Opinion

By Hauwa Mohammed Sani, PhD

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Climax: The Race for the Flight

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

We found otherwise.

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

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

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

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

The Unbreakable Trust

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

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

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

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

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

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

By Tijjani Usman Dalhatu

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

By Abdulhamid Abdullahi Aliyu 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Abdulhamid Abdullahi Aliyu writes on disaster management and national development.

By Bilyamin Abdulmumin, PhD

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy Independence Day.

By Bashir Uba Ibrahim, PhD.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

By Ibraheem A. Waziri

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

By Zayyad I. Muhammad

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

By Dikko Muhammad, PhD

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

By Binta Spikin

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

By Muhammad Isah Zng

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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