Opinion

By Kasim Isa Muhammad

As I try to pen down some sort of tribute to Alhaji Bukar Abubakar, the Makinta of Fika Emirate, I find myself struggling with where exactly to begin because some people are simply too difficult to capture in words. There are people whose lives can easily be summarised by their positions, their accomplishments or the offices they occupied, but there are others whose true worth lies somewhere  consequential in the lives they touched, the people they encouraged, the kindness they showed, the sacrifices they made and the memories they left in the hearts of those who were fortunate enough to know them. Alhaji Bukar was one of those rare people. I lived in the same area with him for about twenty years and, during all those years, I came to know him not only as a respected elder or distinguished retired civil servant, but as a neighbour, a gentleman and, above everything else, a good human being. I am not saying that he was flawless because no human being is without shortcomings, but in all the years that I knew him, I never, even in my wildest dreams, got to know a flaw that could diminish the extraordinary impression he left on people. He was indescribably kind, compassionate, accommodating and peaceful. He was, by far, one of the most pleasant people I have ever known, and there was something about his manner that made it difficult to imagine him deliberately hurting another person. He carried his age, experience and status with unprecedented dignity that never made other people feel small. He was simply Alhaji Bukar, a man who had lived enough to understand that the greatest measure of a person’s life is not what he owns or the position he occupies, but the good he leaves behind in the lives of others.

In April last year, when I was a correspondent with Neptune Prime, I had the privilege of interviewing Alhaji Bukar for our Oldies page. It was supposed to be a normal journalistic assignment, another interview, another story, another conversation with an elderly personality whose experiences were worth documenting. But somehow, that thirty-minute conversation became much more than that for me. It stayed with me. It settled somewhere deep in my subconscious and continued to reveal its lessons long after the interview was over. There are conversations we have in life that disappear almost immediately after we leave the room, and there are others that remain with us because something in the person we encountered has touched a part of us that we did not even know needed touching. My conversation with Alhaji Bukar was one of those conversations. I listened to him speak about his life and his career, about how he started as a primary school teacher before rising through the ranks and eventually becoming a distinguished administrator and Rector of the College of Administrative and Business Studies, CABS, in Potiskum Local Government. What struck me most was his work ethic. He was a very, very hardworking man, and there was no pretence about it. His story was a story of persistence, discipline, sacrifice and the determination to keep moving forward regardless of how difficult the road might become. Listening to him made me think exceedingly about the importance of hard work and the power of perseverance. He reminded me that sometimes the only way to succeed is to simply keep going, even when the results are not immediate. That interview instilled in me, perhaps more than he ever realised, the importance of the habit of keep on keeping on. I walked away from that conversation with a renewed determination to work harder, to remain patient with the process and to understand that a person’s beginning does not have to define his ending.

Lo and behold, there is something emotional about remembering that interview because I did not know then that I would one day be writing about him in the past tense. I did not know that the man sitting before me, telling me about his life and experiences, would eventually become someone I would have to remember rather than visit. I did not know that thirty minutes could become such a precious memory. I did not know that I would later wish I had asked more questions, listened more carefully or simply stayed a little longer. That is the cruelty of death. While people are alive, we often assume that there will always be another opportunity. Another visit. Another conversation. Another greeting. Another question. Another chance to say thank you. But death has a way of teaching us that time is not something we own. It is something Allah lends us. And when He decides that the appointed time has come, there is nothing any of us can do to extend it. Now, when I think about Alhaji Bukar, I find myself returning to that brief conversation and appreciating it in a way I could not have appreciated it then. It was only thirty minutes, but those thirty minutes gave me something that has stayed with me.

Alhaji Bukar Abubakar was a distinguished retired civil servant, educator, administrator, philanthropist and farmer, but even those descriptions do not fully capture the breadth of the man he was. His professional life was intriguing because he began as a primary school teacher and continued to rise until he became a college rector. There is something more inspiring about such a great life because it reminds us that greatness does not always begin in grand surroundings. Sometimes it begins in an ordinary classroom, with an ordinary teacher doing extraordinary things through commitment and dedication. He understood the dignity of work and the importance of education, and he carried those values throughout his life. He did not simply teach students and move on; he invested in people. During our interview, he spoke about people he had trained and about folks who had gone on to excel in different walks of life. He seemed very, very interested in the progress of people he had helped, and I found that particularly admirable. Some people measure their success by the offices they occupy, the awards they receive or the material things they accumulate, but Alhaji Bukar seemed to measure his own success by the people who became better because they encountered him. In that sense, his influence was much larger than any office he ever occupied. He was a teacher beyond the classroom. He taught through his actions, his conversations, his generosity and the example he set for those around him.

One of the things that made Alhaji Bukar so extraordinary was the way he embraced people without an iota of discrimination. He did not appear to care about a person’s social status, wealth, background or influence before extending kindness to them. He had an unusually large heart, and people who were vulnerable seemed to have a special place in it. Whenever one visited his house, it was common to see Almajirai around. They came there because they knew they would be welcomed, fed and treated with dignity. Alhaji Bukar used to feed and clothe many Almajirai with his hard-earned money, and his generosity towards them went far beyond providing food. He enrolled many of them in schools and supported their education, giving them an opportunity to acquire knowledge and qualifications that could change the direction of their lives. Some of them eventually earned diplomas through his intervention. Think about that for a moment. A man spends his own hard-earned money to educate children who are not biologically his, children who might otherwise have remained invisible to society, because he believes that they deserve an opportunity. That is not ordinary kindness. That is an unprecedented understanding of humanity. It is an understanding that every child has potential, that poverty should never be a permanent sentence and that one of the greatest things a human being can do is to invest in another human being’s future. Alhaji Bukar saw these children not merely as Almajirai but as human beings deserving of food, clothing, education, respect and hope. That part of his life deserves to be remembered because it tells us more about his character than any title ever could.

I often think about the people whose lives he changed quietly. How many children ate because he gave them food? How many young people went to school because he paid for them? How many families found relief because he intervened at a difficult moment? How many people became successful because, at some point in their lives, Alhaji Bukar decided to believe in them? We may never know the full number. He was not the kind of person who went around announcing his good deeds. He did not need cameras before helping people. He did not require newspaper headlines to validate his generosity. He gave because he believed in giving. He helped because he believed that those who had something should share it with those who had less. That is what makes his philanthropy so beautiful. He helped people without making their vulnerability a spectacle. He gave without humiliating the person receiving. He supported without reminding people that they owed him. And perhaps that is the purest form of philanthropy and the kind that is done because the heart cannot comfortably ignore another person’s need.

Born in 1945, Alhaji Bukar lived through many decades and witnessed a lot of changes. He belonged to a generation that understood hardship in ways that many of us today may never fully understand. Yet rather than allowing life’s difficulties to make him bitter, he seemed to turn them into a source of strength and empathy. His career, his commitment to education, his work as a civil servant, his administrative responsibilities, his farming and his philanthropy all reflected a man who believed in productive living. He understood that life was not simply about taking from society but about contributing to it. He understood that every person has a responsibility to leave something useful behind. Perhaps that is why even after his professional career had ended, he remained active, hardworking and involved in the lives of others. Retirement did not retire his humanity. It did not retire his generosity. It did not retire his desire to see people succeed.

People who worked with him have attested to his peaceful nature, and his neighbours have said much the same thing. Nobody has ever described him to me as someone who enjoyed arguing with people or deliberately creating conflict. He was a man who seemed to understand that peace is itself a form of wealth. He did not need to win every argument. He did not need to prove himself superior to everyone around him. He carried himself with a calmness that reflected maturity. In a life where people are increasingly quick to anger, quick to take offence and quick to turn disagreements into lasting hostility, Alhaji Bukar believed in the beauty of restraint. He seemed to understand that not every provocation deserves a response and that not every disagreement needs to become a war. That peaceful disposition was part of his charm. His neighbours remember it. His colleagues remember it. Those who interacted with him remember it. And when many different people independently describe a person in the same way, there is usually something deeply truthful in that description.

There was also a humility about Alhaji Bukar that I found fundamental. He had achieved enough in his life to justify pride. He had risen from being a teacher to becoming a rector. He had served as an administrator. He had educated and mentored people. He had supported vulnerable children. He had contributed to his community. He had lived a productive life. Yet his achievements never seemed to make him believe that he was better than others. He remained approachable and accessible. He did not allow his experience to create an unnecessary distance between himself and ordinary people. That, to me, is one of the clearest signs of true greatness. A person who has achieved much but remains humble is far more admirable than someone who has achieved little but believes himself to be superior to everyone else. Alhaji Bukar understood that titles are temporary, positions are temporary and worldly recognition is temporary, but character remains.

When I think about his life, I realise that his greatest legacy is probably not something that can be placed in a building or written on a plaque. His greatest legacy is people. The students he trained. The young people he encouraged. The Almajirai he fed and educated. The people who benefited from his generosity. The neighbours who experienced his kindness. The colleagues who worked with him. The people who simply met him at some point and left the encounter feeling better than they had arrived. These people are his monuments. A building can eventually deteriorate. An office can be occupied by someone else. A title can eventually be forgotten. But when you change a person’s life, you become part of that person’s story forever. Alhaji Bukar became part of many people’s stories, and that is why I believe his memory will endure.

Perhaps what I admire most about him is that he exceeded that greatness does not have to be loud. Sometimes greatness is the elderly man who feeds hungry children in his home. Sometimes greatness is the retired administrator who continues to mentor young people. Sometimes greatness is the former rector who remains humble enough to treat an ordinary neighbour with dignity. Sometimes greatness is the man who spends his hard-earned money to send an Almajiri to school. Sometimes greatness is simply the person who lives peacefully with everyone around him and refuses to make other people’s lives more difficult. We live in a time when people often equate greatness with visibility, but Alhaji Bukar taught a different lesson. He showed us that a person can live quietly and still leave an enormous impact.

For me, his life also reinforced the importance of hard work. That thirty-minute interview continues to remind me that progress is rarely accidental. His story from primary school teaching to becoming a rector was a lesson in perseverance. It taught me that one must continue even when the journey is difficult, continue when recognition is slow and continue when the destination seems far away. I think that is one of the reasons his memory has remained so powerful for me. He did not merely tell me about hard work; he had lived it. He was evidence of the very lesson he was sharing. And whenever I find myself becoming tired or discouraged, I remember the story of his life.

Death, however, has a way of making all these memories painful. It is one thing to admire someone while they are alive; it is another thing to suddenly realise that you will never see them again. There is an emptiness that follows death which words cannot completely describe. You begin to remember ordinary things that you never thought would become precious. A greeting. A conversation. A familiar face. The sight of someone sitting in his usual place. The sound of his voice. The knowledge that he was somewhere nearby. Suddenly, all those things become memories, and memories can be both beautiful and painful at the same time. That is how I feel when I think about Alhaji Bukar. I am grateful that I knew him, but I am saddened that I cannot know him for longer.

Yet grief should not make us forget gratitude. We should be grateful that Allah allowed us to share this world with him. We should be grateful for the years he lived, the people he helped and the lessons he left behind. We should be grateful for the students whose lives he influenced, the children he educated, the Almajirai he fed and clothed and the countless people who benefited from his kindness. We should be grateful that we had the privilege of witnessing a man whose life was a practical lessons of service and compassion. His death is painful, but his life was a gift. And perhaps the most appropriate response to a gift is gratitude.

Alhaji Bukar Abubakar, you are gone, but your legacy remains. You may no longer be physically present among us, but the people whose lives you touched remain here to tell your story. The children you supported will remember you. The students you trained will remember you. Your neighbours will remember you. Your colleagues will remember you. Those who sat with you, spoke with you, worked with you or received kindness from you will remember you. Your life has become part of the memories of many people, and that is a form of immortality that death cannot take away.

Your story reminds us that a life does not have to be perfect to be meaningful. It only has to be lived with purpose, compassion and sincerity. You worked hard. You served. You educated. You gave. You encouraged. You embraced people without discrimination. You treated vulnerable children with dignity. You lived peacefully with your neighbours. You left behind children and grandchildren, but you also left behind a much larger family and the people whose lives you touched through your service and generosity. That is why your departure is not simply a family loss. It is a community loss. It is a loss to everyone who believes that kindness, education, service and compassion still matter.

My final words for you are a prayer. May Allah forgive your shortcomings and accept your good deeds. May He reward you for every child you fed, every person you clothed, every student whose education you supported, every young person you encouraged and every life you touched. May He reward you for the good deeds that nobody saw and the acts of generosity that you never publicised. May Allah make your grave spacious and filled with light. May He make your resting place peaceful and beautiful. May He receive you with mercy, pardon your sins, elevate your rank among the righteous and grant you the highest place in Jannatul Firdaus. May the Almighty surround you with His mercy and make every act of kindness you performed in this world a source of continuous reward in the Hereafter.

To your children, grandchildren, relatives, friends, colleagues, students, neighbours and everyone who mourns you, may Allah grant you patience and fortitude. May He comfort your hearts and remind you that although death has taken away the physical presence of Alhaji Bukar, it cannot take away the goodness he planted in the lives of others. May his life continue to inspire you. May his memory continue to unite you. May his example encourage you to live with kindness, humility, hard work and generosity. And may those who loved him understand that the best way to honour a good man is not merely to mourn his death, but to continue the good that he represented while he was alive.

As I think about Alhaji Bukar today, I keep returning to that thirty-minute conversation. I keep thinking about the man who sat before me and spoke about his life with such simplicity. I keep thinking about his career, his work ethic, his compassion and his willingness to help people. I keep thinking about the Almajirai who ate in his house and the young people whose education he supported. I keep thinking about the peaceful man his neighbours knew and the hardworking administrator his colleagues respected. And I realise that perhaps those thirty minutes were a gift. A brief opportunity to sit with a man whose life contained decades of lessons. I did not know then how valuable those moments would become, but I know now. And for that, I will forever be grateful.

Alhaji Bukar Abubakar, the Makinta of Fika Emirate, you lived a life worthy of emulation. You were a hardworking man, a compassionate man, an educator, an administrator, a philanthropist, a farmer, an elder statesman and a peaceful neighbour, but above all, you were a good man. You gave without discrimination. You helped without seeking applause. You educated without asking for recognition. You treated people with dignity. You lived your life in a way that made other people’s

By Abubakar Idris Misau 

Altitude: 120 m AGL; Latitude: 9.0538° N; and Longitude: 7.4913° E.  Through an aerial assessment, we see clearly Mr Engineer working in a high-tech lab [read: field] and dealing with the precision of machines and equations, and Oga Forester standing in a quiet woodland handling the unpredictable messiness of nature. The picture shows two different professionals occupying completely distinct worlds. On the ground, however, a meticulous survey presents two applied scientists, each drawing on established knowledge from the basic sciences and working to solve real-world problems. The Engineer collects data from Physicists, Chemists, and Mathematicians; the Forester receives inputs from Biologists, Agronomists, and Ecologists — all for the very same reason: improving life on land. In other words, they do not study the laws of nature merely out of curiosity [though curiosity is one reason], but as applied scientists who take foundational science and use it to create practical solutions for humanity. 

Historically, however, their professional training has led them to view the same landscape through different lenses. For example, when an engineer looks at a rural community, they see a need for roads, bridges, transmission lines, and power grids. A forester, by contrast, sees ecosystem dynamics, deforestation, desertification, and climate change. Meanwhile, if these scientists are to solve Nigeria’s pressing energy challenge, the two views must merge. The engineer must realise that the answers to our modern energy crisis might just be growing right outside their laboratory windows, and the forester must accept that “climate activism” has to go beyond anti-deforestation policies and tree planting campaigns. Tangible solutions must produce clean, affordable energy alternatives for people. This piece argues that the engineer-forester marriage can give birth to the figurative “ɗan mai ido”.

It’s unfortunate that, on the basis of the current arrangement, when modern engineers think about renewable energy, their minds instantly drift toward fields of sleek solar photovoltaic panels or towering wind turbines. These technologies are undeniably the vanguards of the global energy transition. However, as any engineer in the field will admit, solar and wind power have certain vulnerabilities. Solar panels, for example, lose efficiency as ambient temperatures increase, and wind turbines face structural strain from turbulent, unpredictable wind currents. Here, engineers can reliably work with foresters to strategically design and deploy agroforestry shelterbelts and windbreaks around large-scale solar farms and wind corridors. Foresters know exactly which deep-rooted tree species can thrive in specific zones to act as localised, natural cooling mechanisms through transpiration. By lowering the ambient temperature of the surrounding microclimate, a well-managed forest perimeter helps solar panels operate closer to their optimal temperature, boosting overall performance.

Nigerian media houses have had enough of national grid collapse news. While solar and wind energy alternatives are decentralised and, as such, cannot cause national grid collapse, anyone using these technologies knows they have their own version of intermittency. This is due to the limited storage capacity of their batteries. This means that, beyond structural protection for solar and wind, the forestry-engineering alliance has to solve the notorious puzzle of grid intermittency without relying exclusively on expensive, environmentally unfriendly chemical battery storage. Simply put, it must produce its own clean, affordable energy! 

Here, the energy security crisis in Nigeria cannot be divorced from the broader threat of climate change. In fact, they exist in a destructive feedback loop. Isn’t it true, for example, that severe droughts drastically reduce the water levels of our major hydroelectric dams (like Kainji and Shiroro), cutting off baseline electricity generation? Well, how about extreme heatwaves adding pressure to transmission grids? Documented evidence points to desertification in the north forcing human displacement and completely altering local energy demands. Most importantly, fossil fuels are not considered clean for obvious reasons. All of that. What do we do?

In my view, to break this cycle henceforth, engineers must design systems that operate in harmony with natural carbon cycles. Applied forestry science could be essential here. Since forests sequester greenhouse gases directly from the atmosphere and store them as biomass, foresters can work to improve efficiency in the production process while engineers tackle the energy-conversion part of the equation… You gerrit?!  After all, as a forester, I know that forestry is the active protection, scientific management, and wise usage of trees for the benefit of the present generation while considering future generations. It doesn’t say we shouldn’t use them.

As I see it, therefore, the future of energy security, especially in rural communities, lies in hybrid bio-solar and bio-wind microgrids. In these systems, solar or wind power serves as the primary energy source during peak daytime or windy conditions. When these sources drop, a localised, automated biomass gasification system fueled by a continuous, scientifically managed pipeline of forestry and sawmill residues kicks in seamlessly to provide baseline power. Biogas is here to serve us. It should be utilised. Since forests produce biomass, we can maintain them as a living component of solar and wind grid infrastructure. In this unified, resilient ecosystem the forester manages the inputs, and the engineer optimizes the outputs.

Following this line of thinking, therefore, working with foresters is a sure path for engineers to efficiently transition from carbon-emitting energy to carbon-neutral or carbon-negative energy systems. Consider establishing “energy plantations” on degraded lands. Foresters choose species that restore lands and ensure high biomass production, while engineers build localised conversion plants. Because the carbon released during biomass energy generation is exactly equal to the carbon the trees absorbed while growing, the entire cycle remains net-zero. For a country like Nigeria, heavily bedevilled by oil pollution in the Niger Delta and desert encroachment in the North, this approach lets us restore ecosystems while securing a sustainable fuel source that displaces petroleum dependency. This is beyond win-win.

Whenever issues like this are discussed and similar solutions proposed, people dismiss them as unrealistic, inefficient, expensive, and so forth. But those are not academic submissions. History offers examples of even more dismissive assumptions that innovations and engineering solutions later proved wrong. Perhaps the clearest example was the global perspective on coal in the 19th century. No sensible person thought oil would take the place of coal, and it happened. In his 1865 book The Coal Question, to show the supremacy of coal over all other alternative energy sources, the English Economist William Stanley Javons even praised the black substance as “the sole necessary basis of our material power”. And, “the naturally best source of power as air and water and gold and iron are, each for its own purpose, the most useful substances and such that would never be superseded.” Javons published his work when oil wasn’t even discovered in commercial quality. But alternatives always exist.

Back to the solution. The engineering-forestry partnership is very relevant to the Global Agenda 2030, famously known as the United Nations’ Sustainable Development Goals (SDGs). When we fuel decentralised bioenergy grids with managed forest products, we directly support SDG 7 (Affordable and Clean Energy) by providing power to communities using local resources. And because this energy cycle displaces fossil fuels and prevents open-air waste burning, it directly contributes to the almighty SDG 13 (Climate Action). Meanwhile, as foresters oversee resource generation, this energy security is achieved without destroying ecosystems. Isn’t that aligning with SDG 15 (Life on Land)?

The marriage of engineers and foresters also breathes life into the African Union’s Agenda 2063, which envisions “The Africa We Want”. Its goals include climate-resilient economies and sustainable natural resource management. Genuinely, I don’t think achieving Agenda 2063 is feasible if we import foreign technological solutions wholesale and ignore local geographical realities. Instead, I see the place of capitalising on our ecological endowments (forestry) with structural innovation (engineering) to pioneer a uniquely African model of green industrialisation.

Notably, I believe this collaboration is the missing key to the Nigeria Energy Transition Plan (ETP). Nigeria’s bold roadmap to achieve carbon neutrality by 2060 includes an aggressive milestone: phasing out 72% of decentralised diesel generators by 2030. For decades, Nigerian industries and homes have run on an expensive, polluting “shadow grid” of petrol and diesel generators. To eliminate them, the ETP explicitly calls for a dramatic ramp-up in solar PV, hydro, and biomass integration. However, the ETP’s ambitious targets are mathematically impossible if treated as purely mechanical problems. We cannot replace millions of diesel generators with intermittent solar power alone. As argued in this piece, we need a steady, dispatchable baseline power source. Sustainable biomass, managed by professional foresters and processed by engineers, provides that exact baseline. Without the forester to secure a sustainable, non-deforesting supply of wood residue, sawdust, and other forms of biomass waste, the engineer’s transition turbines will simply run out of fuel.

There’s no doubt at all: the complex riddle of Nigeria’s energy security will not be solved by a single breakthrough in a software lab, nor will it be answered by digging deeper into old oil wells. The challenges of our time demand that we outgrow the rigid intellectual silos built into our university curricula and professional institutes. As long as engineers look only at cables and solar panels, and foresters look only at climate change impacts on biodiversity and nature conservation, we will remain trapped in a landscape of fragmented, half-baked solutions.

Go to Brazil, and so forth; the story is different. It says we are behind. It says it’s doable.

It’s therefore high time we rethink what “technology” actually means. In my view, a forest gives us fertile ground to invent and test technologies. A tree is a highly sophisticated solar-powered machine that captures carbon, cools the environment, and manufactures organic energy. When we learn to treat the forest as a vital partner in our infrastructure plans, we unlock an entirely new toolkit for national development.

As a forester, I invite engineers to a talk on and in the forest. I am confident that together, through the shared practical language of the applied sciences, we can build a highly resilient, decentralised, and truly self-sustaining Nigeria. The answers, I opine, to our nation’s energy security are growing right outside our windows, waiting for us to start talking.

It’s July. We are in the second half of 2026. Those farmers who, during the first half of the year, prepared their lands in what the agronomists call [pre-planting] “cultural practices”, are today already smiling. Others are probably green with envy. A famous proverb attributed to ancient Chinese wisdom captures my call for a proactive mindset. “The best time to plant a tree was 20 years ago. The second best time is now.” I believe this proverb perfectly mirrors my visionary argument. A long-term proposal that says we haven’t done what we should have, but still, we should.

Abubakar Idris, a graduate in Forestry and Wildlife from the University of Maiduguri, writes from Benin City, Nigeria. He can be reached at abubakaridrismisau@gmail.com.

I write this as a concerned citizen of Kano who genuinely wants your administration and our state to succeed.

First, I must acknowledge the progress your administration has made. The visible investment in road construction, rehabilitation and urban infrastructure across Kano deserves recognition. Your government has also intervened in education, healthcare, agriculture, and other sectors. These efforts should be sustained regardless of political differences.

However, Your Excellency, I believe Kano can do even more.

The recently concluded mass wedding involving 1,500 couples, reportedly gulping the state more than ₦1.5 billion, has made me reflect on our priorities. 

I am a Muslim, and I respect marriage and the Sunnah of our beloved Prophet Muhammad (SAW). I therefore do not oppose helping genuinely vulnerable people to marry.

My concern is sustainability and priority.

Marriage does not end at the wedding. After the ceremony come food, rent, healthcare, children’s education and other responsibilities. If someone lacks the economic capacity to establish a household, helping him marry does not necessarily solve the problem that made marriage difficult.

We should not only help people get married; we should help them build families that can stand on their own.

This is why I respectfully urge your administration to place greater emphasis on the following:

Education: Kano’s children are our greatest investment. We need stronger public schools, better teacher development, learning materials, technical education, girls’ education and serious programmes to return out-of-school children to classrooms. Questions have already been raised about the relatively small allocation to some out-of-school-girl programmes compared with the mass-wedding expenditure.

Youth employment and skills: Our young people need sustainable opportunities, not only temporary grants. Vocational training, agriculture, ICT, manufacturing, apprenticeships, and affordable business financing can help young people earn and eventually support their own families.

Healthcare and water: Functional primary healthcare, maternal care, essential medicines, clean water and sanitation must reach ordinary citizens, particularly in rural communities.

Agriculture: Kano has enormous agricultural potential. The government should strengthen irrigation, storage, processing and market access so that farming becomes a profitable industry and a source of employment.

There is also the important issue of monitoring government assistance.

I recently saw a large number of mattresses being distributed under the mass-wedding programme, which raised questions for me about what happens to them after distribution. I cannot confirm whether what I observed involved legitimate transfer, resale or something else, and I do not wish to accuse anyone without evidence.

But it highlights an important question:

What mechanism monitors government assistance after it reaches beneficiaries?

I respectfully suggest post-distribution verification, proper documentation and follow-up assessments. The government should know who received assistance, whether they received the full allocation, and whether the intervention actually improved their lives.

Public money deserves public accountability.

Your Excellency, you have shown that your government can build roads.

Please build people too.

You have shown that government can support marriages.

Please build the economic foundation upon which those marriages can stand.

Let us measure Kano’s progress not only by kilometres of roads constructed, but by how many children are in school, how many young people have sustainable jobs, how many families escape poverty, and how many empowerment beneficiaries remain economically active years later.

I do not want a Kano where people continually wait for government assistance.

I want a prosperous Kano where the government creates the opportunities that allow people to become self-reliant.

That is the Kano many of us want.

Umar Abdullahi Huguma writes from Kano State and can be reached at umarhuguma2023@gmail.com.

By Onumoh Abdulwaheed 

The water came first to the Ojota Maryland bridge, then to Lekki, then to Oshodi. By mid-morning, offices sat locked, bus stops stood empty, and cars floated where traffic should have been. On social media, Lagosians did what they always do when the rains return: they joked, filmed, and asked again where the government was.

Nigeria has rehearsed this scene for years. Not a single flood, but a season that arrives on schedule, floods a familiar set of streets, and leaves behind the same unanswered question: why does this keep happening?

The numbers say it will keep happening. The Nigeria Hydrological Services Agency’s 2026 flood outlook warns that 33 states and more than 14,000 communities sit in high-risk zones this year. It is not a new warning. In 2022, floods killed over 600 people, displaced 1.4 million, and destroyed more than 82,000 homes. By 2024, another million people had been displaced, and 1.3 million hectares of farmland were lost. Economists put the average cost of the 2022 and 2024 disasters at $6.68 billion money that vanishes from an economy that can least afford it, shaving up to half a percentage point off agricultural GDP each bad season.

Nowhere is the pattern of official neglect clearer than at Dasin Hausa. In the 1980s, Nigeria and Cameroon agreed to build twin dams: Lagdo, in Cameroon, to hold back water, and Dasin Hausa, in Adamawa State, to absorb whatever Lagdo released. Cameroon built its dam. Nigeria did not. More than forty years on, Dasin Hausa exists mainly in feasibility studies and press statements, while Lagdo’s floodwaters continue to pour, almost on cue, into Benue, Kogi, Anambra and Delta.

Jonathan Ikwebe, a farmer in Benue whose rice fields were wiped out in 2022, put it plainly: “We are at the mercy of the water.” He said the government keeps promising a dam that nobody sees being built.

That promise has been renewed often. In 2023, the Senate urged President Bola Tinubu to prioritise the project. In 2025, officials announced a public-private partnership to fast-track it, citing renewed political will. In 2026, the dam is still on paper. Officials cite funding and bureaucracy; critics say what is missing isn’t money but the will to finish what’s been started.

‎‎By Maji Bappa Maina
‎
‎
‎There are moments in a child’s education that do not appear on a school report.
‎
‎A child walks onto a stage.
‎
‎Hundreds of eyes turn towards them.
‎
‎A word is pronounced.
‎
‎For a few seconds, everything becomes quiet.
‎
‎Then the child speaks.
‎
‎That moment may last only seconds, but the confidence gained from it can last for years.
‎
‎This is one of the reasons the recently concluded 3rd Yobe Spelling Bee Competition deserves more attention than the applause surrounding the event.
‎
‎Students from across Yobe’s 17 Local Government Areas were brought together to learn, compete and test themselves in an environment beyond the ordinary classroom.
‎
‎They had to prepare.
‎
‎They had to listen.
‎
‎They had to think under pressure.
‎
‎And, most importantly, they had to stand up and believe that they could do it.
‎
‎That experience matters.
‎
‎A good education system should produce students who can remember what they have been taught. But it should also produce young people who are prepared to stand before others, express themselves and face challenges without fear.
‎
‎This is where programmes such as the Spelling Bee quietly contribute to educational development.
‎
‎They create healthy competition among schools.
‎
‎They encourage students to read beyond examinations.
‎
‎They give teachers another platform to identify talent.
‎
‎They expose young people to peers from different parts of the State.
‎
‎And they create memories that can shape how students see their own abilities.
‎
‎The wider significance is even more important for Yobe.
‎
‎A state cannot build its future entirely through physical infrastructure. It must also build the confidence, knowledge and capacity of the generation that will eventually inherit those structures.
‎
‎This is why the support of the Mai Mala Buni Administration for educational initiatives that bring young people forward deserves recognition.
‎
‎I also commend Dr. Mohammed Goje, Secretary to the State Government, and the organisers, teachers, schools and partners whose efforts helped bring the competition together.
‎
‎The real success of such a programme may not be measured only by the names of those who carried away prizes.
‎
‎It may be found in the student who discovered a new confidence.
‎
‎In the teacher who discovered a promising talent.
‎
‎In the child who returned home believing that perhaps the world is larger than he or she had imagined.
‎
‎Today, they are spelling words.
‎
‎Tomorrow, some of them may be spelling out new possibilities for Yobe.
‎
‎That is why supporting young minds is one of the quietest, and most consequential, ways of building a State.
‎
Maji Bappa Maina is a ‎Political Writer, PhD Researcher at ‎Voice of Development, Leadership & Public Insight.

By Usman Mujtaba Shehu

Out of Nigeria’s roughly 250 million people, more than 50 million are young people aged 16–35. This demographic fact is obvious, yet its implications remain insufficiently grasped—not only by policymakers, but by democracy itself.

Nigerian democracy now stands at a crossroads. On one side are the political actors who systematically extract from the system for private gain; on the other is the steadily eroding trust of citizens in the institutions meant to serve them. Free and fair elections have become as unreliable as the national power supply—intermittent at best, absent at worst. In one state a governor publicly praises INEC; in the neighbouring state the same institution is denounced after the next poll. The inconsistency is no longer surprising; it is structural.

It is against this backdrop that we approach the 2027 general elections. My particular concern with the youth is not abstract: I am one of them, and we constitute the single largest bloc of the population. Yet sheer numbers do not automatically translate into power. The Pareto principle still holds: although young people form the majority, only a committed minority among us will drive meaningful change on the issues that the most affect our generation.

Nigerian youth are entering another election cycle inside a political system deliberately structured to reward sycophancy over accountability. Beyond any single election, democracy itself remains under threat for as long as the integrity of the voters stays in doubt. How can a democracy endure—let alone thrive—when citizens lose the practical ability to decide who governs them?

How did we arrive here? The answer is as painful as it is multi-layered. Governance has been reduced to a competition to empty the public treasury. That treasury is funded by taxpayers and was meant to finance the infrastructure and services that improve ordinary lives. The predictable result is that more than half the country now lives in extreme poverty, including an entire generation of young people who feel they have nothing left to lose except their marginalisation and their poverty. A generation with almost no stake in the society they inhabit is a dangerous political reality.

Yet political apathy is not the answer. Young people must move from the sidelines onto the field—active participants rather than passive spectators. First, we must reaffirm our belief in democratic processes. This election cycle should command our attention and our planning. We must be prepared to rewrite the script; otherwise we cannot confront a political class that is corrupt, self-serving and skilled at manipulation. Until we confront what stands before us with conviction and sustained effort, electoral outcomes will continue to reflect the interests of the powerful rather than the choices of the people.

We should refuse to remain permanent victims of an imperfect democracy. Those among us who are educated and organised carry a particular responsibility to reach those who are not. A significant number of young Nigerians never attended school, dropped out early, or could not afford to continue. The out-of-school crisis is not confined to children; many young adults are also effectively unschooled. The roughly 20 percent of us with the resources, networks and education to act must treat this as a collective task. The issues are too urgent for half-measures, laziness or aloofness.

The task before us requires all hands on deck—including Musa in the North, who may sell sugarcane for a living, and Blessing in the South, who may be struggling to survive in an informal economy. Their economic circumstances should not make their political voices less important. If anything, those who bear the greatest burden of bad governance have the greatest stake in changing it.

Election Day should not simply be another day of political theatre. It should be a day when Nigerian youths exercise the power that democracy gives them: the power to choose who will govern them.

The 2027 election is a golden opportunity for young Nigerians to look beyond political class and elites and ask harder.  As Dr Usman Bugaje has put it, “2027 is a chance for the youths to take back their country”. We must come back to our senses and stop imitating the worst habits of the current political class and begin the harder work of replacing them. We must refuse to be manipulated.

The script can be changed—not through violence, thuggery or disorder, but through the quiet, decisive power of our votes. We have no reason to be afraid. With our numbers, they already know: we can.

Usman Mujtaba Shehu writes from Kano and can be reached via usmanmujtabashehu@gmail.com

By Lawan Bukar Maigana

There are people who go on leave to escape books, and there are people who go on leave only to escape the office. Then there is Kashim Shettima, for whom a leave without books may be like a library without shelves: technically possible, but fundamentally incomplete.

The two-week leave has awakened the bookism in him. After years of governance, meetings, memos, policy conversations and the endless grammar of public administration, one would imagine that a man might simply surrender himself to sleep, travel with his family to some Shangri-La den in Dubai, or disappear into the soft luxury of doing absolutely nothing. But Shettima has never appeared to be a man who considers idleness a convincing definition of rest. For him, perhaps, rest is simply another opportunity to read.

This is not a new discovery. I wrote in 2022 about Shettima as Nigeria’s Modern Day Philosopher-King, drawing from Plato’s idea that leadership and philosophy ought to meet in the same person. Looking back now, I realise that perhaps I was only describing one half of the equation. The philosopher needs a kingdom, yes, but the philosopher also needs books. And Shettima seems to understand that the quickest way to empty a philosopher is to deprive him of reading.

His relationship with books is almost personal. He does not merely read them; he appears to court them. There have been accounts of him browsing bookstores while travelling, moving from one section to another and recommending books to people around him. He has also been described as someone who would choose books over material prizes.

I once had a conversation about this unusual book obsession with Rukaiya el-Rufai, the National Coordinator of Nigeria’s Human Capital Development Programme. She told me something that stayed with me: when it comes to gifts, what impresses her boss the most is a good book. Her advice was simple: when you travel, buy him high-value books. According to her, such a gift can make him happier than a designer perfume.

That, in itself, is a fascinating portrait of a man. While some people measure affection by the price tag on a gift, the intellectual measures it by the depth of thought behind it. A perfume evaporates. A book lingers. A designer bottle may occupy a shelf, but a good book can occupy the mind. This may explain why Shettima’s leave does not seem to be a vacation from intellectual activity. It is more like an intellectual retreat. The office may have been left behind, but the books followed him. The files may have been closed, but the pages remained open.

And when he finally returns to work, we should perhaps prepare ourselves. The post-leave effect in governance may not simply be a refreshed Vice President. It may be a more heavily footnoted one. Every conversation may come with a reference. Every decision may acquire a historical context. Every policy discussion may suddenly develop a philosophical foundation. A simple question could receive an answer, a counterargument, a historical example and, if one is not careful, a brief literature review.

That is the bookism. But beneath the humour lies something serious. Leaders do not govern only with budgets, files and official briefings. They govern with ideas. And ideas, when properly cultivated, are often born from the discipline of reading.

Shettima’s book habit therefore tells us something beyond the man himself. It reminds us that governance should not be an intellectual desert. Public office should not terminate curiosity. Power should not become an excuse to stop learning. A leader who reads is constantly exposed to worlds beyond his immediate environment. He encounters ideas that challenge him, histories that humble him, failures that warn him and possibilities that expand his imagination.

Perhaps that is why, for Shettima, a two-week leave can still become a classroom. He may have left the office, but he never really left learning. And when he returns, the books will return with him, quietly packed into the vocabulary and ideas that will eventually find their way back into governance.

So, Nigerians, prepare yourselves. The Vice President is coming back from leave. And judging by his relationship with books, he cannot leave without reading. Therefore, he is returning not only refreshed but also armed with refined administrative and policy ideas that can help make Nigeria better.

Lawan Bukar Maigana is a media and communications specialist, development advocate, storyteller, and social change driver from Borno State, Nigeria. He can be reached via email at lawanbukarmaigana@gmail.com.

By Hussaini Aliyu Yero



Nigeria’s return to democratic rule in 1999 marked the beginning of the Fourth Republic and raised hopes for a political system in which citizens would have a greater voice in determining the country’s direction. More than two decades later, Nigerian democracy has survived several elections, changes of government and political crises. Yet an important question remains: what role have young Nigerians played in this democratic journey, and what role will they play in the 2027 general elections?

The answer is both encouraging and troubling.

Nigeria has a very large young population, and young people constitute a significant proportion of the electorate. In the 2023 general elections, the Independent National Electoral Commission (INEC) recorded (37,060,399) registered voters between the ages of 18 and 34, representing 39.65 percent of the total registered electorate. This shows that Nigerian youths are not a marginal group in electoral politics. They are potentially one of the most powerful forces capable of influencing election outcomes.

However, numbers alone do not equal political power.

From 1999: Youths as Political Followers.
When democracy returned in 1999, young people participated mainly as voters, party supporters, campaign workers and mobilisers. Leadership positions, particularly at the highest levels of government and within major political parties, remained dominated by older politicians.

For many young Nigerians, politics was something to watch rather than something they could control. Political parties were structured around powerful individuals, political godfathers and established networks. Young people could mobilise crowds, but had limited influence over who became candidates.

This created a contradiction: young people were important during elections but were frequently sidelined when political decisions were being made.

The Growing Political Awareness of Nigerian Youths.
Over the years, this began to change. The growth of social media, increased access to information and frustration over unemployment, insecurity, corruption, poverty and poor governance encouraged more young Nigerians to become politically conscious.

Young Nigerians increasingly questioned traditional political structures, demanded accountability and used social media to organise and express opinions.

The August 2024
EndBadGovernance protests.  demonstrated this growing awareness. Nigerians, particularly young people, took to the streets across the country to protest economic hardship, rising living costs, hunger and poor governance.

The protests showed that citizens were increasingly willing to organise and demand accountability. They also proved that young Nigerians were no longer content to remain passive observers of government policies.

The Not Too Young to Run Movement
One of the most important developments in youth political participation was the Not Too Young To Run movement.

The movement contributed significantly to constitutional changes in (2018) that reduced the minimum age for elective offices. The presidential age was reduced from 40 to 35, while the minimum age for the House of Representatives and State Houses of Assembly was reduced from 30 to 25.

This reform removed a formal barrier to youth candidacy.

However, lowering the age requirement did not solve the larger problem. Young aspirants still face expensive nomination forms, high campaign costs, weak internal democracy, political godfatherism and lack of resources to compete.

The real question is no longer whether young Nigerians are legally old enough to contest. It is whether the political system is genuinely prepared to give them a fair opportunity to win.

The 2019 and 2023 Elections
The impact of Not Too Young To Run became visible in 2019 as youth candidacy increased.

But the 2023 election showed progress was not linear. Analysis by (YIAGA Africa) found youth candidacy declined from 34 percent in 2019 to 28.6 percent in 2023. Of the 15,336 candidates on the ballot in 2023, 4,398 were youth candidates.

This is a warning. While young Nigerians make up a huge part of the electorate, they remain underrepresented among candidates. There is still a gap between youths as voters and youths as leaders.

The 2023 election also showed the potential strength of the youth vote. Youths aged 18–34 were 39.65 percent of registered voters, while 76.56 percent  of newly registered voters during the 2021–2022 exercise were between 18 and 34.

The potential power of the youth vote is enormous.

Political Participation Beyond Voting
Political participation should not be defined only as voting.

Democracy requires more than collecting a Permanent Voter’s Card. Young people should participate in political parties, policy discussions, community leadership, election monitoring, campaigns, civic organisations and public debate. They should also demand accountability after elections.

A young Nigerian who votes but never questions public spending or participates in community decisions is exercising only one part of democratic citizenship.

The challenge is to move from being electoral numbers to becoming political stakeholders.

Looking Towards 2027
The 2027 general election presents another opportunity. By 2027, many first-time voters from 2019 and 2023 will have gained experience. The question is whether that will translate into greater participation and better leadership.

Young Nigerians should not wait until parties distribute campaign materials to get involved. They should begin now by studying parties, candidates, manifestos and asking tough questions about governance.

Most importantly, youths must resist being used as political thugs, crowd pullers or online attackers. Young people deserve to be decision-makers, not just tools for mobilisation.

What Must Change Before 2027
First, political parties must create genuine opportunities for young people to contest and influence party decisions.

Second,  the cost of participation must be reduced. Democracy is not inclusive when only the wealthy can afford forms and campaigns.

Third, young Nigerians must strengthen political education. Youth leadership must be built on competence, integrity and commitment to public service.

Fourth, young voters must reject vote buying. Selling a vote may bring temporary relief but leads to poor leadership.

Fifth, youths should look beyond personality politics. Candidates should be judged by competence, character, record and policies, not ethnicity, religion or social media popularity.

2027 and the Future of Nigerian Democracy
The 2027 election should not be just another contest between parties. It should be a chance for Nigerians to decide what kind of democracy they want.

For youths, the choice is critical. They can remain spectators who complain after elections, or become active participants who organise, contest, vote, monitor and demand accountability.

Since 1999, young people have moved from the margins to the centre of political discussion. Not Too Young To Run showed institutional change is possible. The 2023 registration figures showed numerical strength. Yet low youth representation shows more work is needed.

The challenge is to turn numerical strength into real political influence.

Conclusion
Nigerian democracy cannot be truly representative while the largest generation remains underrepresented in leadership.

From 1999 to 2027, youth participation has been marked by awakening, activism and growing consciousness. The next stage must be deeper: participation must become representation, and representation must become responsible leadership.

Nigerian youths should ask not only “Who will I vote for?” but also “Who will represent us? Who will make decisions for us? And what are we doing to become the leaders we want?”

The 2027 election will test Nigerian democracy. But the future of politics will be determined by what young Nigerians do before, during and after election day.

Nigeria’s youths are not merely leaders of tomorrow. They are citizens and stakeholders today. The future of Nigerian democracy depends on whether they choose to remain spectators or become active participants in shaping the country they will inherit

Hussaini Aliyu Yero can be reached via GSM:09061612465 or
hussainialiyuyero@gmail.com.

By Haladu Muhammad 

As a young Nigerian from the North-East, one issue that has deeply concerned me for over a decade is the widespread apathy among our youth toward the electoral process. When you engage young people from my region or across the country, many express scepticism, asking, “Why should I vote when votes aren’t counted? Why bother standing under the sun?”

They seem to forget the fundamental definition of democracy. As Abraham Lincoln famously stated, democracy is “government of the people, by the people, for the people.” It is anchored in the rule of law and guarantees us the freedom and civic right to cast our ballots, oversee the counting process, and await the legitimate results.

It saddens me that many young citizens overlook the power of their vote. They abandon their civic duty, claiming that enduring the elements to vote is pointless. My key message to everyone is simple: believe in the power of your participation.

Consider recent gubernatorial elections, such as the one in Osun State. When citizens turned out in large numbers, stood patiently in line despite the rain or heat, and ensured their votes were counted transparently, it proved that the system can work. Similarly, when voters in Zamfara State stood firm behind their preferred candidate in the 2023 election, their votes were reflected in the final outcome. 

If all Nigerians emulate this level of dedication, we can drive meaningful change across the nation.

This is why I continuously advocate for young Nigerians, especially those in the North, to register for and secure their Permanent Voter’s Cards (PVCs). As we approach the 2027 general elections, we must prepare to participate fully. You cannot sit comfortably at home, voice your preference for leadership, and yet refuse to engage in the democratic process required to elect them. Expecting change without participation is a major contradiction.

Consider this a wake-up call. To those who already hold a PVC, treat it as a vital instrument for your future. Your PVC acts like a master key or a bank card—it grants you the authority to elect leaders who align with your vision and vote out those who fail to deliver. It is a powerful tool for self-determination for every Nigerian.

I urge our youth to mobilise, ensure their voter registration is up to date, and prepare to vote in massive numbers in 2027. Let us use our collective voice to shape the future of our nation.

Haladu Muhammad is a Concerned Citizen of Nigeria. He wrote from Maiduguri.

‎
‎‎By Maji Bappa Maina
‎
‎
‎Governments are often judged by what they build.
‎
‎But the more important question is what they are able to sustain.
‎
‎For Governor Mai Mala Buni, governance appears to extend beyond the boundaries of projects, institutions and even the state itself.
‎
‎His recent engagement in Chad provides another dimension to a governance philosophy shaped by continuity, institutional strengthening, peacebuilding, post-conflict recovery, regional cooperation and inclusive development.
‎
‎The report of his visit to Nigerian refugees in Kaya, Chad, may appear to be simply a humanitarian engagement. But viewed through the wider lens of governance, it represents something deeper.
‎
‎Governance does not end where a political boundary begins when the problems themselves cross that boundary.
‎
‎Insecurity does not recognise borders. Neither does displacement, climate pressure, trade or the movement of people.
‎
‎The Lake Chad region therefore requires more than individual government interventions. It requires institutions that can cooperate across borders and leadership capable of seeing the region as an interconnected system.
‎
‎This is where Governor Buni’s role as Chairman of the Lake Chad Basin Governors’ Forum becomes significant.
‎
‎His visit to the Nigerian refugees in Kaya was not merely about seeing displaced people. It was about listening to them, understanding their circumstances and discussing pathways towards sustainable solutions.
‎
‎When the refugees described him as the first Nigerian government official to visit them, the significance went beyond protocol.
‎
‎Presence itself became a form of governance.
‎
‎But the engagement did not stop at sympathy. The discussion around livelihoods, peaceful coexistence and voluntary return demonstrates an important principle of humanitarian governance: support should not merely sustain vulnerability; it should help people move towards dignity, productivity and resilience.
‎
‎The Governor’s engagement with the Chadian authorities and the Lake Chad Basin Commission further reinforces this approach.
‎
‎The emphasis on sustainable security, economic growth, institutional partnership and opening waterways reflects an understanding that the future of the Lake Chad region cannot be secured through security measures alone.
‎
‎Security creates the space for development.
‎Development strengthens stability.
‎Stability creates the conditions for peace to endure.
‎
‎This connects directly with the broader governance philosophy of the Buni Administration.
‎
‎A road is more than infrastructure when it connects communities and markets.
‎
‎Agricultural support is more than an intervention when it enables people to become producers and employers.
‎
‎And humanitarian assistance becomes more meaningful when it forms part of a pathway towards stability, livelihood and reintegration.
‎
‎In each case, development becomes an ecosystem rather than a collection of projects.
‎
‎Perhaps this is the deeper story behind the Buni Administration, not simply what has been constructed or commissioned, but the attempt to build systems capable of moving from recovery to stability, from stability to development, and from development to sustainability.
‎
‎The journey is neither instant nor complete.
‎
‎Governance is always a work in progress.
‎
‎But when leadership begins to think beyond individual projects and toward institutions, systems, communities and generations, development acquires something more valuable than visibility.
‎
‎It acquires continuity.
‎
‎And perhaps the strongest measure of leadership is not how loudly achievements are announced, but how quietly the systems created continue to improve people’s lives long after the announcement has ended.
‎
‎That is when governance becomes more than administration.
‎
‎It becomes a philosophy.
‎
‎Maji Bappa Maina is a ‎Political Writer, PhD Researcher, ‎Voice of Development, Leadership & Public Insight.