Opinion

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). 

By Abdulhamid Abdullahi Aliyu

Every rainy season in Nigeria, when the skies darken and rivers swell, millions brace for the inevitable. In states like Kogi, Benue, and Bayelsa, families keep bags packed, ready to flee at the first sign of danger. Flood season has become a season of exile, not a question of if disaster will strike, but when.

The devastation of 2022 serves as a poignant reminder of what is at stake. That year, floods claimed more than 600 lives, displaced over 1.4 million people, and destroyed livelihoods on a massive scale. Croplands vanished under water, homes crumbled, and dreams were swept away. Three years later, communities still carry those scars, and the new flood alerts for 2025 have revived fears of a repeat.

It is against this grim backdrop that the National Emergency Management Agency (NEMA) is repositioning itself. For years, the agency was primarily seen as the responder of last resort, arriving with relief materials after lives and property had already been lost. Today, under the leadership of its Director General, Mrs Zubaida Umar, NEMA is making a deliberate shift: from being merely reactive to becoming a driver of foresight and prevention.

“Emergency management must no longer be about sympathy after the tragedy,” Mrs Umar insists. “It should be about preparedness that saves lives before the waters rise.”

That vision is beginning to take root. NEMA now works more closely with the Nigerian Meteorological Agency (NiMet) and the Nigerian Hydrological Services Agency (NIHSA), ensuring that seasonal forecasts and dam release alerts are translated into action at the grassroots level. Through community training, simulations, and sensitisation, the agency is attempting to close the gap between warnings and response, a gap that has cost too many lives in the past.

Yet the challenge remains daunting. Nigeria’s geography makes it naturally vulnerable, with the Niger and Benue rivers cutting across states where millions depend on farming. Poor urban planning compounds the danger, as blocked drainage and informal settlements in flood-prone areas turn cities into ticking time bombs. Climate change, with its unpredictable rainfall patterns, only worsens the threat.

In Lokoja, often referred to as the “confluence of suffering” during flood season, traders recall markets transformed into lakes, while fishermen lament the cruel irony of drowning in abundance. In Borno, families already displaced by insurgency were uprooted again when torrential rains washed away their shelters. These stories underscore a sobering truth: floods in Nigeria are not just natural disasters, but also humanitarian emergencies that exacerbate existing vulnerabilities.

Still, there are signs of progress. NEMA has strengthened partnerships with state governments and agencies, such as the Hydroelectric Power Producing Areas Development Commission (N-HYPPADEC), to broaden the response framework. The agency has also invested in early warning systems, ensuring that flood alerts do not remain stuck in Abuja press briefings but reach local leaders, town criers, and community radio stations.

For NEMA, the real battle is not only about deploying relief materials but about changing mindsets. Preparedness must become a culture. Farmers adjusting their planting calendars to forecasts, families relocating from high-risk flood plains, and local leaders treating disaster drills as seriously as security meetings. These are the shifts that make prevention real.

But as Mrs Umar acknowledges, transformation takes time. Resources remain limited, and relief supplies can only go so far in a country where millions are at risk. Disaster management will therefore continue to be a delicate balance between urgent response and long-term prevention.

What is clear, however, is that the old model of waiting until floods wreak havoc before acting is no longer sustainable. With new alerts already issued for 2025, the real task is ensuring that early warnings translate into early action. The coming seasons must not repeat the mistakes of the past.

Floods will always come. The question is whether they remain an annual tragedy or become a manageable threat. For NEMA, the answer lies in standing not just as a responder to disaster, but as a shield against it. For the millions who live in the shadow of swollen rivers, that shift could mean the difference between despair and survival.

Abdulhamid Abdullahi Aliyu writes on disaster management, humanitarian response, and national development.

By Oladoja M.O

There’s a video, “Why did Mrs X die?” that is very popular in the public health sphere. At first, the video seemed like the tale of one woman, faceless, nameless, known only by a letter. But the more I analyse and reflect on it, the more it has dawned on me that Mrs X was never just one person. She was and still is the embodiment of Nigeria’s healthcare story. Her death was not a singular tragedy, but a parable. A mirror held up to a nation’s bleeding system.

Mrs X died, not simply because of childbirth complications, but because everything that could have worked didn’t. Everything that should have stood for her failed her. Her death was not a moment; it was a long, silent, accepted process. In her story, there was the collapse of planning, access, and empathy. She died from a slow national rot that had found flesh in her body.

The story of Mrs X began not with the bleeding, but with the absence of preventive orientation that characterises the experience of many Nigerian pregnant women. She went through pregnancy the way most Nigerians face illness, hoping it would not demand too much. She never considered going for checkups, not because she was reckless, but because the culture of prevention was never truly instilled in her.

In a society where survival itself is a daily hustle, prevention often feels like a luxury. There was a health facility, yes, but it was far, tired, and overstretched. The system had blood, but not enough. Staff, but overworked. Beds, but unclean. And behind it all were the silences of policymakers, the rust of forgotten community health centres, and the dust on abandoned government project files. So, when she finally needed help, it was already too late to start looking. 

That story, the scramble at the end, is too familiar. We see it in Ekiti, Katsina, Owerri, and Makurdi. Patients running from one hospital to the next, files in hand, hope on lips, only to be turned back by bureaucracy, distance, or a quiet “we have no space.”

But beyond the infrastructure and logistics, Mrs X bore the weight of something heavier: culture. She was told, directly and indirectly, that her place was to endure. To cook. To clean. To birth. Her pain was duty. Her tiredness was weakness. To seek help was indulgent. So, she bore her cross in silence. Culture had taught her that a good woman asks for little, demands nothing, and dies quietly.

Gender inequality was not just in her home; it was in the policy rooms that never included her voice. It was in budgets that prioritised politics over health. It was in the subtle shrug of indifference that attends women’s complaints in clinics, especially poor women in rural areas. Her being female had already placed her lower on the ladder.

But perhaps what haunts me most is how everything seemed normal until someone opened the files. That day, long after she had gone, someone went back to the data room and began to look. Patterns emerged. Cases connected. Questions rose. “How many more like her?” they asked. “Could we have seen this coming?” It was research that awakened conscience. Data that pulled the curtain back. And isn’t that Nigeria’s truest shame that we often act only after counting the dead?

Mrs. X, for all her anonymity, is Nigeria. She is our health system in human form: underserved, overburdened, overlooked. Her blood loss is our policy hemorrhage. Her silence is our governance gap. Her death is our diagnosis.

It’s easy to talk about reforms. There have been many. Policies, papers, pilot schemes. But for every speech made in air-conditioned halls, there’s a Mrs X still sitting miles from care, still unsure if help will come. Nigeria does not lack ideas. It lacks continuity. It lacks compassion in implementation. It lacks the urgency that comes when you see the system as your own mother, your own sister, your own unborn child. We must stop planning in the abstract. We must stop building for applause and start building for impact. 

Health must become a right, not a privilege wrapped in bureaucracy. We must fund primary health care not as a checkbox but as a foundation. We must decentralize emergency care so that help is never more than a few kilometers away. We must invest not only in infrastructure but in mindsets, teaching every citizen that prevention is not a scam, and that seeking help is not weakness.

And crucially, we must disaggregate our data and listen to it. Research must not be something we dust off only when we need donor funds. It must be lived, continuous, grounded in our local realities. Because without data, we’re only guessing in the dark, while more Mrs. Xs are buried under statistics that came too late.

So, no, the story of Mrs X is really not about maternal mortality. It is about us. All of us. It is the story of a system that watches a woman bleed and scrambles for gauze. That waits until the final breath before asking the first question. That blames culture, then feeds it. That builds hospitals without building access. That speaks to the importance of health equity while communities barter herbs in silence. I saw Mrs X die. But more than that, I saw Nigeria in her eyes; tired, forgotten, hoping someone would care enough to fix what’s broken. 

Maybe, just maybe, if we learn to listen to her story, we won’t need another parable. Maybe her death won’t be in vain.

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

By Zayyad I. Muhammad 

Since February 6th, 2013, when the All Progressives Congress (APC) was formed, the party has been the darling of the North. In the 2015, 2019, and 2023 presidential elections, the North was instrumental in bringing and maintaining the APC in power at the centre. However, in President Bola Ahmed Tinubu’s just two years in power, there is widespread aggrievement against the Tinubu government in the North. This is surprising and unsurprising as well:

Out of the 8.7 million votes that brought President Ahmed Bola Tinubu to power, the North collectively contributed 5.6 million votes, accounting for approximately 64% of his total. In contrast, the South contributed 3.2 million votes, or 36%. Given this overwhelming support, it is surprising that the President has allowed the North to slip from his political grip so easily.

To be fair to Tinubu, every President seeks to reward close associates, loyalists, and political allies, including in his own way of governing. However, Tinubu appears to have gone too far in prioritising his inner circle, often at the expense of the region that gave him his strongest mandate.

The good news is that Tinubu still has ample time to regain the North’s confidence. But to succeed, he must act based on facts, not emotions, nor the filtered narratives he hears from those around him.

Broadly, Tinubu must focus on four urgent actions, grouped under two components: one political and three socioeconomic.

The President has made good progress in building elite consensus but must expand to persuade more politicians and elites. Some seek recognition, relevance, appointments, or contracts. Tinubu can quickly address this: by calling, offering appointments, or granting contracts. There’s room for more Advisers, Special Assistants, and ambassadorial positions.

Furthermore, he should establish a Presidential Advisory Council in each state, a small team of respected voices who can meet quarterly to brief him directly on the needs and aspirations of their people. This will give Northern leaders a sense of inclusion and shared ownership in governance.

The second component, socioeconomic, comprises three elements: Agriculture, Livestock, and security and infrastructure.

This is where Tinubu must be most deliberate. Socioeconomic issues directly affect the masses, the real voters. The August 16, 2025, by-election has already shown that money politics will have limited influence by 2027.

Tinubu has tried to stabilise food prices, but the cost of farm inputs has skyrocketed. The North urgently needs a dedicated agricultural recovery program. Past initiatives, such as the Anchor Borrowers’ Programme, the Presidential Fertiliser Initiative (PFI), Youth Farm Lab, Paddy Aggregation Scheme, Agricultural Trust Fund, PEDI, and the Food Security Council, were well-conceived. Yet implementation failures meant that benefits rarely reached genuine farmers.

For instance, under the PFI, fertiliser blenders made fortunes, but farmers, who should have been the real beneficiaries, still buy fertilisers at ₦45,000–₦52,000 per bag, far above the ₦5,000 target price.

Tinubu must ensure that agriculture is reconnected to ordinary farmers, not just middlemen. The Ministry of Agriculture should recalibrate its projects and programs to target real farmers directly.

The creation of the Federal Ministry of Livestock Development was a brilliant and forward-thinking step. Yet, it has made little impact so far.

With proper funding and direction, this ministry can: transform nomadic herders into more settled, educated, and productive citizens; address the farmer-herder conflict that has claimed thousands of lives; reduce cattle rustling, banditry, and kidnapping, which are often linked to herder communities.

If effectively managed, the ministry can become one of Tinubu’s most enduring legacies in the North.

Security remains the North’s most pressing concern. The kinetic and non-kinetic strategies being coordinated by the Office of the National Security Adviser (ONSA) are yielding some positive results, but much more is needed.

Tinubu should expand the non-kinetic approach through security communications, utilising massive public relations and grassroots outreach, particularly in the Hausa and Fulfulde languages. Talking directly to communities and even to at-risk groups will deepen trust, reduce misinformation, and weaken extremist recruitment.

Another way to rewin the North is through concerted efforts to make sure the ongoing and stalled infrastructure projects are fast-tracked, especially the ongoing rehabilitation of the Abuja-Kaduna expressway, some deplorable roads in the Northeast, especially along the Gombe-Adamawa axis, the Mambila hydroelectric project, Sokoto-Badagry Freeway/Highway, Kaduna-Kano Standard Gauge Rail Project, and Kano-Maradi Rail Link.

The North gave Tinubu his strongest mandate in the 2023 election. Losing its trust would be politically costly in 2027. To recover lost ground, the President must move beyond token gestures and adopt a deliberate, structured engagement strategy that balances elite consensus with grassroots socioeconomic transformation.

If Tinubu can act decisively on these four fronts, more political inclusion, agricultural recovery, livestock reform, enhanced security, and fast-track ongoing infrastructure projects, he will not only rewin the  Northern confidence but also secure massive votes in 2027

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

By Usman Salisu Gurbin Mikiya 

Katsina, as the name resonates, is widely regarded as a home of hospitality — a land where people live in harmony and mutual respect. It is a place of comfort where the warmth of its people makes life pleasant and fulfilling.

Recently, however, the long history of relative peace has begun to fade; an uncharacteristic catastrophe once thought distant has started unfolding, becoming a major concern for residents of Katsina Metropolis and beyond, especially as it adds to the decade-long insecurity bedevilling the state.

The issue of phone snatching in Nigeria originated from wristwatch snatching in Southern Nigeria, particularly in Lagos and other highly populated state capitals. It often occurred in strategic areas with heavy traffic, and over time, it evolved into a practice of phone snatching.

In Northwestern Nigeria, phone snatching started in Kaduna State about eight years ago. I vividly recall my visit to Kaduna in 2020, when I was on assignment for my media organisation. A Keke Napep rider warned me to hide my phone from criminals after noticing me pressing it through his mirror.

What began as an alarming trend in Kaduna escalated into a catastrophic issue, with phone snatching syndicates extending their activities into Kano, creating panic and undermining public safety.

During one of my visits to Kano, two of my brothers, on different occasions, warned me not to use my phone while on a tricycle in certain areas. They cautioned that I could lose my life over a phone, as snatchers were everywhere, and even advised me to choose the Keke Napep I boarded carefully.

Indeed, what started as an alarming wave in Kaduna has gradually spread like wildfire, creeping into Kano and now reaching Katsina. Once considered a distant menace, the problem has arrived at the very doorstep of Katsinawa, turning a basic necessity —the mobile phone — into a source of constant fear. This epidemic of criminality is no longer a local crisis but a regional catastrophe demanding urgent attention.

In Katsina Metropolis, residents of Sabuwar Unguwa are no strangers to this menace, as multiple reported cases of phone snatching have occurred, particularly targeting visitors and strangers in the area.

During Governor Ibrahim Shehu Shema’s administration, wayward youths, popularly known as Kauraye, emerged in Katsina. They crippled businesses and created tension in the metropolis, especially in areas such as Sabuwar Unguwa, Inwala, Sabon Layi, and Tudun Ƴan Lahidda.

Their reckless activities frustrated Governor Shema to the point where he took decisive measures that restored sanity and ended the menace.

Similarly, during Governor Aminu Bello Masari’s administration, persistent attacks by delinquent youths, suspected to be from Inwala in the ATC area, forced the government to establish a special Civil Defence outpost. This step drastically reduced the menace.

In his first year in office, Governor Dikko Umaru Radda also faced resurging activities of wayward youths in Sabuwar Unguwa. He personally led security agents in night operations, which eventually restored peace in the area.

However, with three different phone snatching incidents recorded within just three days on major roads, it is clear that social vices are escalating in the city. If not urgently addressed, they risk crippling businesses and threatening public safety.

The first incident occurred on 20th September, when Mrs Sada Shu’aibu was attacked near Sabuwar Dan Marna graveyard, and the attackers attempted to snatch her phone and inflicted serious injuries on her body. 

The following day, 21st September, during the grand finale of the Maulud procession, Usman Marwan was brutally attacked by phone snatchers at his business centre near the MTN office in Kofar Ƙaura.

Furthermore, on 26th September, another victim narrowly escaped death after being attacked by snatchers. This incident has heightened concerns among residents of the metropolis.

With insecurity already ravaging some local governments in Katsina State, the fact that the capital city is now battling phone snatching suggests that Katsina is increasingly under the control of thugs.

This menace has resurfaced under the leadership of Governor Radda, who had earlier recruited hundreds of youths to fight insecurity in the state. Many residents are now watching closely to see how he will respond to this rising threat.

Phone snatching can still be contained within a short period if several urgent measures are taken, including:

The government should initiate a law prescribing either the death penalty or life imprisonment for anyone convicted of phone snatching, alongside a shoot-on-sight order for fleeing offenders.

The government should declare a state of emergency on phone snatching so that the fight against this menace does not derail broader security efforts in the state.

Usman Salisu Gurbin Mikiya, M.Sc. student, Department of Mass Communication, Bayero University, Kano. He can be reached via his Email: usmangurbi@gmail.com.

By Faiza Aliyu Farouk

Leaving the comfort of home to pursue education elsewhere is a defining moment in the lives of many students. Schooling away from home means stepping into an unfamiliar world, one that is both exciting, exhilarating, yet overwhelming. It’s more than just a physical transition; it’s an emotional and psychological journey that reshapes who we are.

The moment you pack your bags and wave goodbye to the familiar walls of your family home, you begin a journey filled with uncertainty, growth, discomfort, and discovery. It exposes students to diverse cultures, ideas, and ways of life.

One of the most challenging parts of schooling away from home, according to many, is the emotional toll it takes.

Homesickness is a quiet but heavy feeling that settles in your chest in the middle of the night or while eating something bland and unfamiliar.

Research by Yugo, student accommodation provider in the university of Derby found that almost two-thirds (61%) of students aged 19 to 25 were concerned about feeling homesick when it came to moving away for the first time (The Guardian, 2024).

That number felt very real when talking to friends and classmates who admitted to crying in their hostels during the first few weeks. And yet, almost all of them pushed through and eventually found ways to cope.

The first few weeks or months away from home can be particularly tough. The excitement of a fresh start often gives way to the reality of managing day-to-day activities independently.

“I was excited but anxious,” said Fatima, a 400-level Mass Communication student at BUK. She recalls the first time she stepped foot on campus, far from the comfort of her family. “I missed the comfort, care, and familiar routine of home. I had to figure things out on my own, even when I was sick.”

There are many reasons why students leave their homes to study elsewhere. Abdulaziz, a medical student who left his hometown of Minna for Kano, said he left in pursuit of a better academic program.

“The schools back home weren’t offering the course I wanted to study.” Meanwhile, Alhassan, who left Jos for Kano, said he intentionally chose to stay far from home to gain experience.

“I wanted new perspectives and to challenge myself. While some leave for academics, others see distance as a test of independence.

Navigating environmental factors is another challenge of schooling away from home. “Having spent my life in Jos, never traveling for exposure or leisure.

Transitioning to a new setting was quite a challenge,” Alhassan said. As student routines change, so do relationships.

“Sometimes I feel distant from my family due to limited time spent with them, not because of anything else,” he added.

However, others, like Tsadu said they noticed a shift in how they were treated due to being away from home: “They respect me more now.”

Khadija, when asked what studying away from home meant for her, said, “I became my own person. I stopped relying on others to make decisions for me.”

Another student shared, “It was hard, but I needed to be away to find myself.” For others, it was about discovering their voice, taking risks, and failing without shame.

These stories are common, yet each one is uniquely powerful.

Living on campus forces students to grapple with new responsibilities. From cooking, budgeting, building community, and dealing with loneliness.

“Staying away has made me financially independent and more disciplined. I realized five thousand naira doesn’t stretch far,” Zainab admitted.

While describing the daily struggles, she said; “Staying in the hostel isn’t easy, especially when you come back from lectures hungry and there’s no water to cook. You have to fetch it first, sometimes from far away.

The issue of electricity is another challenge, we only get light for three hours at night, which is when we charge our devices and study. It’s not convenient; I just manage.”

Although the emotional impact of living away from home is often associated with students, parents also experience significant changes.

They feel the shift too. The independence is bittersweet. “I feel disturbed and unhappy but the other side of me feels good and happy while I continue to pray for him” Hajiya Hau’wa, whose son studies in Kano while the family lives in Niger said.

Aisha, a mother of a university student, said, “When she calls, complaining about school or being sick and lonely, it breaks my heart that I can’t be there. I’ve had to learn to let her go with prayers and constantly checking up on her.”

Communication becomes a lifeline. Most parents check in daily, not just to monitor progress but to maintain an emotional connection. Yet, not all students appreciate the frequent calls.

Nana, who studies accounting at Nassarawa State University said; ” Constant calls from my parents tend to be stressful. I’m trying to manage their expectations while also focusing on my studies”

Leaving the comfort of home for campus life is more than a transition. It’s a transformation. It’s about stepping into a version of yourself that only distance, responsibility and independence can bring.

It’s where growth happens. You learn to stand on your own, make your own choices and live with the outcome.

There will be days of loneliness, moments of doubt, and nights when home feels like a world away. But there will also be victories. Big and small that will build your confidence.

Faiza Aliyu Farouk is a 400-level Mass Communication student at Bayero University Kano (BUK).