Opinion

By Ali Tijjani Hassan 

On December 19, 2025, President Bola Tinubu presented Nigeria’s 2026 budget to the National Assembly. As a health advocate, I was curious about sector allocations, especially in health, aligned with his Renewed Hope Agenda to revitalise Nigeria’s healthcare system. I hope the administration commits to the 2001 Abuja Declaration, in which African leaders pledged to allocate at least 15% of their budgets to health to address chronic underfunding and improve health sector outcomes. Nigeria proposed spending 2.82 trillion naira, only 4.26% of its 2026 budget.

 I was nearly buried in shame when I heard the president repeating that “this health allocation represents approximately 6% of the total budget net of liabilities.” Meaning that, excluding the net liabilities, the health sector’s take-home after deduction of debt servicing of almost 15 trillion Naira from the gross budget will be only 4.26%. Which makes me pause and ask myself, “Is this allocation holistic toward changing the narrative of the dilapidated healthcare system in Nigeria?” 4.26% against the 15% is relatively less than one-third of the Abuja Declaration—a beacon of hope to combat the ravages of HIV/AIDS, tuberculosis, malaria, and other scourges plaguing our continent.

Yet here we are in 2025, over two decades later, and Nigeria, the self-proclaimed Giant of Africa, continues to stumble in the darkness of illusion, allocating a paltry 4-6% to health in the just-presented 2026 budget. How can a nation so rich in oil, talent, and potential treat its people’s health like an afterthought?

This is not just negligence; it is a disappointment that endangers millions, especially as the United States government slashes its global health aid, leaving citizens exposed to infectious diseases, non-communicable ailments like chronic kidney disease (CKD), and a rapid population boom that threatens to overwhelm our fragile systems. The Abuja Declaration was no mere rhetoric; it was a collective vow by African Union members to prioritise health financing, recognising that without robust funding, diseases would continue to feast on our people like vultures on carrion.  Nigeria is a party to this decree, but history shows we’ve never come close to honouring it. From 2001 to now, our health allocations have hovered below 10%, peaking at around 5.95% in recent years before dipping again in the 2026 proposal of ₦2.48 trillion out of ₦58.18 trillion—a measly 4.26% when liabilities are included.

Our leaders always cite debt servicing, infrastructure, and security as excuses, but I want to ask a single question: “Is the life of a Nigerian child not worth more than another flyover or armoured vehicle?”

Although they are relatively important, one thing is certain: no nation can grow beyond the quality of its people. Apology to President Tinubu.

I can’t comprehend how we can parade ourselves as Africa’s economic powerhouse yet fund health like beggars at the roadside. In comparison to our African brothers, who have shown what true commitment looks like. Rwanda, rising from the ashes of genocide, consistently meets or exceeds the 15% mark, allocating up to 18% in recent budgets, which has built a universal health coverage system envied across the continent. 

In Botswana, with its prudent diamond revenues, which hit 15-17%, investing in HIV programs that have slashed infection rates. On the other hand, the Côte d’Ivoire joined this elite club, channelling funds into preventive care that keeps NCDs at bay. Even Tanzania briefly touched the target in 2011. While we proclaimed the giant of Africa’s band, these nations have long proved it’s possible by prioritising health as a national security issue, not an optional charity. The Giant of Africa lags behind most West African peers, where allocations average below 10%. 

We boast the largest GDP in Africa, yet our per capita health spending is a shameful $15-20 annually, far below Rwanda’s more than $50. This comparative disgrace isn’t just numbers; they represent the lives lost. While Rwanda’s life expectancy climbs to 69 years, ours stagnates at 55, a gap widened by our funding failures. The consequences are alarming, starting with the relentless burden of infectious diseases that stalk our land like ghosts in the night. 

Nigeria bears the heaviest malaria load globally, with millions infected annually and economic losses of $1.1 billion each year from treatment and lost productivity. In 2025 alone, Lassa fever has claimed 195 lives, with over 1,069 confirmed cases amid 9,041 suspected—a fatality rate hovering at 18.5%, higher than previous years. Cholera surges during rains, diphtheria ravages unvaccinated children, and HIV/AIDS affects millions, with Nigeria hosting the second-largest HIV population worldwide. These figures aren’t abstract statistics; they are the number of our brothers dying in rural clinics without drugs and mothers burying infants from preventable fevers.

Underfunded surveillance systems mean outbreaks explode before a response, as seen in the 2025 Lassa resurgence, which cost billions in emergency measures. If we met the 15% pledge, we could bolster primary health centres, stockpile vaccines, and train more community health workers—turning defence into offence against these microbial invaders. But wait, the horror deepens with non-communicable diseases (NCDs), silent killers creeping up as our lifestyles urbanise. Chronic kidney disease (CKD) exemplifies this scourge, with prevalence rates of 10-19% among adults, yet awareness is abysmally low. 

In Lagos alone, hypertension affects 29% of adults, fueling CKD and cardiovascular woes.  NCDs now cause 73.6% of deaths in developing nations like ours, surpassing infectious ones. Diabetes and cancer add to the tally, with households spending fortunes on out-of-pocket care—up to ₦384 billion annually, pushing families into poverty. The double burden is real: As we fight malaria, the CKD dialysis costs bankrupt families, while public facilities are overwhelmed. In armed conflict zones of Northern Nigeria, NCD prevalence hits 15% for hypertension and diabetes, compounding the trauma of insurgency. Without the pledged funding, proper disease-screening programs remain dreams, and preventive education is scarce. 

Compared to Botswana, where 15% allocation funds are for NCD clinics, reducing mortality by 20% in a decade. Exacerbating Nigeria’s demographic tsunami. Our population stands at 237.5 million in 2025, growing at 2.5-3% annually, and is projected to hit 380 million by 2043 and 440 million by 2050. Nearly half are under 15, a youthful bulge that could be a dividend but risks becoming a curse without health investment. More mouths mean more disease vectors: crowded slums breed cholera, and rapid urbanisation spikes NCDs driven by poor diets and pollution. By 2050, we’ll add 130 million souls, straining hospitals already at breaking point.

Rwanda, with controlled growth and high health spending, harnesses its youth; we risk a generation crippled by untreated ailments. And now, the dagger twist: US funding cuts. In early 2025, the Trump administration froze billions in global aid, slashing USAID programs by 23-40%. Nigeria lost over $600 million—a fifth of our health budget—crippling HIV treatment for millions, dropping coverage from 1.1 million to 350,000. Malaria and TB programs falter, with NGOs downsizing and lives lost estimated in the thousands.

We’ve long relied on foreign donors for 30-40% of health funding; now, with cuts, the gap yawns wider. Botswana and Rwanda, self-reliant through domestic pledges, weather this storm; we scramble with supplements like ₦4.8 billion for HIV packs, mere band-aids.

To redeem ourselves, the government must urgently ramp up to 15% by redirecting funds from wasteful subsidies, tax evasion loopholes, and corruption black holes. Invest in primary care: build 10,000 more health centres and train 50,000 midwives and doctors annually. Prioritise prevention: free CKD screenings, anti-malaria campaigns, and NCD education in schools. Forge public-private partnerships, like Rwanda’s with tech firms for telemedicine. Address demographic needs through family planning integrated into health services. And hold leaders accountable—civil society, demand audits; lawmakers, reject budgets below 10% as a start.

My compatriots, the clock ticks. It’s high time to hold our leaders accountable for their words and actions. If we sleep on this, infectious outbreaks will merge with NCD epidemics amid population surges, turning Nigeria into a health wasteland.

But with resolve, we can honour the spirit of the Abuja Declaration, outshine our peers, and build a nation where health is a right, not a lottery.

Arise, O Nigerians—demand better, for our future’s sake!

Ali Tijjani Hassan is a public health enthusiast, civil society actor, and public affairs analyst. He writes from Potiskum, Yobe State, and can be reached at alitijjani.health@gmail.com.

By Mallam Tawfiq

The scaffold that sturdily supports the pillar of success in everything is “unity”, without which we will somberly watch every beautiful thing in our everyday life running into a complete fiasco.

In healthcare settings, unity and peaceful coexistence among healthcare professionals are of paramount importance and a necessity for ensuring the delivery of effective, high-quality healthcare services.

To easily fathom the significance of that, should we reflect and ponder on the biological level of organisation of life? It succinctly and holistically depicted that the degree of unity among various cells leads to the formation of “body tissues”, and that the harmonious agreement among these tissues leads to the formation of “organs”.

Organs, however, organise to form a system, and thus the effective functioning of the respective systems yields a healthy life. Snags created by pathological factors deflect the spirit of harmonious union at different levels of this organisation, resulting in abnormality and disruption of robust, sound well-being.

The milieu of the hospital/healthcare settings comprises various health specialities from different professional backgrounds. This includes Medical Laboratory Science, Medical Radiography, Physiotherapy, Pharmacy, Nursing Science, Dentistry and Medicine, among others. The aims and objectives of each and every profession can only be appraised by rendering its best to the prime concern, and that is the patients.

As interdependent social animals tightly bound by the strong bond of humanity, we must interact, socialise, and, above all, reciprocate love and respect everywhere, be it in worship places, hospitals, banks, medical schools, and so on. The essence of so doing is to set our hearts and souls free from the bondage of emotional malice, attain optimum peace and maintain both physical and emotional well-being within ourselves. Unfortunately, the hostility, ranging from an exaggerated self-compliment and a show of self-worth and superiority to contempt for other professions in the name of rivalry amongst medical students and, to some extent, healthcare professionals, is worrisome and indeed condemnable.

Under whose tutelage in the medical school are students being mischievously taught that the six years of MBBS discipline should make them condescend and disregard other professions from being part of the healthcare system? Or the greater dispersion in the juxtaposition of the tense and heinous atmosphere under the five years of Radiography training with that of Medical Laboratory Science or Nursing renders the significance of the former and the insignificance of the latter. This is absolutely puerility of the highest degree. Each profession is worthwhile, and its ethics are centred on meeting the needs of patients.

Can we patiently have a proper dekko at how the systems of our body unite to execute their functions and maintain an equilibrium conducive to survival? What will happen if, for instance, the neural tissue says it is superior and appears to boss other systems, while the circulatory system, in response, denies it sufficient oxygen to meet its basic metabolic demand? Or what do we think is going to happen when the renal system quarrels with the immune system, whose function serves the body best, and both react so that one can predominate over the other and effectively carry out both the functions concurrently? Will this ever happen!? Capital NO.

Conspicuously, the hospital/healthcare environment is analogous to our biological level of organisation and how bodily systems work.

Togetherness leads to the existence of all sorts of misunderstandings; this is inevitably true, and the ripple effect of us not allying with one another is directed towards our subject of interest, which is the patient, because a medical doctor alone cannot efficiently run a whole hospital, nor can pharmacists or physiotherapists. As such, we need to come close, close enough together, thus respect our differences and welcome each other to specialise in one skill or the other and benefit from each other’s knowledge. Only by doing so can we render our best compassion to our patients.

There is a saying, “united we stand, divided we fall.”

Service to humanity is service to the Lord. May everything we do be solely for the sake of God and to attain the reward of God. Ameen.

Mallam Tawfiq, Physiotherapist, writes from Federal Teaching Hospital, Gombe.

By Oladoja M.O

Nigeria’s new tax law arrives at a moment when questions of domestic resource mobilisation have moved decisively from the margins of fiscal discourse to its centre. The reform is ambitious in both scope and intent. It consolidates previously fragmented statutes, modernises tax administration, strengthens compliance mechanisms, and expands the state’s technical capacity to mobilise revenue in an increasingly constrained macroeconomic environment. 

Read on its own terms, the law represents a serious effort to stabilise public finance and reduce long-standing inefficiencies in the tax system. But tax laws, particularly of this magnitude, should not be mere instruments of collection, but rather reflections of what a state understands taxation to be for. 

When examined from the perspective of national health financing, Nigeria’s new tax law reveals not hostility to health, nor ignorance of its importance, but striking institutional restraint, a deliberate decision to keep taxation largely neutral to the direct financing of public health.

This neutrality is especially significant because it runs counter to the evolving global understanding of domestic resource mobilisation. In contemporary public finance, DRM is no longer conceived simply as the ability of a state to raise revenue, but as its capacity to do so in a manner that deliberately underwrites social protection, safeguards human capital, and reduces long-term economic vulnerability, where health occupies a central place. 

Ill-health is not a random misfortune but a predictable social risk, one that drives household impoverishment, reduces labour productivity, and places sustained pressure on public finances. For this reason, many countries have increasingly integrated health financing into their tax systems, whether through general taxation, earmarked levies, or hybrid arrangements that link tax administration directly to social insurance and prevention financing.

It is against this backdrop that Nigeria’s new tax law must be read. 

The law unquestionably strengthens the means of mobilisation. A unified tax administration framework, enhanced enforcement powers, clearer compliance obligations, and improved data coordination substantially upgrade the state’s fiscal machinery. In theory, this expanded administrative capacity could support innovative approaches to financing social sectors, including health. In practice, however, the law exercises marked caution. Health appears within the tax framework, but only at the margins, and only in forms that preserve the traditional separation between revenue mobilisation and social sector financing.

This pattern becomes evident when examining how health-related elements are treated across the law. Contributions to the national health insurance scheme are recognised as allowable deductions for personal income tax purposes. This recognition is not insignificant; it affirms health insurance contributions as socially legitimate expenditures deserving of fiscal relief. Yet the logic remains passive. The tax system responds only after individuals have already contributed. It does not actively mobilise resources for health, nor does it deploy its collection infrastructure to expand coverage, pool risk, or subsidise access. The fiscal relationship ends at recognition, not generation.

A similar logic governs the treatment of consumption taxes. Essential medicines, pharmaceuticals, and certain medical equipment continue to benefit from favourable VAT treatment. These provisions are defensible on equity grounds, particularly in a system where out-of-pocket spending remains high. But from a financing perspective, their effect is limited. They shield households from additional burden, yet they do not generate fiscal space for the health system. Again, health is insulated from taxation, not financed through it.

The clearest illustration of this restrained approach lies in the treatment of excise duties on tobacco, alcohol, and sugar-sweetened beverages. These taxes are frequently framed as “sin taxes,” ostensibly justified by their potential to alter harmful consumption patterns. In principle, excise taxation is meant to operate through a behavioural channel: higher prices reduce consumption, lower consumption reduces disease burden, and reduced disease burden lowers long-term health expenditure. In Nigeria’s case, however, this logic remains largely theoretical.

First, the excise rates themselves are modest. The levy on sugar-sweetened beverages, for instance, is widely recognised as too low to produce a meaningful price shock that would alter consumption behaviour. Similar concerns apply to alcohol and tobacco, where cultural entrenchment, affordability, and illicit trade further blunt the intended deterrent effect. 

Second, there is no publicly available evidence demonstrating that consumption of these products has declined since the introduction or adjustment of excise duties. On the contrary, available market indicators and anecdotal trends suggest that consumption has increased. Crucially, the state does not appear perturbed by this outcome. Higher consumption translates into higher excise revenue, and excise duties, in practice, function as reliable inflows to the general federal pool.

This reveals a deeper truth about how sin taxes are governed in Nigeria. Despite their rhetorical association with public health, excise duties are not treated as health instruments. They are treated as revenue lines. There is no systematic effort to measure behavioural change, no routine publication of consumption data linked to tax policy, and no formal evaluation of health impact. In policy terms, a behavioural instrument that is not measured is indistinguishable from a revenue instrument. 

The absence of evidence of reduced consumption is not merely a data gap; it indicates that behavioural change is not being actively pursued as an objective.

From a health financing perspective, this has serious implications. Excise taxes generate revenue, yet none of that revenue is structurally linked to health financing. No portion is dedicated to prevention programmes, health insurance subsidies, or system strengthening. The public bears the health consequences of continued consumption, rising non-communicable diseases, increasing treatment costs, and productivity losses, while the fiscal gains accrue centrally, unconnected to the sector that absorbs the burden. In effect, Nigeria taxes harm, tolerates its persistence, and finances neither its prevention nor its consequences through the tax system.

This outcome is unlikely to be accidental. The new tax law is too carefully constructed for its silences to be incidental. Rather, it reflects a broader fiscal philosophy that prioritises flexibility, central discretion, and revenue pooling over sector-specific commitments. Earmarking, even in its softer forms, constrains the treasury’s freedom to allocate resources across competing priorities. From a public health financing standpoint, this caution is costly. It leaves health structurally dependent on discretionary budgets, weak insurance enforcement, donor support, and household spending, even as the state’s revenue-collection capacity improves.

The result is a growing asymmetry. Nigeria now possesses an increasingly sophisticated tax apparatus, but lacks a corresponding approach to financing social risk. Revenue mobilisation is advancing, but allocation logic remains largely unchanged. Health remains acknowledged but peripheral, recognised, accommodated, and indirectly supported, yet excluded from the core architecture of taxation.

None of this implies that the new tax law should have transformed itself into a health financing statute. No! Tax laws cannot, and should not, bear the full weight of social policy. But in an era where domestic resource mobilisation is increasingly framed as a means of financing development rather than merely sustaining government, the continued treatment of health as fiscally incidental is striking. The administrative infrastructure now exists to do more than collect revenue efficiently. What is missing is the institutional decision to deploy that capacity deliberately to protect households from the economic consequences of ill-health.

The most important lesson of Nigeria’s new tax law for national health financing, therefore, lies not in what it includes, but in what it leaves unresolved. The law strengthens the state’s ability to mobilise resources, yet remains silent on whether that capacity should be harnessed to address one of the most predictable and economically damaging social risks. As Nigeria deepens its commitment to domestic resource mobilisation, the critical question will not simply be how much revenue can be raised, but how intentionally that revenue is aligned with protecting human capital. A tax system that improves efficiency without strengthening social purpose risks becoming technically impressive but socially thin.

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

By Zayyad Mohammed 

As Nigeria inches closer to the 2027 general elections, the political temperature across the Northeast is steadily rising. Of the six states in the region, the All Progressives Congress (APC) currently governs four, Borno, Gombe, Taraba, and Yobe,while the People’s Democratic Party (PDP) controls Adamawa and Bauchi. For the APC, reclaiming Bauchi is not merely a state contest; it is a strategic necessity in consolidating dominance in the Northeast.

Political analysts often remind us that all politics is local. Nowhere is this truer than in Bauchi State, where history, identity, and grassroots connection frequently outweigh elite credentials and federal influence. As the race for 2027 gathers momentum, the central question is not just whether the APC can win Bauchi, but who within the party has the capacity to deliver that victory.

Within the Bauchi APC, the contest is shaping up as a high-stakes battleground involving heavyweight figures: Minister of Health, Professor Muhammad Ali Pate; Minister of Foreign Affairs, Ambassador Yusuf Maitama Tuggar; Senator Shehu Buba Umar of Bauchi South; and former NAPIMS Managing Director, Alhaji Bala Wunti. Each brings distinct strengths, yet Bauchi’s political history suggests that not all strengths translate into electoral success.

Bauchi’s politics is unique, even by Nigerian standards. Since 1999, power has changed hands regularly after eight years, as seen in the transitions from Adamu Mu’azu to Isa Yuguda, and later to Mohammed Abdullahi Abubakar. This swinging pattern reflects a politically conscious electorate shaped by the enduring NEPU legacy, the sensitive Katagum–Bauchi balance, and an unwavering demand for grassroots leadership.

While Professor Ali Pate boasts international exposure and technocratic depth, his political challenge lies at home. Among many Bauchi voters, he is perceived as distant from local political struggles, earning the nickname “Wakilin Turawa”, a subtle but powerful reflection of weak grassroots resonance. Similarly, Alhaji Bala Wunti is widely regarded as competent and capable, yet Bauchi APC’s recent history with political newcomers raises red flags. In 2023, Air Vice Marshal Saddique Abubakar emerged suddenly to clinch the party ticket, only to suffer a resounding defeat at the polls. A similar pattern played out in 2015 when M.A. Abubakar rode the Buhari wave to victory but failed to secure a second term in 2019.

Ambassador Yusuf Maitama Tuggar, though a seasoned political actor, faces another challenge which is common in Bauchi politics: perceived aloofness from the grassroots. In a state where political success depends on daily engagement with local realities, distance; real or imagined, can be costly.

Against this backdrop, Senator Shehu Buba Umar stands out as a politically grounded contender. Several critical factors tilt the scale in his favour. Notably, all Bauchi governors since 1999 have emerged from Bauchi South, aligning squarely with Senator Buba’s constituency. The enduring Katagum–Bauchi political factor further strengthens his position, as does his deep-rooted grassroots network across the state.

More importantly, Senator Buba is widely viewed as the only aspirant within the APC with the political reach and local acceptance required to confront and defeat an incumbent party. His long-standing engagement with party structures, traditional institutions, and grassroots actors has earned him the quiet support of many political stakeholders. In Bauchi, where elections are often won long before polling day through alliances and local trust, this advantage cannot be overstated.

It is therefore unsurprising that many observers believe the APC leadership, at state, national, and presidential levels, may ultimately rally around Senator Buba Shehu Umar. In a highly competitive state like Bauchi, emotion must give way to strategy, and strategy demands choosing a candidate who aligns with the state’s political realities.

For the APC, winning Bauchi in 2027 is part of a broader objective: securing all six Northeast states in both the gubernatorial and presidential elections. Achieving this requires a deliberate, state-by-state approach that prioritizes grassroots candidates and addresses genuine local agitations. In Bauchi, the choice of governorship candidate will not only determine the fate of the state election but could significantly influence the party’s presidential performance.

As history has repeatedly shown, Bauchi does not reward political experiments. It rewards familiarity, structure, and  grassroots connection. In that equation, Senator Shehu Buba Umar appears not just as a contender, but as the APC’s most viable pathway to victory in 2027.

Zayyad Mohammed writes from Abuja, 08036070980, zaymohd@yahoo.com

By Ibrahim Aliyu Gurin

What is more terrifying than violence? It is the sound of someone calling for help, with no one responding. That cry, unanswered, is the quiet horror that haunts our communities.

Last week in Kano, a family was killed in broad daylight. Neighbours reportedly heard the screams but stayed indoors. Outrage spread on social media. How could people hear such suffering and do nothing? How could an entire community remain silent while lives were being taken right next door?

At first, the silence felt unforgivable. Then I remembered something my Media and Society lecturer, Binta Suleiman Gaya, once said: crime is rarely about criminals alone. It is often a mirror of the society that allows it. Suddenly, the tragedy began to make painful sense.

I thought of my own experience. We grew up in a different Nigeria. Then, whenever discipline crossed into anger in our house, our neighbour was always the first to intervene. Once her name was mentioned,  “Hajja Mamma Yidam! Yidam!” (Rescue me), she would rush out immediately, pleading on our behalf. Sometimes we would deliberately call her name, knowing she would come to our rescue. That was how our society functioned. Not because everyone was perfect, but because everyone was involved.

We grew up in Nigeria, where even if a neighbour was beating a child, people would rush out to ask questions. Elders would intervene. Women would shout across fences. Youths would gather instinctively. No cry was ignored. No pain was considered private. That society shaped our humanity.

Today, a person can scream until their voice disappears into death, and doors remain locked. People now live only metres apart, yet are emotionally separated by fear. In Media and Society,  this condition is described as “alienation”, which is the gradual breakdown of social connection and communal responsibility.

Modern media culture has accelerated this separation. Through phones, television and social platforms, we are exposed to violence such as daily killings, kidnappings, and accidents, which are endlessly replayed. Human suffering now competes for attention in timelines and headlines.

Over time, this constant exposure creates “desensitisation”. What once shocked us now barely interrupts our scrolling. Tragedy becomes routine. Death becomes familiar. Media and Society argues that when violence becomes normalised in the media, society unconsciously absorbs that normalisation.

Alongside this is the rise of individualism. Survival has become personal. Safety has become private. The collective spirit that once defined African communities has been replaced with the logic of “mind your business.”  So when danger appears, people retreat indoors, but not always out of wickedness, but because society has trained them to think first of self, not community.

The course also explains the bystander effect, a psychological phenomenon in which individuals fail to act in emergencies because responsibility feels shared. Everyone assumes someone else will intervene. In moments like the Kano tragedy, everyone heard, and everyone waited.

Fear worsens this silence. Media reports of mob justice, wrongful arrests and police brutality have created deep public distrust. Many citizens now fear becoming suspects more than becoming helpers. The result is a society paralysed.

Media and Society helped me understand that insecurity is not only about criminals and weapons. It is also about broken trust, weakened communal values and a media environment that has reshaped human behaviour.

Our old society relied on communal vigilance. When danger came, the community itself became the first responder. Today, citizens wait for institutions that often arrive too late. The killers in Kano did not act alone. They were aided by fear and protected by our silence. 

The government must rebuild trust between citizens and security agencies. Community policing must be strengthened. Media institutions must go beyond reporting bloodshed and begin promoting empathy, social responsibility and communal vigilance. Religious and traditional leaders must revive the values that once made indifference shameful.

Beyond policies lies humanity. Every life lost affects us all. Speak up, protect your neighbours, and restore the community we once had.

We pray for the souls of those who lost their lives in Kano. May their families find strength, and may we as a society learn to act before it is too late. Let their cries not be in vain.

Ibrahim Aliyu Gurin wrote via ibrahimaliyu5023@yahoo.com.

By Abubakar Muhammad

AFCON has just concluded. Senegal won the trophy, but many football enthusiasts know that the actual play of the game is only half of the big spectacle. There are many things going on backstage that take time to materialise. When you look at the countries, roll the camera, and see them doing well, you will see patterns lock into place. There might be visible investment and development of physical infrastructure, but there is also something more to it. 

As a sideline to every soccer tournament, one of the things I pay attention to is the grassroots, street-level infrastructure that feeds talent to the national team. In these tournaments, you would not only pay attention to the official game or what happens in the big arenas, but also to the images that come out from foreign visitors depicting themselves playing outside the formal venues. The soccer crowd, wherever they are, tend to find where to play.  To host a tournament, you really need a solid infrastructure for both formal and informal arenas. But more so, this tells us stories about the status of the game, leisure and where citizens play. 

As usual, it seems Nigeria is left behind when it comes to grassroots soccer infrastructure. Senegal, Algeria, Angola, etc, have a thriving street soccer infrastructure. This infrastructure is not formal, but it seems to enjoy greater consensus that cuts across the formal-informal divide between citizens and governments. 

In Latin America, there are spaces in favelas and barrios where local kids can play the game. The spaces may not be the same, may use different nomenclature, may straddle the line between the formal and the informal, but they retain the same purpose and spirit.

In Senegal, they are in the form of navétanes, a semi-formal regional tournament played in local spaces. These spaces are not owned by the government or private individuals, unlike, say, primary school premises or other government buildings. They are simply communal spaces where the navétanes games are played. These spaces are respected by everyone; no encroachment or erection of structures, public or privately owned. Kids start their careers in their neighbourhoods and progress to regional teams, then to the professional league, the national team, and onward to international careers. You find similar spaces in Brazil as developing ground for talents that would later go on to dazzle a global audience. 

In North Africa, they have a thriving culture of street football played in what we can call in Nigeria a 7-aside stadium. The difference is that these spaces in North Africa are free and open to everyone. They sit in open spaces in the middle of neighbourhoods. The key idea here is access and openness. The use of open space for soccer must not require any payment and must remove any other impediments that can exclude people. A truly public space is one that lets you in without charging a fee or asking for proof of innocence.

In Nigeria, empty lots and vacant spaces are constantly being developed. There is no respect for spaces where kids can play. The idea is that in places where formal sporting infrastructure is not in place, small-scale community members use these spaces for leisure and sporting activities. Kids will have a chance to play the game from a very young age until they dribble their way to the national team. The grassroots in many parts of the world are where players are developed and imbued with the spirit of the nation before they enter the academy for the refinement of their talents. 

African soccer, like its South American counterpart, is largely dependent on informal infrastructure, with local people coming together to build their own. People-as-infrastructure is a concept in which citizens enter into a series of temporary, makeshift arrangements with one another to provide services that authorities are unable to deliver.

By killing these spaces, Nigeria is killing her young talents. It makes it difficult for the local kids to develop an interest, let alone play the game and nurture their talents. Angola, not really a footballing nation, has a thriving street football culture. I noticed from the videos I watched that street lots exist, and they are everywhere. They don’t seem to be developed or encroached so rampant as we see in Nigeria. It seems these spaces are protected by consensus, just like they are protected in Brazilian favelas and Argentina’s barrios. 

Football is the game of the poor. Commercialise football, and you create a barrier where only the rich can afford to play. Commercial football delivers more money to the pockets of a few individuals without bringing much-needed collective glory to the national team. The English Premier League is the wealthiest league in the world, but the country has fallen far behind other footballing nations.  Germany has an academy system in place, but their overall sporting culture is anchored around a process that resembles socialist democratic football more than an individualistic, capitalist model that Nigeria tends to lean towards. 

One of the biggest problems that Nigeria’s football faces as an institution is the seeming, increasing reliance on the academy for its national talents. Academies are simply there for money. Another thing is the seeming sole reliance on foreign-based players. This is understandable for the refined talents abroad, but there seems to be a problem with that in Nigeria. 

There is nothing wrong with foreign-based players populating the national team. Countries tap into their talents abroad, sharpened by cutting-edge training models and infrastructure. One of the biggest problems with this, in the case of Nigeria, is that players know exactly why they’re called up to the national team. They understand why, and there is no confusion about the nature of the transaction. There is nothing that dilutes or softens the nature of the transaction. The country only sees them when it needs them. The country is not there when they need her, and so, in their bloom and glory, they may not give their all. They will not play with their blood and heart. 

Secondly, tapping into foreign players in Nigeria is not grounded in any philosophical sporting policy. For instance, what does it mean for a player to play for the national team? What does the national team mean to them? What is that one thing that all players can understand as a common language and shared values? Something like a unique national culture common among the youth? You can only find this in street football played across the country. Pick that ideology and craft it into the national sports policy. What we see instead is total indifference at best, if not outright obstacles thrown in the way of the nation’s youth by the government and private interest groups. 

By eliminating informal spaces, we have destroyed the conviviality and socio-spatial relations that emerge from street games. Street soccer gives the manager of the national team a foundation, something to start with. The street is where every player understands what it means to play for the national team. From the ground up, the Nigerian player can develop a sense of Nigerianness, just as French players are instilled with French values and what it means to play for the national team. But since we don’t have the formal structures and arrangements of the French, Germans, or English, where players are developed through various academies under the guidelines of the national football federations, the street is where our players should build their character. The Senegalese have taken the navétanes and use it as a national sports policy. It is an informal, grassroots football that develops independently of the government. The coach and players speak the same football language that came from the streets. 

By erecting structures on every available space in Nigeria, you tighten the rope for the children in local communities and make it hard for ordinary folks to make their way to the national team. So many talents would slip through the cracks before rising to the top and reaching their full potential. We are already importing a dangerous trend from abroad, where only kids from wealthy backgrounds can play the game and reach the professional level.

And since we don’t have meaningful ways in which citizens feel indebted to their governments and their countries beyond familial ties, the very few that already found their way to the highest level of the game know why they’re playing. They’re simply playing commercial football. They have already paid the price on the way to Europe without the aid of any national structure. When you call them up to the national team after this, they will not play with their heart and their blood. 

Abubakar Muhammad is from Kano, Nigeria. 

By Zayyad I. Muhammad 

During President Bola Ahmed Tinubu’s official visit to the United Arab Emirates to participate in the 2026 edition of Abu Dhabi Sustainability Week (ADSW), Nigeria announced that it will co-host Investopia with the UAE in Lagos, Nigeria, in February. The initiative aims to attract global investors and accelerate sustainable investment inflows into Nigeria.

Nigeria has also concluded a Comprehensive Economic Partnership Agreement (CEPA) with the UAE to deepen cooperation across key sectors, including renewable energy, infrastructure, logistics, and digital trade. The agreement is expected to significantly strengthen trade relations and deliver tangible benefits for Nigerian businesses, professionals, and workers.

Overall, this expanding trade and economic relationship between Nigeria and the UAE represents a welcome development for both countries, with the potential to drive growth, job creation, and long-term economic collaboration.

However, on the international security front, the UAE is increasingly viewed through a more complex lens. Over the past decade, the country has pursued a more assertive foreign policy, particularly in parts of the Middle East and Africa.

The UAE has faced allegations and scrutiny from some governments, international organisations, media outlets, human rights groups, and analysts regarding its involvement in conflict-affected and politically fragile environments. These debates often centre on whether UAE actions have influenced or intensified existing crises, especially in several Muslim-majority countries.

In Sudan, various reports have alleged that the UAE was involved in the supply of weapons, including drones, to actors in the ongoing conflict. Some accounts claim that arms transfers were routed through neighbouring countries such as Chad, Libya, and Uganda, and that humanitarian operations served as logistical cover. Emirati authorities have denied these allegations, maintaining that the UAE supports humanitarian relief efforts and political solutions to the crisis.

In Yemen, the UAE was a key member of the Saudi-led coalition opposing the Iran-aligned Houthis. At the same time, analysts have pointed to UAE support for the Southern Transitional Council (STC), which seeks greater autonomy or independence for southern Yemen. Critics argue that this support contributed to political fragmentation, while others describe it as a pragmatic response to local security challenges and counter-terrorism objectives.

In Libya, the UAE has frequently been cited in international reports as a major external supporter of forces led by Khalifa Haftar and the Libyan National Army. Allegations include the provision of military assistance during operations against Tripoli-based authorities. UAE officials have consistently rejected claims of direct military involvement, emphasising their support for stability and counter-extremism.

In Somalia and the wider Horn of Africa, some observers have raised concerns about the UAE’s engagement with regional authorities and security actors, particularly in Puntland and Somaliland, suggesting that this involvement may have influenced internal political and security dynamics.

More recently, the Federal Government of Somalia announced the cancellation of all agreements with the UAE, including deals covering port operations, security cooperation, and defence. Somali authorities cited alleged violations of national sovereignty as the reason for the decision. The UAE, however, maintains that its activities in Somalia and the region are conducted within frameworks of cooperation, development assistance, and mutual security interests.

In 2022, the United States Treasury sanctioned six Nigerian individuals for allegedly raising funds in the UAE to support Boko Haram. This followed earlier actions by UAE authorities in 2021, when individuals were arrested and prosecuted for operating a fundraising network linked to the group. Despite these incidents, Nigeria–UAE relations remain largely focused on investment, trade, and broader economic cooperation.

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

By Ahmed Usman

Away from political noise and headline-grabbing theatrics, Jigawa State under Governor Umar Namadi is pursuing a disciplined development path; one that prioritises agriculture, human capital, and long-term economic foundations.

In Nigeria’s political culture, analysts have long relied on improvised metrics to judge elected officials: the first 100 days, the first year, or the widely appealed 18-month threshold, said to be the point when a new administration needs to settle, understand its responsibilities, and develop its own identity separate from the previous government. Yet in practice, Nigerian governments often have only two effective years to deliver results before politics and electioneering reclaim the agenda. 

The remaining two years are usually taken over by political campaigns, party struggles, and early preparations for the next election. By that measure, the administrations sworn in May 2023 have crossed the decisive midpoint, and any government unable to clearly articulate its policy direction, measurable outcomes, and long-term vision at this stage must confront uncomfortable questions about competence and priorities.

This moment offers a useful lens through which to reassess Jigawa State, a place often dismissed by outsiders as economically marginal or politically inconsequential. For decades, Jigawa was viewed through a narrow lens of poverty rankings and limited industrial activity. With agriculture providing livelihoods for nearly two-thirds of households and with relatively low levels of urbanisation, critics frequently argued that the state lacked the structural foundations to become economically competitive. Such narratives, however, ignore a fundamental truth about development: transformation often begins quietly, long before it becomes visible in national headlines. Under Governor Umar Namadi Danmodi, Jigawa is now presenting evidence of such a shift, deliberate, methodical, and quietly disruptive.

I do not write as a political pundit but as a citizen who cares deeply about his locality, a state too often stereotyped and misunderstood. Jigawa has long been caricatured as peripheral, yet today it provides an unlikely case study in how disciplined governance can chart a new economic course. What makes this transformation compelling is not bombast or political spectacle, but the understated way the administration communicates, through actions, policies, and investments rather than theatrics. The government speaks not in rhetoric but in results that are gradually reshaping the state’s economic and social landscape.

That message is clearest in the administration’s approach to agriculture. Recognising that Jigawa’s comparative advantage lies in its fertile land and large smallholder base, Danmodi has pushed aggressively to modernise the sector. Irrigation expansion, improved access to inputs, and strengthened value chains are already raising yields and market access. Given that Jigawa possesses nearly 150,000 hectares of land suitable for irrigated agriculture, this strategy is not only rational but transformative, positioning the state as a future food production hub in northern Nigeria. These efforts may not dominate front-page news, but they represent the kind of foundational work that changes economic destinies.

That same quiet logic underpins reforms in education, perhaps the most consequential area for a state where literacy remains below the national average. From classroom renovations and teacher training to curriculum enhancement, these interventions reflect a long-term commitment to human capital rather than a search for quick political points. In a region where poor educational outcomes fuel cycles of poverty, ignoring such structural issues would be far more costly than confronting them.

Equally important is the administration’s effort to build an economy that is less dependent on federal allocations. In a country where many states survive almost entirely on monthly revenue from Abuja, Jigawa’s pursuit of internally generated revenue, industrial growth, and investment-friendly reforms reflects an understanding that true development requires financial independence. The state’s infrastructure push, spanning rural electrification, road construction, and urban renewal, is designed to support this transition. Reliable electricity, particularly, is indispensable for revitalising small and medium enterprises, which account for the lion’s share of non-oil employment in Nigeria.

These economic initiatives intersect meaningfully with reforms in healthcare and social protection. For a state grappling with high maternal and infant mortality, investments in primary healthcare centres, vaccination programs, and emergency response systems signal a welcome shift toward preventive, not reactive, governance. Jigawa’s emerging life-cycle social protection model, supporting individuals from pregnancy through childhood, youth, and old age, offers an unusually holistic approach in a country where social safety nets are often fragmented or nonexistent. Together, these policies communicate a consistent message: development is possible only when people are healthy, educated, and economically empowered.

Taken as a whole, the administration’s work sends a subtle but powerful signal. It suggests a government not merely managing day-to-day affairs but intentionally laying the groundwork for what the state could become. This is the essence of Jigawa’s quiet revolution: a governance model that prioritises structure over spectacle and competence over performative politics. It is a reminder that some of the most meaningful transformations are neither loud nor dramatic; they are steady, disciplined, and anchored in long-term vision.

For years, sceptics argued that Jigawa lacked the capacity to catch up with more industrialised states. But development rarely follows a straight line. It accelerates when leadership aligns with strategy, when investments target the roots rather than symptoms of underdevelopment, and when political ambition is tempered with economic realism. 

Under Danmodi, Jigawa is beginning to suggest that its future will not be determined by its past reputation but by its present choices. These choices, rooted in economic transformation, human capital development, and institutional stability, show a state no longer content to survive but ready to shape its own future.

This is why the story of Jigawa today matters. It is a reminder that progress does not always announce itself with fanfare. Sometimes, it emerges quietly, through the steady accumulation of policies that, taken together, signal a shift too significant to ignore. Under the right leadership and with the right priorities, even a state long written off by pessimists can begin to rewrite its place in the Nigerian economy. And in Jigawa, that rewriting has unmistakably begun.

Ahmed Usman wrote via ahmedusmanbox@gmail.com.

By Tahir Mahmood Saleh

Kabeer 2Pac’s rise to online fame began in early 2025, when he started posting highly unconventional videos on his TikTok account. Born Kabiru Isma’il and known online as Kabeer2pac (a name he chose in homage to the late American rapper 2Pac Shakur), he quickly garnered massive attention for performing bizarre, often shocking stunts. His content included immersing himself in stagnant open cesspools and smearing sediment on his body, actions he explained were not signs of madness but deliberate attempts to “trend” and gain visibility online (“ɗaukaka na ke nema”).

The TikTok metrics behind his rise were striking. Within months of posting these videos, Kabeer had amassed millions of views and a large following. One of his most-viewed clips, in which he shook off charcoal dust while wearing a distinctive winter jacket, reached over 51 million views, and at one point, his account had approximately 1.8 million followers and 15.1 million likes. These numbers reflect how quickly his brand took off in an environment where the algorithm rewards shocking or novel content.

Kabeer’s content evolved over time as he experimented with different styles and stunts to maintain attention. After his early cesspool videos gained traction, he shifted to other eye-grabbing visuals, such as having bags of charcoal dust dumped on him, which again drew viral attention. This strategy positioned him as a cultural exemplar of the “attention economy,” in which creators leverage extreme content to secure views, engagement, and, eventually, financial or material rewards.

His fame translated into real-world opportunities, though not without controversy. A notable outcome of his online popularity was an invitation from Gwanki Travels and Tours International Ltd in Kaduna, who publicly offered him a free ticket to perform Umrah (a pilgrimage to Mecca). Kabeer expressed gratitude for achieving the fame he sought and noted that such endorsement was among the factors that drove him to continue his work. However, reactions were mixed: while many fans celebrated his creative drive, some religious leaders and critics warned against harmful behaviour and urged investment in education or trade instead.

Despite his meteoric rise, Kabeer himself acknowledged the ephemeral nature of his viral popularity. In later interviews shared online, he said he understood that people might soon tire of his antics as the public constantly seeks fresh content and new personalities. Beyond the sensational stunts, he also sought to diversify his videos by including short comedy skits and dance clips to retain audience interest, a common strategy among creators seeking to build sustainable relevance.

Today, the outcome is telling. There is no consistent content relevance, no major promotion, no formal education leveraged, no lasting sponsorships, no two million followers, just a fading digital footprint. Kabeer2pac’s story is not merely about an individual; it is a cautionary tale.

For Arewa content creators, the lesson is clear: fame without strategy is noise, not power. Visibility alone does not ensure sustainability. Without structure, skill development, personal growth, and long-term planning, viral attention fades as quickly as it arrives. In the digital age, the challenge is not how to trend, but how to remain relevant with dignity, purpose, and value.

Tahir Mahmood Saleh wrote from Kano via tahirmsaleh.seggroup@gmail.com.

Today, 15th January 2026, we celebrate an accomplished public servant and a distinguished leader — Her Excellency, Dr Mariya Mahmoud Bunkure, Honourable Minister of State for the Federal Capital Territory (FCT), Abuja.

As you mark another year of life and purpose, we reflect not just on the passage of time but on the profound impact of your service. Since assuming office, you have brought a unique blend of compassion, resilience, and an unwavering commitment to the “People’s First” mandate to your role.

Dr Bunkure, you have redefined public service in the FCT, demonstrating that leadership is truly about touching lives and building sustainable legacies. Your integrity, accessibility, and work ethic continue to inspire many.

We pray that Almighty Allah continues to grant you sound health, divine wisdom, and renewed strength as you discharge your responsibilities to the nation with distinction.

Happy Birthday, Ma.
May the years ahead be filled with success, fulfilment, and a lasting legacy.

Signed
Dr Saifullahi Shehu Imam