Opinion

By Alhassan Hassan Salihu

Few men leave a mark on society without holding office, wearing a uniform, or carrying authority. Bala Muhammad is not just a media scholar; he is a guardian of culture, discipline, and an architect of greatness.

In the early 2000s, Kano’s streets were alive with sound and colour. Markets bustled, commercial tricycles darted through traffic, and the rhythm of daily life carried on as it had for generations. But beneath the energy, a different reality was taking shape, one of disorder.

Road signs were ignored. Tricycle drivers cut across lanes at will. Pedestrians crossed wherever they pleased. Public order, once a matter of pride, seemed to be slipping away.

A renowned but marked by growing disorder, congestion, and a fragile sense of control that hinted at deeper challenges ahead.

It was in this climate that a quiet movement began, not through the force of law or the threat of arrest, but through the power of a voice. That voice belonged to Bala Muhammad.

A respected media scholar, newspaper columnist, and familiar voice on the radio, Bala had built a reputation for delivering reasoned and honest commentary. People trusted him because he spoke plainly and honestly. He explained ideas without lecturing, and he criticised without insulting.

When Malam Ibrahim Shekarau-led Kano State Government launched a programme called A Daidaita Sahu, meaning “straighten the public order” in Hausa, it aimed to restore discipline and order in public life. Many regarded it as just another government slogan that would soon fade away.

Bala saw something else; to him, “A Daidaita Sahu” was not just a policy, but a chance to change the city’s mindset.

He took to the airwaves, writing and speaking about the programme in a way the public could connect with. His columns carried titles like “DISCIPLINE AS A WAY OF LIFE”, “THE ORDERLINESS WE LOST”, and “ADAIDAITA SAHU: OUR CULTURAL RETURN.”

But instead of listing rules, he told stories. He spoke of a time when people queued without being told, when elders were given seats on buses without being asked, and when the street belonged to everyone, not just to the loudest or most aggressive.

His message was clear: public order was not something foreign. It was part of Hausa culture and Islamic tradition. It was part of the city’s heritage.

Bala’s campaign was not limited to print and broadcast. He visited mosques, speaking after Friday prayers. He went to motor parks, markets, and universities. Everywhere he went, his refrain was the same: “A Daidaita Sahu is not politics. It is a mirror showing us what we are supposed to be.”

At first, some thought he was being idealistic. But slowly, change began to appear; Tricycle drivers started queueing properly at parks, and street vendors kept their stalls cleaner. 

Schools invited him to speak to students about discipline and respect. These changes were not the result of fines or enforcement. They came because people were reminded of their own values.

Bala’s approach was simple but powerful: it shows people that discipline is not an enemy of freedom, but the framework that makes freedom possible.

Over time, the city’s atmosphere began to shift. Kano remained vibrant, but there was less chaos. The A Daidaita Sahu movement grew into one of the most ambitious civic initiatives in the state’s history. Its real success, however, was not in official reports, but in the everyday behaviour of ordinary people!

Bala Muhammad had no power to arrest, fine, or shut down businesses. All he had was a pen, a microphone, and an unshakable belief that people could rise to a higher standard when reminded of their shared culture and faith.

That belief proved stronger than any law.

By the height of the movement, Bala was more than a commentator. He had become a trusted voice in Kano, a voice that seemed to walk alongside people on the streets, even when he was not physically there.

A Daidaita Sahu’s story is proof that lasting change does not always begin with authority or force. Sometimes, it starts with one person speaking to the hearts of the people, telling them that they already have what it takes to live better.

Years later, many still recall the movement. Some remember the radio programmes. Others remember hearing Dr Bala at their local mosque or market. Still others remember reading his words in the newspaper and feeling proud of their city again.

His legacy is a reminder that you can write laws, but without public belief, they remain words on paper. True order comes when people take ownership of it.

Kano in the early 2000s was a noisy, restless, and often chaotic place. The city’s energy was undeniable, but it lacked direction, with disorder slowly eroding its social fabric. It was during this period that Dr Bala, through patience, wisdom, and unwavering conviction, helped the city rediscover a sense of balance. He guided it back to a rhythm rooted in respect, discipline, and communal harmony, restoring hope and dignity to everyday life.

Not with force, not with fear, but with faith; faith that the people of Kano could remember who they were and live up to it.

Let’s do it again!!!

Bala Muhammad demonstrated that respect, patience, and order were not Western imports; they were Hausa and Islamic values, deeply rooted in our identity.

He’s not just a man of letters; he is a man of legacy, who turned words into movement, and movement into memory.

By Umar Sani Adamu

The Almajiri system, once a noble pursuit of Islamic knowledge, has degenerated into a humanitarian disaster spread across Northern Nigeria. From the streets of Kano to the slums of Sokoto, thousands of children wander barefoot, hungry, and hopeless victims of a tradition that has outlived its purpose.

The idea behind Almajiranci was simple: young boys, mostly from rural or poor families, would be sent to Islamic scholars for religious education. But over time, what began as a pathway to learning became a pipeline to poverty, abuse, and neglect. Today, these children beg for survival, live in unhygienic conditions, and face constant exposure to criminality and exploitation.

Every year, thousands more are pushed into this cycle. With no formal curriculum, no sanitation, no feeding structure, and no monitoring, the system violates every principle of child welfare and human dignity. Many of these almajiris live in overcrowded, unventilated rooms, sometimes as many as 18 children in a single space, with no access to health care, no protection, and no future.

While governments talk reform, very little action meets the urgency. Integration programs are underfunded, religious institutions are left unchecked, and families often forced by poverty continue to submit their children to this outdated system. Meanwhile, the streets of Northern Nigeria grow more unsafe as vulnerable children are manipulated by extremist groups and criminal syndicates.

Let’s be clear: the Almajiri system, in its current form, is not education. It is abandonment. It is state-sanctioned child endangerment masquerading as religion. Any society that claims moral or spiritual uprightness cannot continue to tolerate this level of systemic neglect.

What Northern Nigeria needs is not a patchwork of reforms, but a complete overhaul. Islamic education should be formalised, monitored, and integrated into the broader national curriculum. Children should learn in safe environments where Qur’anic knowledge is integrated with literacy, numeracy, hygiene, and vocational training. Religious scholars must be trained, certified, and held accountable.

Above all, we must shift the responsibility from children back to adults. Governments, communities, parents, and religious leaders must admit the system has failed and work together to end it. The Almajiri child deserves more than survival. He deserves dignity, opportunity, and a future.

This is not just a social concern. It is a national emergency.

Umar Sani Adamu can be reached via umarhashidu1994@gmail.com

By Aisha Musa Auyo

The second story that inspired this reflection is the death of an acquaintance. She was the HR of a company that once offered me a job as an editor. We had exchanged emails, and I went there in person to explain why I couldn’t take up the role. That first visit also turned out to be my last. The company’s owner is a friend, so it was easy to discuss things openly.

After hearing me out, she understood my situation as a young mother. She said she had once been in my shoes and offered some warm advice, assuring me that the company would always welcome me if I were ready in the future. As I was about to leave, she asked about the fragrance I was wearing. She said, “The whole office is filled with your scent. It’s so calming.”

I explained that it wasn’t a regular perfume but Turaren Wuta (incense) and humra. She smiled and said she was familiar with them but had never come across such heavenly scents before. I promised to send her some to try.

It was a casual conversation, but I took it to heart. I packed black and white humra with some incense and gave them to my driver for delivery, as I was travelling at the time. Days turned into weeks, with excuse after excuse from him. When I called her, she said she never got his call, and even if she wasn’t around, he could have left the package at the office.

Back from my trip, I retrieved the parcel and handed it to another driver. Again, excuses. Frustrated, I shared my ordeal with a family member. She dismissed my worry: “You’re overreacting. This woman has probably forgotten about the incense. She doesn’t owe you anything. Why stress yourself over this?”

But deep down, I couldn’t let it go. Something urged me on. I said, “Whatever it takes, I’ll do this delivery myself, I insisted. The family member teased me, calling me stubborn, “Aisha kina da naci wallahi, kin damu kowa a kan abin da ba shi da mahimmanci”. I said na ji. It felt as though everything, including the universe, was determined to stop me from sending that gift.

Finally, when I demanded the second driver return the parcel so I could deliver it personally, he apologised and promised to take it that week. Two days later, she sent me a message, thanking me warmly. She said, “It was worth the wait.” I apologised for the delay, and that was the last time we spoke.

This week, I received the news of her death. She had been battling a heart condition. I remembered how she once mentioned wanting to lose weight for health reasons. My heart sank. I prayed for her soul and felt profoundly grateful that I had managed to give her something she wanted before her passing. Suddenly, I understood why my instincts had been so insistent.

The lesson is clear: never postpone kindness. Please do it now, because tomorrow is never promised.

Aisha Musa Auyo is a doctoral researcher in educational psychology. A wife, a mother, a homemaker, a caterer, a parenting, and a relationship coach. She can be reached via aishamuauyo@live.co.uk.

By Amir Abdulazeez

I am writing on this not because I have any significant concern for the award or its credibility, or because it has any correlation with the well-being of anybody in need (which I am often more concerned about). I am doing so instead due to the massive perennial debate it generates, especially among youths in Nigeria, as well as the misinformed opinions surrounding it. 

Again, the Ballon d’Or, like football itself, has transcended sport to become part of international politics and history. I became shocked when I saw a globally renowned Muslim scholar congratulating Ousmane Dembele for winning the 2025 version and hailing its award to a ‘practising Muslim’. Obviously, the crown now carries political significance that stretches well beyond the pitch. 

Since its inception in 1956, the Ballon d’Or has been regarded as football’s most prestigious individual award. Founded by France Football (conceived by sports writers Gabriel Hanot and Jacques Ferran), the award was initially designed to honour the best European player annually, with Stanley Matthews of Blackpool becoming the pioneer winner. Later, it evolved into a global prize, celebrating many other icons. Many have rightly questioned the credibility of the award, but mostly on myopic grounds centred around player and club sentiments. However, as a long-time football observer, I believe there are much broader issues regarding the credibility of the award that are worth discussing. 

Let us start with the politics. During the Cold War (1947-1991), Eastern European players (more aligned to the Soviet Union) often struggled to receive equal recognition despite dazzling performances, while Western European stars (more aligned to the United States and friends) enjoyed more favourable media attention. Although Russian goalkeeper Lev Yashin won the award in 1963, many argue that his case was only the exception that proved the unwritten rule of ‘politics, geography, and media exposure consistently play decisive roles’. Today, the award continues to reflect broader inequalities in the sport of football. European clubs dominate global coverage, which inflates the recognition of their stars. Players performing in less visible leagues, whether in South America, Africa, or Asia, rarely receive consideration, even if their contributions are extraordinary. 

Another concern is the award’s inconsistent eligibility rules over time. Until 1995, only European players competing in European clubs were considered, excluding legendary figures such as Pelé and Diego Maradona from even receiving a nomination. It was only after a rule change that non-Europeans in European leagues became eligible, allowing George Weah to win in 1995. Yet, by then, the award had already excluded decades of worthy non-European and non-European-based winners. Mild allegations of racism also cast a dark shadow over the award. Many believe players like Didier Drogba, Samuel Eto’o, Yaya Touré, Sadio Mané and Mohammed Salah were routinely ranked below their pedigree. In 2021, French pundit Emmanuel Petit openly questioned whether African players were judged by double standards. 

The selection of voters itself raises concerns. Initially restricted to journalists, it later expanded between 2010 and 2015 after a merger with FIFA’s “World Player of the Year,” adding coaches and captains to the electorate whose votes often reflected tribal, national or club loyalties rather than merit. The 2016 reversion to journalist-only voting may be a tacit admission of voting flaws, thereby creating difficulties in making comparisons across eras. For example, Lionel Messi’s consecutive wins (2009-2013) under a global, mixed electorate cannot be objectively compared to Michel Platini’s (1983-1985) under a European-only jury. The current co-organisation with UEFA, which began in 2024, signifies another attempt to lend the award more institutional weight. However, the constant changes in its format and governing alliances suggest an award in search of a stable identity, struggling to balance its commercial ambitions with its original purpose.

Bias towards attacking players has been an emerging hallmark of Ballon d’Or selections. Legendary defenders like Paolo Maldini, Alessandro Nesta, Sergio Ramos and Roberto Carlos, who defined an era of defensive excellence, always fell short. The exception of Fabio Cannavaro in 2006, along with a few others in the past, after a World Cup-winning campaign with Italy, serves as a testament to the rarity of a defender being recognised. 

More recently, Virgil van Dijk’s 2019 narrow runner-up finish sparked debate about whether non-attacking players could ever realistically win in a sport increasingly obsessed with goals and flair. The award relies heavily on football journalists who often prioritise goal highlight reels, statistics and global recognition over tactical nuance and defensive brilliance. Strikers and playmakers dominate the headlines that directly feed into voting behaviour. 

To combat positional bias, a more revolutionary approach could be implemented: nomination by quota. Why not have separate shortlists and voting panels for goalkeepers, defenders, midfielders and forwards? The top three or five of these categories could then be considered for the overall voting and eventual award. This would ensure that the unique skills of each position are evaluated by those who best understand them, guaranteeing that players are judged on their specialisations rather than against others with contrasting roles. 

The criteria for judgment also lack clarity and consistency. Officially, the award considers individual performance, team achievements, talent, fair play and career consistency. In practice, however, voters often seem swayed by a single outstanding tournament or by sentimental narratives. Luka Modrić’s 2018 victory after Croatia’s World Cup run exemplified this. While Modrić was superb, critics argued that other players had stronger year-round performances, but the emotional weight of Croatia’s fairy tale run tilted the scales. But how come this same emotion did not sway voters to select any player from Leicester City’s 2016 Premier League incredible winning team? A pervasive, though often unstated, criterion for many voters is team success. 

To win the Champions League or a major international tournament has become almost a prerequisite for contention. This creates an inherent unfairness, elevating players in dominant teams while punishing extraordinary individuals in less successful sides. This inconsistency reveals a fundamental confusion: is the award for the “best player,” “most popular player,” or the “most successful player”?

The timing and calendar controversies are another issue. International tournaments occur every two years, creating periods where national team success heavily influences voting. World Cup years traditionally favour tournament winners, regardless of club form. The recent calendar change, from July to August, aimed to address this imbalance but created new problems, with voters now contending with assessing performances from overlapping seasons and tournaments. This temporal confusion affects not just voting patterns but also the public’s understanding of what the award represents: is it recognition for calendar year performance, season achievement, or tournament success? The 2013 Ballon d’Or win by Cristiano Ronaldo was criticised following timing inconsistencies due to odd deadline extensions. The current system, which allows a player to win a major tournament in the summer and have their performance rewarded a year later, creates a disjointed narrative. 

The question of authority is another big one. FIFA represents 211 national associations, UEFA oversees European football’s institutional framework, yet it is a private French publication that bestows football’s most prestigious individual honour. The comparison with FIFA’s The Best awards and UEFA’s Player of the Year exposes this imbalance. This raises the paradox: why should a magazine possess such outsized influence in determining football’s most prestigious individual accolade, overshadowing awards backed by governing institutions? While there is nothing fundamentally wrong with this, it only emphasises the need for France Football to show more responsibility by sanitising and standardising its award.

I am not in a position to coach France Football on how to reform its awards to minimise the credibility dilemma; they have much better experts who can do that. My concern is to see young football followers and analysts become more informed and equipped for deeper debates that are beyond sentiments. My other concern, which has little to do with the Ballon d’Or, is to see football giving a little back to its estimated 3.5 billion fans that have made it powerful. While fans give it a lot, the sport appears to be offering almost nothing significant in return. 

It is sad to see football remaining silent, biased and indifferent in the face of global oppression and injustice. While it took FIFA and UEFA just four days to suspend Russia after it invaded Ukraine in 2022, both bodies have remained criminally silent for over two years since Israel launched its genocide on the football supporting people of Palestine.

Amir Abdulazeez, PhD, can be reached via abdulazeezamir@hotmail.com.

By Suleiman Musa Yahaya Ikara

The jeopardy of thuggery and phone snatching in Kano State has evolved into a crisis, affecting the lives of students, as well as other residents in Kano. Just weeks ago, a student of Bayero University, Kano (BUK), became a victim during a routine trip in Dorayi.

This mounting violence threatens the safety, security, and well-being of residents, particularly in the metropolitan areas of Kano.

The Bayero University community has been thrown into mourning following the gruesome killing of a 300-level student, Umar Abdullahi Hafiz, by suspected phone snatchers. 

The incident occurred late Wednesday at the student’s off-campus residence in the Dorayi area of Kano metropolis.

Despite the crushing fear that spellbinds communities, remaining silent is not the positive alternative; being silent may simply refer to becoming the next victim of these brutal gangs that prey on the innocent souls.

From the streets of Danbare, Kofar Kabuga, Kofar Mata, Zoo Road, Dorayi, Rijiyar Lemo, Kurna and Gwagwarwa, terrifying reports of violence have become a daily routine. 

Street smashes, stabbings, daylight robberies, and innocent lives traumatised by mobs using axes, stones, and knives have turned these areas into unsafe districts. 

The brutality of these mobs, commonly known as practitioners of “fadan daba”, is more shocking.

Media platforms are flooding with illustrative graphics, videos and images portraying these violent incidents. 

Terrified witnesses film young thugs attacking victims who resist having their phones snatched, with many victims bleeding from multiple stab injuries. 

These vehement encounters are no longer isolated incidents but part of an alarming pattern that threatens the peace and stability of Kano.

Confirming the development in a statement on Thursday, the university’s Director of Public Affairs, Lamara Garba, stated that the institution has initiated a manhunt for the perpetrators in collaboration with security agencies.

“BUK Vice-Chancellor, Prof. Sagir Adamu Abbas, condemned the killing and vowed to work closely with law enforcement to ensure those responsible are brought to justice. He further urged students and staff to remain calm, assuring them of the institution’s commitment to their safety and security”.

Phone snatching has become a daily occurrence in Kano, often resulting in the loss of lives and injuries to innocent residents, just as in the case of Umar Abdullahi Hafiz.

This encounter serves as a sobering reminder of the escalating violence erupting anytime, anywhere, and of course ending in catastrophe in Kano.

This terrible act has ignited outrage across Kano. The fact that a well-known and respected educator could fall victim so brutally sends a clear message that no one is safe in the current climate of violence. 

Despite these efforts, the menace persists, the gangs’ deep-rooted networks rapidly replenish lost members, highlighting the inadequacy of enforcement alone. 

Underlying Political and socioeconomic challenges, including high unemployment, widespread drug abuse, and poor educational opportunities, fuel the cycle of crime and violence.

Need for Holistic Action

Security agencies cannot rely solely on arrests to resolve such enduring crises, which require a community-based approach. 

Strengthening community policing, empowering neighbourhood vigilante groups, improving local surveillance, and fostering trust between residents and law enforcement are critical for restoring safety.

By Usman Abdullahi Koli, ANIPR

Some lives are measured in years, others in titles, and some in possessions. The rarest and most enduring lives are measured in the hearts they touch and the hope they restore. Dr Bala Maijama’a Wunti belongs firmly in that rare place. His journey has been one of resilience and quiet strength, of rising from hardship to become a fountain of generosity whose waters reach far beyond the place where they spring.

Born on 8th August 1966, his earliest years were marked by a loss that would shape the rest of his life. Losing both parents as a child meant entering the world with an emptiness most could never imagine. Those days were not kind; survival was his only option. There were no easy comforts, no safety nets, only the will to push forward and the dream that tomorrow could be better.

Instead of allowing hardship to harden him, it softened him in extraordinary ways. The hunger he knew became a hunger to feed others. The loneliness he endured became a desire to stand by those who had no one to stand by. The obstacles he faced became a determination to clear the paths for others. He did not allow pain to turn into bitterness; he transformed it into kindness.

Over the years, giving has become so deeply ingrained in his life that it no longer feels like charity; it feels like breathing. He has lifted burdens that would have crushed families, stepped in quietly where hope was fading, and turned despair into relief for people who may never know his face but will always remember his help. For him, giving is not a grand event; it is the natural rhythm of his days.

Only yesterday, on the eve of his birthday, he paid the full registration fees for Bauchi State indigenous Law students across Law Schools in Nigeria and added incentives to support their journey. For those young men and women, it was more than a payment. It was a belief in their dreams and a reminder that someone cares enough to invest in their future. Acts like this are not exceptions in his life; they are the pattern.

His foundation, Wunti Alkhair, is an extension of his own values. It reaches into communities, lifts the sick from their sickbeds by clearing medical bills, opens doors of opportunity for young people to acquire skills, and creates moments of dignity where they seemed lost. It strengthens faith by building and restoring places of worship, not as monuments of wealth but as sanctuaries of hope.

What makes him remarkable is not just the scale of what he gives but the sincerity with which he provides it. There is no fanfare, no calculation, no search for applause. Many of those who have felt his kindness will never meet him, yet they carry a piece of him in their stories, in their survival, and in their renewed strength to face life again.

As we celebrate his birthday, we celebrate far more than a date. We honour a man whose life is proof that greatness is not in what we take but in what we give. A man who rose through the storms of his own childhood to become a shelter for others. A man who, in a world too often cold and self-serving, has chosen to be warm and selfless.

May Allah grant him long life, good health, and the strength to keep shaping lives for the better. May his journey remind us all that no matter where we start, we can choose to live in a way that makes the world a little softer, a little fairer, and a little kinder.

Your life is not only a blessing to those who know you but to many who never will, and that is the highest form of legacy.

Usman Abdullahi Koli wrote via mernoukoli@gmail.com.

By Oladoja M.O

In every democracy, opposition is meant to sharpen governance, hold power accountable, and deepen national debate. However, when opposition is driven not by facts, ideas, or vision, but by ignorance and a desire for power, it ceases to be the conscience of democracy and becomes the cancer of progress. Nigeria is today saddled with an opposition that mistakes noise for logic, Twitter trends for policy, and cheap comparisons for economic analysis.

The latest shameless theatrics are the attempts by the obedient leader, our chief serial-contester, and their coalition of recycled political elders to compare Nigeria’s economic trajectory with that of Argentina. They raise Argentina as though it were a heaven of reforms, while ignorantly or deliberately ignoring the bitter cries of Argentines battered by Javier Milei’s austerity chainsaw.

Argentina has cut nearly 48,000 public-sector jobs, vetoed even modest pension increases, and forced retirees onto the streets to be beaten by police water cannons and rubber pellets. Poverty there is climbing toward 60%, subsidies have been axed overnight, and the government survives only by begging the IMF for lifelines.

That is not reform, it is desperation.

This is in contrast to the Nigerian reality. Here, we removed the cancerous fuel subsidy, unified exchange rates, and embarked on painful but necessary monetary tightening to bring inflation under control. Inflation, which soared in 2023, is now sliding downwards in 2025, with headline CPI dropping to 21.8% in August. The fiscal deficit has narrowed from 5.4% of GDP to about 3.0%. Electricity sector debts are being refinanced, and the macroeconomy, though still rough, is anchored on a foundation of stability.

Even Ngozi Okonjo-Iweala, no spokesperson of any party, but the globally respected WTO chief, publicly affirmed: “Nigeria has achieved stability, now the task is to drive inclusive growth.” Yet, the same opposition that celebrates Argentina’s IMF-borrowed pain and police-clubbed pensioners shamelessly called her “economically ignorant” for acknowledging the obvious.

Tell me what else defines nitwittery than this.

Though not so surprised, because ignorance has always been their brand. They cannot differentiate between stability and growth. To them, the economy is nothing more than the price of a bag of rice. Mr Obi throws around phrases like “lifting people out of poverty” as if they were trendy slogans for his following rally chant.

Oga Atiku, the permanent opposition aspirant, is once again cobbling together his “company of ex-this and former-that”, a cargo association of spent forces whose only qualification is that they once had access to government coffers and now desperately want another turn to loot. Their supporters, equally blind, cheer along, not out of reason but out of ignorance or bitterness, unable to see that governance is not Instagram clout, but hard, grinding policy.

This is not to canonise the Tinubu administration, make no mistake. I, too, demand more. There are ministers in this government who are sleeping on the job, and there are loopholes where reforms have yet to trickle down. Nigerians are eager for a positive impact in their daily lives, particularly in areas such as health, nutrition, education, and civil service efficiency. But unlike the ignoramus opposition, I understand sequencing. You first stabilise the macroeconomy, then you build growth on that foundation. What we need now is coordination, urgency, and social interventions that humanise the numbers. And to be fair, signs are there.

The launch of the Renewed Hope Ward Development Programme, designed to empower 1,000 persons in each of Nigeria’s 8,809 wards, is one right instinct: drilling development down to the grassroots, away from abstract figures, into real people’s lives. As Minister Atiku Bagudu explained, this initiative will stimulate ward-level economic activity, generate employment, enhance food security, and turn stability into grassroots growth. It is precisely the kind of bottom-up complement that the current macro reforms require.

So yes, the work is far from done. Nigerians need more, faster, and better delivery. However, comparing Nigeria to Argentina is intellectual dishonesty or outright ignorance. Argentina is bleeding; Nigeria is stabilising. Argentina is laying off workers; Nigeria is restructuring its debt. Argentina is on IMF life support; Nigeria is financing reforms internally. Argentina is repressing protests; Nigeria is still debating freely.

The opposition can continue to chase clout, weaponise ignorance, and gather their fellowship of losers. Unfortunately, we are not getting what we deserve. Nigerians deserve informed opposition, not this company of old cargoes and nitwits parading as saviours.

However, for those of us who see clearly, we will demand more from the government, but we will not be drawn into the cesspool of ignorance disguised as activism.

The path forward is clear: build on the stability achieved, accelerate the trickle-down effect through real social interventions, empower the workforce, integrate the informal sector, and ignite genuine growth. That is how nations rise, not through the shallow chants of ignoramus opposition, nor through the empty hunger of clout chasers, but through truth, stability, and hard work.

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

By Dr Abubakar Bello

The recent controversy over an alleged honorary doctorate awarded to musician Alhaji Dauda Kahutu Rarara has sparked debate across northern Nigeria. Initially, reports indicated that the European-American University conferred an honorary doctorate on him in Abuja. However, days later, the institution publicly denied endorsing such an award, describing the event as fraudulent.

This is not the first time Rarara’s name has been caught in institutional back-and-forth. At one point, the Federal University Dutsin-Ma (FUDMA) was said to be planning a conference to celebrate his contributions to music and politics. Yet the university later backtracked, insisting the information was fake. The recurring pattern suggests not a lack of merit on Rarara’s part, but rather institutional hesitation in dealing with a figure whose art, political songs, and social influence are both celebrated and contested.

There is clear precedent for cultural icons receiving academic recognition. The late Mamman Shata, perhaps the most revered Hausa musician of the 20th century, was formally honoured by Ahmadu Bello University, Zaria. That recognition secured his place not only in the cultural memory of the Hausa people but also in academic history. By that measure, Rarara too will, sooner or later, be recognised by universities both within Nigeria and abroad for his cultural and political contributions. The real question is: which university will take the initiative?

Across Nigeria, universities have rightly celebrated industrialists, politicians, and philanthropists with honorary degrees, sometimes even surprising their own local institutions, as happened when other universities honoured Katsina’s business mogul, Alhaji Dahiru Mangal, taking Umaru Musa Yar’adua University, his home-state university, by surprise. Yet cultural figures, especially musicians whose work captures the pulse of society, are too often overlooked until history forces recognition.

This is an opportunity for Nigerian universities to redefine what they celebrate. Honorary degrees are not just ceremonial gestures. They are statements of value, affirmations that music, political commentary, and popular culture are as vital to society as commerce and politics.

Whether in Katsina or beyond, Nigerian universities have the opportunity to lead by recognising Rarara. Doing so would not only honour one man but also promote the significance of indigenous music and political expression in our collective intellectual and cultural heritage. The controversy over fake awards should not overshadow this larger truth: Rarara’s contributions are genuine, and he deserves formal recognition.

 Dr Abubakar Bello wrote from the Department of Biological Sciences, Umaru Musa Yar’adua University, Katsina. He can be reached via bello.abubakar@umyu.edu.ng.

By Aisha Musa Auyo

When you can be kind and helpful, do it immediately. Don’t procrastinate or wait for the “right time.” You may not live to see that time, or the person you want to help may not. The point of power is always now.

I’m inspired to share this because two recent incidents made me reflect deeply. One was the death of a close relative, the other, the passing of an acquaintance I only met once but stayed connected with through social media.

In the first incident, an aunt of mine came from another town for her monthly hospital appointment. She usually arrived a day before to avoid being late. That evening, after visiting some relatives, she spotted a shawarma shop and sighed: “Zan so na ci shawarma ko da sau ɗaya ne a rayuwata” (“I would love to taste shawarma at least once in my life”).

My cousin, who was driving, ignored her words and sped past. I pleaded with him to go back, but he insisted the shop was closed and wouldn’t open until 7 p.m., which is true. My aunt looked disappointed.

Later at home, I begged him again to get me shawarma bread so I could prepare it for her. He brushed it off, saying he was tired, and reminded me she’d be leaving early the next morning. “You can always make it for her next month,” he said. But my heart wouldn’t allow me to postpone it.

Eventually, he bought the bread, and I stayed up late preparing the fillings, finishing by midnight. I set my alarm for 4 a.m., woke up, rolled, and grilled the shawarma. By 5 a.m., it was ready. When I handed it to her, she was overjoyed. She couldn’t believe I went to such lengths to fulfil her simple wish. She prayed for me with a smile, and we said our goodbyes.

Later that day, she called to say she had arrived home safely and that my shawarma exceeded her expectations. She even saved some to take home. Though I joked, it must have been cold by then. She prayed again for me before hanging up the phone.

A few days later, she passed away.

I was in shock. Just last week, she was with us, longing for shawarma. I wept, but deep down, I thanked Allah that I didn’t delay. That shawarma became her first and last.

The lesson is clear: never delay an act of kindness. Tomorrow is not promised for you or for them.

Aisha Musa Auyo is a doctoral researcher in Educational Psychology. A wife, a mother, a homemaker, a caterer, a parenting and relationship coach. She can be reached via aishamuauyo@live.co.uk.

By Zayyad I. Muhammad

The insecurity challenges in Nigeria, particularly banditry, have defied simplistic solutions. While the kinetic approach, military and law enforcement operations, has achieved some notable successes, it has not produced the outcome of sustainable peace. Instead, it has often fueled a cycle of violence between state and non-state actors, while local communities continue to suffer. To break this cycle, there is a compelling need to complement kinetic measures with non-kinetic strategies such as dialogue, community engagement, education, intelligence-driven peacebuilding, and socio-economic empowerment.

The kinetic approach is necessary but insufficient. It weakens the operational strength of criminal groups but fails to address the root causes of insecurity, such as poverty, unemployment, social injustice, and a lack of community trust in the government. In some cases, heavy-handed operations or operational errors can create resentment among local populations, inadvertently attracting recruits to criminal networks.

The non-kinetic measures are designed to fill the gaps left by the actions of military and security forces, as well as to reduce unnecessary pressures on security forces. These include: building trust through dialogue with traditional rulers, religious leaders, and local influencers, including the actors themselves; creating opportunities for youth through education, vocational training, and employment; rehabilitation and reintegration, including providing pathways for repentant bandits or militants to rejoin society; intelligence gathering and strengthening human intelligence networks within communities to prevent attacks before they occur.

In combating insecurity, multi-stakeholder engagement is imperative, as national security cannot be achieved solely by the federal government. A sustainable strategy requires the active participation of state governments in tailoring responses to local realities. Support from local governments in intelligence gathering and community mobilisation is also essential. 

Engagement of traditional and religious institutions as custodians of local values and mediators in conflict resolution, as well as collaboration with civil society and development partners to address humanitarian and socio-economic needs, is equally important. The government should also introduce local language media programs through social media and other media, it will reach and enlighten the bandits and other insurgents

The current approach of adopting a hybrid security framework that blends military action with non-kinetic approaches to create both deterrence and reconciliation is commendable. This dialogue approach should be institutionalised through community dialogue platforms. Furthermore, establishing regular consultation forums where local leaders and security agencies exchange intelligence and build trust is also important. 

Investment in youth empowerment and the development of targeted programs for skills acquisition, entrepreneurship, and agricultural employment should be integrated into the non-kinetic approach to undercut the appeal of criminal networks. 

Another vital element is strengthening data-driven decision-making by basing security strategies on rigorous research, mapping conflict-prone areas, and conducting historical analyses of community dynamics. Fighting insecurity is a continuous process; any slack will have a negative impact. Therefore, creating measurable benchmarks and developing monitoring frameworks to evaluate the success of both kinetic and non-kinetic interventions over time will be beneficial.

No government can afford to sustain a security approach that fails to deliver positive outcomes. A purely kinetic strategy risks perpetuating violence, while a strictly non-kinetic approach may embolden criminal groups. The way forward lies in a carefully balanced model that applies force where necessary, while simultaneously addressing the root causes of insecurity through dialogue, trust-building, and socio-economic development. Only by harmonising both approaches can Nigeria break the cycle of violence and build a foundation for sustainable peace and security.

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