. It is an intricate web of practices, values, and institutional structures that defines how individuals and communities interact with texts. Whether viewed through a sociological, historical, or digital lens, understanding reading culture involves recognising the interplay between technology, policy, and the deeply personal ways that texts influence and reflect who we are.

I therefore argue that reading social media is very much part of today’s reading culture. It is a re-invention of reading culture. It may differ from traditional literary reading in depth, tone, and purpose, but it still involves interpretation, meaning-making, and cultural exchange. In any event, all the books, comics, and TV shows you so favoured are now digitally available (I have sourced all of these that defined my youth).

As reading culture adapts to the digital age, social media becomes an important arena for literacy and engagement in all spheres. Hey, you might even find the rest of the James Hadley Chase books you missed (you know he published 98, right?). 

Happy World Book and Acibilisian Day to y’all.