Opinion

By Usman Muhammad Salihu,

In Nigeria today, the loudest voices belong to politicians, policymakers, and power brokers. They dominate the headlines, flood our timelines, and distract us with promises that rarely survive beyond campaign seasons. Yet, the true story of this country isn’t written in the echo chambers of Abuja or the mansions of Lagos. It is written daily in the struggles, resilience, and quiet innovations of ordinary citizens.

Think about the woman who wakes before dawn to fry bean cakes by the roadside, not only to feed her children but also to put other people’s children on the road to school. Or the young graduate who, tired of waiting for white-collar jobs, starts a small business online and employs three others. These stories rarely make the news. Yet, they are the heartbeat of our nation.

But here’s the tragedy: Contemporary Nigeria seems designed to work against these everyday heroes. Power cuts paralyse small businesses. Inflation, now on food items, erodes family savings before the end of the month. Insecurity forces farmers to abandon their fields and traders to fear the road. Meanwhile, most of the political class remains locked in battles over appointments, power-sharing, and personal interests.

The question is not whether Nigeria has potential; we have repeated that mantra for decades. The real question is, when will we begin to prioritise the citizen above the system?

Imagine a Nigeria where governance shifts from elite negotiations to practical solutions: working schools, safe communities, accessible healthcare, and reliable electricity. That’s not fantasy; it is a choice.

The good news is that despite the odds, Nigerians are not waiting. Communities are solving their own problems. Tech-savvy youths are creating digital markets. Women’s cooperatives are building small savings pools. Farmers are collaborating to beat middlemen. These are the silent revolutions we must amplify, not just the failures of the elite.

If the political class won’t prioritise the citizen, then the media, civil society, and Nigerians themselves must. We must shift the spotlight from what politicians promise to what Nigerians are already doing, because that is how change starts – not from the top, but from the people who refuse to give up.

Nigeria stands at a crossroads. One road leads to more political drama, endless debates, and broken promises. The other road leads to a citizen-centred nation where leaders are compelled to serve, not rule.

The choice is ours. But more importantly, the responsibility is theirs.

Usman Muhammad Salihu was among the pioneer fellows of PRNigeria and wrote from Jos, Nigeria. He can be reached via muhammadu5363@gmail.com.

By Umar Aboki

The traditional Hausa cap, also known as “Hula,” is recognised for its intricate embroidery and is often worn with traditional Hausa attire. It has a long history in Hausa land, originating as a common and traditional male garment and later evolving into a symbol of cultural, religious, social, and even political status.

Many people associate any man they see wearing a Hula with being a Muslim or Hausa or both. Yusuf Ahmad, a traditional Hausa cap seller, believes that wearing a Hausa cap is a sign that indicates someone is a Hausa man and a Muslim, and that wearing a Hausa cap is what completes a man’s decency. 

Yusuf added that the older generation of Hausa men like to wear tall Hausa caps, while the new generation prefersshorter ones. And when people come to buy caps, they mostly ask for the cheaper and lighter ones; it is the rich men who usually ask for the Zanna-Bukar and other heavier ones.

There are various types of traditional Hausa caps, including “Zanna-Bukar”, “Damanga”, “Zita”, “Maropiyya”, “Zulum” and “mu-haɗu-a-banki”. They are distinguished by factors such as the materials used to make them, their place of origin, the wearers, and their purposes, among other considerations. However, the most popular and widely worn is the “Zanna-Bukar”. Overall, the hula has evolved from being merely a piece of headwear to a symbol of cultural identity and belonging within the Hausa community and beyond. 

Malam Khamilu, a resident of Yahaya Gusau Road, Kano, claims that he wears Hausa caps frequently, especially the Zanna-Bukar. He says it is very special to him and he got his own tailor-made, specially for himself. He also considers his cap a part of his identity as a Hausa-Fulani man and a Muslim.

The Hula is not limited to being worn only within Hausa communities. It is worn by men in many populations in North Africa, East Africa, West Africa, South Asia, and the Middle East.

Zulyadaini Abdullahi Adamu, a Hausa cap knitter and seller, says he wears his Zanna-Bukar or Damanga daily, and he knits the Zanna-Bukar, Damanga and PTF, then sells them at prices ranging from eight thousand to thirty thousand Naira, and that people come to buy them from Jigawa, Maiduguri and other states and places.

Men throughout the African diaspora also wear it. Within the United States and other foreign countries, it has become primarily identified with persons of West African heritage, who wear it to show pride in their culture, history, and religion. Dauda Ibrahim Dachia, a Northern Nigerian staying in Tirana, Albania, claims to wear his traditional Hausa cap overseas, but not all the time. He usually wears it on Fridays, during Eid celebrations, or during cultural events.

It was written in an article by the Centre de l’ldentité et de la culture Africanes titled ‘The Khada Habar: A traditional hat in a Hausa environment’ that “wearing a hat is a mark of respect for oneself, above all, according to Mr. Adéyèmi “when you don’t wear a hat, traditional dress is not complete”, he insists, “it reflects a disconnect between man and his own culture”.

Muhammadu Sa’idu, another resident of Kano, claims to wear the Zanna-Bukar frequently, usually to events. He says that anytime he wears it, people respect him a lot. He also has a ‘Damanga’ but prefers wearing the Zanna-Bukar. In his case, he doesn’t usually associate Hula with the Hausa tradition or Islam.

 Sa’id Salisu Muhammad, a Hausa cap washer at Gaɗon ƙaya, says he wears traditional Hausa caps a lot, especially the Zanna-Bukar. He says that a typical Hausa man always wears the Hula to work, events and other places, so they have to always bring them in for washing. He also notes that people bring in Zanna-Bukar the most, followed by the lighter ones such as the “Maropiyya” and “Zita”.

The Hula also serves as a means for people to fit into Hausa communities, as they are seen as a symbol of identity, and provide a sense of belonging. Musa Abdulrazaq, a young man from Kaduna who studies in Kano, says anytime he is in Kano, a place where the Hausa culture is evident and vibrant, wearing the traditional Hausa cap is very important to him. Although he doesn’t wear it much back at home, he understands that it is a vital part of the culture in Kano, so he regularly wears his Hula to fit in with the people of Kano and feel at home.

However, not everyone from outside the Hausa community feels the need to identify with the Hausa people. Umar Ahmad, a Fulani man who visits Kano but has been staying here for about two years, says he doesn’t wear the traditional Hausa caps. Instead, he maintains his Fulani cap. And when asked, he said he does indeed associate the Hula with Islam and Hausa tradition.

Umar Aboki wrote via umaraboki97@gmail.com.

By Muhammad Dan Kano

I have watched Kano’s civil space rise and fall over the years, and I must confess—what we are living through today is one of the saddest chapters. The silence we now see did not come from bans, threats, or crackdowns. It came from within. Our loudest voices, those who once stood before us as defenders of the people, were in fact working behind the scenes for the then-opposition party that now holds the seat of power.

On the surface, these men and women spoke the language of civil society: accountability, transparency, justice. They attended our town halls, drafted our communiqués, and stood at our press conferences. But as events have now shown, they were playing a double game—working for the citizens in daylight, but aligning their loyalties with politicians in the dark.

Take, for instance, the Kano Civil Society Platform. For years, it was the face of civil society in Kano, leading civil platforms and presenting itself as an independent voice of the people. But what many of us did not see then was that its activism tilted toward the opposition, quietly laying the groundwork for its current role. Today, the head is no longer the watchdog—but a Commissioner, the very voice of government. How can citizens trust that same platform to ever return to the civic space as an independent advocate?

Community Health Research Platform is another example. Highly respected in health advocacy and governance circles, it was perceived as fighting for the welfare of citizens. Yet, its alignment with political interests has now been made clear by its place in the system. The independence we once admired was, in truth, compromised long before official appointment.

And then there is another, Executive Director KAJA (KAYA) KAJA, who once represented the fiercest face of accountability in Kano, known for exposing governance lapses and demanding transparency. Many of us believed it was a shining example of what a watchdog should be. However, today, with KAJA appointed to the government, the fire has been extinguished. The once-vibrant KAJA is quiet, and the citizens who trusted it have been left disillusioned.

Even the Open Government Platform has not been spared. Its co-chair on the civil society side has been appointed to a government committee. This effectively blunts the citizens’ voice in Open Governance Platform processes. The very platform designed to guarantee equal partnership between government and citizens is now lopsided, tilted in favour of those in power.

Networks like Education For All, which once campaigned vigorously for education reforms, now spend their time attending government meetings, collecting transport allowances, and receiving awards from the governor. Independence is gone, credibility eroded.

The tragedy here is not just that these individuals accepted appointments—it is that for years, they masqueraded as neutral actors while quietly serving political interests. Unlike One Commissioner, who publicly and honourably resigned from the civic space before joining politics, these others chose to corrupt the system from within. They played both sides—civil society by day, politics by night.

That is why I ask: how will they return after their tenures? How will they look citizens in the eye and claim once again to be “independent voices”? How will their organisations reclaim trust when their leaders have already betrayed it? For me, and for many others, that trust has been broken.

I do not deny that bringing civic actors into government can strengthen delivery. But when watchdogs pretend to be neutral while secretly serving politicians, it is not inclusion—it is manipulation. The cost is the death of independent scrutiny.

Today, only a few brave individuals, like two Marxists, remain outside the government’s orbit. They continue to speak up, but without funding, their voices are faint. The vibrant, united civic space we once had during the days of SFTAS and FCDO’s PERL and ARC project is gone, fractured by appointments and rewards.

The lesson is clear. Civic leaders who wish to join politics must do so openly, as One Commissioner did. But those who exploit the civic space as a stepping stone to political office only betray the citizens who trusted them. They may enjoy power today, but the day they return to claim the mantle of “civil society” again, the people will not forget.

For me, that is the most tremendous loss—not just of voices, but of trust. And once trust is broken, can the civic space in Kano ever be the same again?

By Amir Abdulazeez

The United Nations is currently holding its 80th General Assembly sessions in New York. Some days earlier, the U.S. State Department, under the pretext of national security and anti-terrorism laws, revoked visas for dozens of Palestinian officials, including President Mahmoud Abbas slated to participate, at the General Assembly and a high-level two-state conference. This move drew criticism from the UN itself, EU and some human rights groups, with calls to relocate Palestinian-related meetings outside New York. This echoes historical precedents, notably the 1988 visa denial to Late Yasser Arafat, which forced the UN to shift one of its sessions to Geneva to allow him participate.

Although the 1947 ‘Headquarters Agreement’ obliges the United States to admit all UN participants, Washington occasionally and selectively invokes security and legal excuses to discriminate between entrants. Such practices explain how the UN’s operations remain vulnerable to U.S. control, thereby undermining its independence, authority and credibility. As the UN marks the 80th anniversary of the ratification of its charter on 24th October 2025, the organization which was founded on the ashes of World War II in 1945 faces an existential crisis of credibility and effectiveness.

While it has achieved notable successes in humanitarian aid, educational research and global environmental and health initiatives, its core mission of maintaining international peace and security has been repeatedly undermined by structural and diplomatic flaws. The organization’s inability to meaningfully respond to crises from Syria to Ukraine and most visibly in the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, has exposed fundamental weaknesses that warrant urgent reform. The UN’s record is one of profound paradox: a body designed for action but often defined by its inaction. Nowhere is this impotence more starkly illustrated than in its 70 years’ failure to resolve the Palestinian question or to hold Israel accountable for its international impunities.

From the outset of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, the United Nations assumed a central role by proposing the 1947 Partition Plan, which sought to establish separate independent states for both parties. Although initially conceived as a potential path to peace, the plan was never enforced and the UN has since struggled to translate its own decisions into reality. Further failures are documented in a paper trail of unimplemented resolutions: Security Council Resolution 242 (1967) called for Israel’s withdrawal from territories occupied during the Six-Day War; Resolution 338 (1973) and countless subsequent resolutions reaffirmed this demand that was not only ignored but instead empowered Israel’s massive expansion of illegal settlements.

Beyond the unimplemented resolutions, a critical UN failure in this regard is that of narrative framing. It has been unable to consistently enforce a foundational principle: that the right to self-determination for one people (Israelis) cannot be predicated on the denial of that same right to another (Palestinians). The organization’s various bodies often treat the conflict as a symmetrical dispute between two equal parties, rather than an asymmetrical struggle between a nuclear-armed occupying power and a stateless, occupied population living under a brutal blockade.

The core of the UN’s ineffectiveness lies in the flawed decision-making structure of its Security Council, where the five permanent members (United States, Russia, China, France and United Kingdom) hold the autocratic privilege of veto power. This system of outdated World War II geopolitics has frequently paralyzed the organization in hours of need. Since 1946, the veto has been selfishly exercised about 300 times. Between 2011 and 2023, Russia and China blocked 16 resolutions on Syria, enabling the Assad regime’s brutal campaign against civilians. The United States, meanwhile, has used its veto more than 50 times to shield Israel from accountability, making Palestine the single most vetoed issue in UN history. Instead of serving as a platform for global security, the Council has become an arena for shameless and hypocritical power politics.

The General Assembly, despite representing all 193 member states equally, has been relegated to a largely ceremonial role in matters of international peace and security. While the Assembly can pass resolutions by majority vote, these carry no binding legal force and are routinely ignored by powerful nations. The 2012 resolution calling for an arms embargo on Syria passed with 133 votes but had no practical effect, as Russia continued supplying weapons to the Assad government. This has created a two-tiered system where the views of the international majority are systematically subordinated to the interests of Security Council Super Powers.

The selective enforcement of international law has become a defining hallmark of UN impotence. While the organization has at times demonstrated resolve such as coordinating global sanctions against apartheid South Africa in the 1980s or authorizing military intervention in Libya in 2011, its responses to other similar crises have been inconsistent and politically driven. Similarly, the International Criminal Court, often operating with UN support, swiftly indicted leaders of Liberia, Sudan and Libya, yet no Western or allied leaders like George W. Bush or Tony Blair have been held to account for baseless interventions in Iraq, Afghanistan or Yemen. These double standards have eroded the UN’s credibility and moral authority, particularly in the Global South, where it is increasingly viewed as an instrument of Western hegemony.

The UN’s peacekeeping apparatus, while successful in some contexts, has also demonstrated significant limitations when confronting determined state actors. The United Nations Disengagement Observer Force (UNDOF) on the Golan Heights and the United Nations Interim Force in Lebanon (UNIFIL) have maintained buffer zones during their operations, but have been powerless to prevent violations by all parties. During the 2006 Lebanon War and subsequent conflicts, these forces could only observe and report violations rather than enforce compliance.

Financial manipulation has emerged as another tool of selective pressure within the UN system. The United States, which contributes 22% of the UN’s regular budget, has repeatedly withheld or threatened to withhold funding to pressure the organization on specific issues. In 2018, the Trump administration cut $285 million from UN peacekeeping operations and reduced contributions to various UN agencies. The UN’s human rights mechanisms face similar challenges of selective application and political manipulation. The Human Rights Council, reformed in 2006 to address criticisms of its predecessor, continues to be influenced by bloc voting and political considerations rather than objective human rights assessments. Countries with questionable human rights records have served on the Council while using their positions to deflect criticism and protect allies.

Critics argue that the UN has become a stage for symbolic debates while real decisions and tangible actions are outsourced to global bullies like the US, less formal coalitions like the NATO and regional actors like the EU. For example, the U.S.-brokered Abraham Accords normalized relations between Israel and several Arab states without addressing core Palestinian concerns while side-lining the UN. Similarly, its response to Russia’s invasion of Ukraine in 2022 was limited to humanitarian aid and symbolic condemnation, as bodies like EU looked more relevant and assertive.

The rise of new global powers and changing geopolitical realities have rendered the UN’s 1945 structure increasingly obsolete. Reform proposals have circulated for decades but have consistently failed due to the resistance of existing power holders. Things have changed since World War II, nations have evolved, others have declined and hence the UN must be reformed to reflect current realities. The permanency of the Security council membership must be reviewed and the senseless veto authority must be abolished or modified along the lines of justice and accountability. As the United Nations approaches its 80th anniversary, the choice is clear: fundamental reform or continued irrelevance.

Maintaining the United Nations system costs about $50–55 billion per year, not counting military deployments and opportunity costs. Beyond money, states commit significant diplomatic, military, humanitarian and bureaucratic resources to maintain their participation. This makes the UN one of the most resource-intensive international organizations ever created. Without serious reforms to address structural inequalities, eliminate veto abuse and restore the primacy of international law over great power politics, the UN risks becoming a historical footnote rather than the cornerstone of the global governance its founders envisioned. The international community must decide whether it will tolerate continued dysfunction or demand the transformative changes necessary to address 21st century challenges.

By Abdullahi Kabiru Muhammed

Life as a student is rarely easy, and for three close friends at Bayero University, Kano, the journey has been both tough and inspiring.

Their journey, which began in Level 100 and is now in Level 400, serves as a powerful testament to faith, friendship, sacrifice, and perseverance.

From the very start, the three friends knew the odds were stacked against them. Two of them were students of Mass Communications, while the third was studying Law, a five-year program. They began their academic journey with no sponsor, relying solely on faith in God and a strong will to succeed. 

Despite the uncertainties, their bond grew stronger. There was no conflict, no hatred, only unity. They shared everything and supported one another with love and understanding.

Their first year was marked by some struggles, but they managed to survive. The hardships were there, but not as overwhelming as what was to come. 

In their second year, things became even tougher. The school fees were increased from ₦37,000 to ₦100,000, causing panic and fear. They started Level 200 without paying their fees, holding on to hope as Bayero University, Kano,continued to extend the registration deadlines. They rarely ate more than once a day, dinner only. Many nights, they went to bed on empty stomachs, and in the morning, they would head to class without breakfast. But through it all, they never gave up. They could only afford ₦40,000 for a single bed space, yet all three of them managed to squeeze into the room.

Just when it seemed impossible, help came. Governor Abba Kabir Yusuf’s administration intervened and covered the school fees for Kano State indigenes. It was a moment of relief and joy. May Allah (S.W.T) guide and protect him, and may He grant him his heart’s desires, amin.

Level 300 came with fewer school fee issues, as NELFUND covered their tuition. However, the cost of living increased, and they struggled to afford food. Two of the friends took on labour jobs, and the third, a tailor, tried to support himself with his handwork.

Among the labourers, one could travel out every weekend for work, while the other could only leave during holidays. The tailor worked under someone and had a few customers. Income was unstable. 

Even though they received a monthly ₦20,000 upkeep allowance from NELFUND, it was often delayed. They sometimes had to borrow money and were usually refused, as people doubted their ability to repay.

Their families supported them too, but the assistance barely covers 10% of their needs. They didn’t desire luxury, just enough to eat and survive.

Now in Level 400, nothing much has changed materially. The hunger, the hustle, the struggles—they remain. But the friends remain grateful, and more than ever, they are hopeful.

They continue to share, encourage, and support one another, believing that tough times don’t last forever. Their academic performance is commendable, and they are determined not to let poverty or hardship define their future.

Their story is a reminder that Allah is always in control. Through all the pain, hunger, and financial stress, they have continued to pray, to trust, and to push forward. Without divine intervention, they believe they would have dropped out, despite their passion to learn.

So, they say “Life is full of ups and downs, but we believe good things will surely come our way. Just be prayerful. Allah knows, and He will surely answer your prayers. All you have to do is believe in Him”

Abdullahi Kabiru Muhammed wrote via khaybhee006@gmail.com.

By Lawal Dahiru Mamman

Nigeria’s struggle with electricity is not just about flickering bulbs or darkened homes. It is about the survival of industries, the health of small businesses, and the very foundation of national development. 

A stable power supply is the bedrock of productivity, yet, after more than a century of electricity generation, the sector still reflects more chaos than progress. The story began modestly in 1896, when Lagos hosted Nigeria’s first power plant, which had a capacity of just 60 kilowatts. 

Over the next few decades, plants sprouted in Port Harcourt, Kaduna, Enugu, Maiduguri, Yola, Zaria, Warri, and Calabar. However, the system was fragmented—managed by native authorities and the Public Works Department—until 1950, when the Electricity Corporation of Nigeria (ECN) was established.

ECN soon became a national monopoly, consolidated further in 1972 when it merged with the Niger Dams Authority to form NEPA. For decades, “NEPA” became a household word, but mainly for the wrong reasons: inefficiency, chronic underinvestment, system losses, power theft, and blackouts that forced families and businesses to rely on expensive generators.

By 1999, fewer than 20 of Nigeria’s 79 power plants were functional. Barely 28% of installed capacity was delivered, leaving millions in perpetual darkness. These failures spurred reform efforts. 

The National Electric Power Policy (2001) and the Electric Power Sector Reform Act (2005) paved the way for privatisation, resulting in the establishment of 18 successor companies: 6 generation companies (GenCos), 11 distribution companies (DisCos), and 1 transmission company (TCN).

The promise was clear: privatise, attract investors, boost efficiency, and deliver reliable power. By November 2013, the federal government sold its stakes in the GenCos and DisCos, earning $2.5 billion in proceeds. 

Companies like Transcorp Power, Geregu, Ughelli, Shiroro, Sapele, and Kainji took control of generation, while 11 Distribution Companies (DisCos) took charge of retail distribution. But the dream quickly soured. A decade later, efficiency gains remain elusive. 

Generation hovers below 5,000MW for a nation of over 200 million. Blackouts are frequent, tariffs are contested, infrastructure remains weak, and both Generation and Distribution Companies (GenCos and DisCos) are drowning in debt.

The situation worsened in 2025 when GenCos raised alarm over a staggering N4 trillion owed to them by the federal government—N1.9 trillion in legacy debts and N2 trillion for power supplied in 2024 alone. 

President Bola Tinubu admitted government liability, but insisted only verifiable claims would be honoured. By August, Finance Minister Wale Edun confirmed plans to clear the debts, signalling tacit acknowledgement.

This mountain of debt builds upon years of heavy subsidies and bailouts, with government interventions since 2023 alone estimated to be above N7 trillion. These include tariff adjustments through the Multi-Year Tariff Order (MYTO), direct subsidies, bailout funds, and payment guarantees. 

Yet, paradoxically, Nigeria continues to subsidise a sector that was supposed to thrive under private ownership. The Electricity Act 2023 pushed for cost-reflective tariffs, expanded metering, and transmission upgrades. 

But the larger question looms: has Nigeria’s privatisation model failed? Or has the government’s constant interference, through subsidies and political tariff control, undermined the very logic of privatisation?

As the GenCos demand arrears, the DisCos complain of low remittances, and consumers grumble under rising tariffs and unreliable supply, Nigeria must confront a harsh reality: electricity is not just an economic issue, but a governance test.

If the sector is to function effectively, the government must draw a clear line—provide enabling policies, enforce regulations, but step back from perpetual bailouts. The time has come to interrogate privatisation, recalibrate the framework, and design a power sector that delivers light, not debt. 

For without power, the dream of industrial Nigeria remains trapped in darkness.

Lawal Dahiru Mamman writes from Abuja. He can be reached at: dahirulawal90@gmail.com.

By Ibraheem A. Waziri

Artificial Intelligence has arrived, and in many ways, it is already surpassing humankind in numerous tasks – frominformation retrieval and decision-making to writing essays, diagnosing illnesses, and simulating human conversations. 

The rapid advancement of AI over the past decade is no longer a marvel; it is a living reality. With its relentless progress, we are standing on the cusp of a new era, an age in which the human mind and artificial intelligence may become intimately intertwined, both physically and cognitively. 

Over the next ten to twenty years, we can expect to witness the rise of brain-chip implants, neural devices capable of recording thoughts and memories, and integrating them with external data in real-time. This development, already underway in advanced laboratories, will redefine the limits of human cognition. Learning may no longer require years of study. Instead, information could be uploaded directly into the brain, rendering traditional education models obsolete or significantly transformed. 

The barriers to knowledge acquisition—once dependent on time, resources, and access—would essentially vanish. Everyone might stand on equal ground when it comes to information. In this sense, AI could appear to be the long-awaited solution to humanity’s historic struggle with ignorance. A world where information is no longer hoarded but instantly shared would mark a fundamental shift in human civilisation. 

Yet, in this possible future, one thing remains uniquely human: our conscience. The power of choice, the intention behind our actions, and the moral compass guiding our decisions stay beyond the reach of AI. The Islamic prophetic saying “Innamal a’malu binniyat”- “intentions judge actions” -takes on renewed weight. When knowledge becomes universally accessible, what will distinguish one person from another is no longer what they know, but how and why they use it. 

AI may provide the tools, but only our conscience can determine their application. In this new world, the essence of being human —the power to choose, to discern, and to act with purpose —becomes our most valuable trait. 

In writing and speech, large language models (LLMs) have dramatically reduced the burden of expression. AI tools can correct grammar, enhance clarity, and structure arguments. In this way, AI handles the “form,” allowing humans to focus more on “substance”: the meaning, purpose, and ethical significance of their message. 

Yet the human mind’s natural tendency to ask questions, to imagine, and to critique will not diminish. If anything, it will deepen. Humans are not passive recipients of knowledge; we are also its interpreters, critics, and re-creators. Far from becoming complacent in the presence of AI, people will begin to question it, reshape it, and rise above it. 

The reason is simple: the human mind cannot stagnate. It searches for meaning and thrives in ambiguity. Our ability to reflect, imagine, and dwell on abstract ideas remains unmatched. AI can mimic patterns and predict outcomes, but it cannot experience wonder, nor can it feel regret, nor grapple with moral ambiguity. 

Creativity itself arises from three essential human components: conscience, emotions, and environment. AI may support this triad; it may even challenge or stimulate it, but it cannot generate it. AI is a product of creativity, not its source. And it cannot be the source of what it did not create. 

By automating routine tasks, AI liberates the human mind to think more deeply and act more boldly. It frees us from mechanical repetition, allowing for higher-order thinking, innovation, and artistry. Writers, thinkers, inventors, and designers now have more time for exploration and imagination, which remain the core of human advancement. 

This evolving relationship mirrors humanity’s relationship with the Divine. Just as no human can rival the wisdom or creative force of God, AI can never match the core of our humanity. It cannot outfeel us. It cannot outdo us. It cannot outvalue us. It cannot possess conscience, consciousness, or emotion; the divine triad that defines who we are. 

When AI becomes fully integrated into daily life, at work, in education, healthcare, governance, and homes, we won’t become less human. In fact, we will become more human. We will have to let go of much of the mechanical and embrace the reflective. We will have more space to think, more time to connect, and more clarity to imagine. 

And in this space, we may at last pursue what has always eluded us, even in our most extraordinary scientific and industrial feats: wisdom. While AI may provide us with access to vast amounts of information, only the human soul, guided by conscience, can discern what is just, what is meaningful, and what is beautiful. 

AI does not represent the end of humanity. It is the beginning of a new chapter, one filled with tools of immense potential. But as with all tools, their value depends on the hands that use them. In the age of AI, the accurate measure of a person will no longer be what they know, but why they act and how they choose to use what they have. 

AI may become the great equaliser of knowledge, but it is only the human conscience that can give that knowledge direction, purpose, and value. And that is a gift no machine can replicate.

By Haroon Aremu Abiodun

“Any country where lawmaking is more lucrative than law enforcement, there must be insecurity.”

That was the piercing submission of veteran Nollywood actor Kanayo O. Kanayo in a podcast interview. This quote still lingers in my mind like a haunting prophecy. Sadly, Nigeria appears to be a textbook example of that paradox.

This raises a chilling question: can we ever be safe in a nation where those crafting the laws live like kings, while those enforcing them die like pawns?

The roads tremble with fear, and villages sleep with one eye open. From Abuja to Zamfara, from the creeks of the Delta to Anambra, to the rocky hills of Birnin Gwari, the word “insecurity” has become a national refrain. 

In whispered conversations and on trending hashtags, Nigerians continue to ask: Can banditry, kidnapping, and terrorism ever truly end in Nigeria?

While President Bola Ahmed Tinubu continues to pledge security reforms, and National Security Adviser Nuhu Ribadu issues strategic statements, the reality on the ground often contradicts this. The Chief of Defence Staff, General Christopher Musa, may be leading an army of patriots. Still, their valour is constantly undermined by systemic inequality, in which the pen is paid more than the gun.

I Witnessed the Truth

In early June, I attended a deeply insightful citizenship engagement forum hosted by Voice of Nigeria (VON). Dignitaries, including the Minister of Information, NSA Ribadu, the Chief of Defence Staff, and other notable figures,were present. But one story shared by the Chief of Defence Staff froze the air.

He recalled a young bandit who surrendered. The military, adopting a “soft approach,” chose not to brutalise him but instead treated him humanely. He was given food, a warm bath, and, for the first time in his life, a mattress.

This wasn’t just about physical comfort. It was symbolic. The boy, barely old enough to vote, said he had never lain on a mattress before. That was his first taste of civilisation, and it came not from a school or community, but from an army barracks. The boy had joined a group of killers not out of hatred, but out of hopelessness.

The Root of the Rot: 3Es

With what the Chief of Defence Staff said, I was able to conclude that part of the root of Nigeria’s security crisis lies in the absence of the “3Es”: Education, Exposure, and Enlightenment. These are not luxuries; they are necessities. And in the North, where banditry has gained a more frightening foothold, their absence is glaring.

It is time for Northern governors to rise beyond rhetoric. The federal government cannot win this war alone. State leaders must begin by reforming their education systems, investing in enlightenment campaigns, and introducing programs that truly expose their youth to life beyond the confines of their communities. Kano State has led the way in propagating and championing this initiative among the northern states, but efforts should be intensified.

Can we save Nigeria? Yes, but not with a centralised, top-down approach. What we need is collaborative security. Community policing must be revived with village chiefs and family heads forming the first line of surveillance.

Security consciousness must be made more crucial and integrated into school curricula and public messaging. Employment generation must become more than a campaign slogan. A graduate left idle is one WhatsApp message away from recruitment into darkness.

“If community policing is fully implemented, it will become far easier to identify and expose those secretly sponsoring or benefiting from terrorism right from the grassroots. Local vigilance, trust networks, and community-driven intelligence can expose hidden collaborators who often conceal their activities behind political or economic influence. Such a system not only strengthens national security but also empowers citizens to take active ownership of their safety and future.”

This is to say, the fight against terror will not be won by guns alone, but by communities standing as the first line of defence

The Role of Institutions

The Ministry of Education and the National Orientation Agency (NOA) must now take centre stage. It is no longer enough to teach arithmetic and grammar; we must now teach security literacy. The young must understand the real consequences of crime. They must be exposed to alternatives.

This encompasses school tours, street theatre, online campaigns, community mentorship, and genuine partnerships between public and private stakeholders.

There is hope. There are patriots in uniform. There are children yet untouched by corruption. There are teachers still driven by conscience. However, all their efforts will be for nothing if lawmakers continue to earn more than those who risk their lives.

The EFCC may chase funds across Iceland and Dubai. The DSS may foil plots in Lagos and Maiduguri. However, until we address the imbalance and make justice more rewarding than crime, we will remain trapped in this cycle.

Let us not wait until another child lies on a mattress in a military cell to realise what he has never had.

Let that mattress be our wake-up call.

So, to President Tinubu, to the NSA Ribadu, to the Defence Chief, and to every governor who still believes in this country: The war will not be won on the battlefield alone; it will be won in the classroom, in the family compound, in the village square, and in the heart of every Nigerian.

Before we talk about weapons, let’s talk about mattresses.

Haroon Aremu Abiodun, An Author, public Affairs Analyst, PRNigeria fellow and wrote in via exponentumera@gmail.com.

By Nasiru Ibrahim 

Nigeria’s debt situation has become more confusing and concerning in recent years. After removing fuel subsidies, which had always been used to justify heavy borrowing, many expected a change in direction. But surprisingly, debt has continued to rise—and sharply. 

In less than two years, Bola Ahmed Tinubu’s administration has added over ₦62 trillion to our total debt. This comes on top of Muhammadu Buhari’s already heavy debt legacy. Yet if you check the 2025 budget, it still carries a huge deficit. This is despite relatively stable oil prices and a slight improvement in crude oil production. So, something is clearly not adding up.

How can a country that has removed one of its biggest expenditures—fuel subsidies—still be borrowing more than ever? Is it that the revenue reforms aren’t working, or is this a deeper issue with how we manage our economy? These are real questions that need honest answers. The reality is that Nigeria’s current borrowing trend is worrying not just because of the amount, but also because of the manner in which it’s happening and what it reflects.

According to the Debt Management Office, as of March 31, 2025, Nigeria’s public debt stood at ₦149.39 trillion. Tinubu alone has added ₦62.01 trillion to that figure in under two years. Now, let’s compare that with previous administrations: Goodluck Jonathan borrowed ₦5.9 trillion in five years. Buhari borrowed ₦74.78 trillion in eight years—including the controversial “Ways and Means” borrowing from the Central Bank of Nigeria (CBN). That’s how bad things have gotten.

“Ways and Means” are short-term loans from the Central Bank to the Federal Government, intended to cover urgent expenses such as paying salaries or addressing unexpected shortfalls. Think of it like an overdraft facility. But the law is clear—the CBN Act, 2007 (Section 38) states that the Federal Government can only borrow up to 5% of the previous year’s revenue from the CBN, and it must be repaid in the same year. Under Buhari, this law was ignored. His government borrowed ₦22.7 trillion through Ways and Means, without obtaining proper approval from the National Assembly.

This ₦22.7 trillion had not been reflected in official debt figures for a long time. It only became part of Nigeria’s domestic debt record in May 2023, when Buhari’s government securitised it—basically converted it into long-term bonds. That move alone caused the total public debt to jump from ₦44.06 trillion at the end of 2022 to ₦87.38 trillion by June 2023. That’s a massive increase in just six months.

Now, some economists argue that Tinubu’s debt figures appear worse primarily due to the exchange rate. That argument is simple: Nigeria borrows in foreign currencies, such as the dollar, euro, or yuan, but records the debt in naira. So when the naira weakens, the same dollar loan becomes much bigger in naira terms.

Let’s look at the exchange rate across administrations. Under Jonathan, the exchange rate was around ₦ 157 to $1 in 2015. Under Buhari, the exchange rate was ₦770/$ in 2023. And under Tinubu, the exchange rate is now approximately ₦1536/$ as of 2025. So when you convert the same external loan, the naira value explodes as the currency weakens. Just this exchange rate movement has added ₦29.75 trillion to Tinubu’s external debt and ₦5.9 trillion to Buhari’s.

To properly check if the debt spike is mainly due to FX changes, let’s fix the exchange rate at ₦157/$ for all the administrations and see how much was actually borrowed. The formula is simple:

Old Dollar Debt × New Exchange Rate – Old Dollar Debt × Old Exchange Rate.

Using the DMO’s external debt figure of $38.81 billion in 2023:
$38.81bn × ₦770 = ₦29.85 trillion
$38.81bn × ₦1536 = ₦59.63 trillion
₦59.63 trillion – ₦29.85 trillion = ₦29.78 trillion

So, if the exchange rate had remained at ₦157/$, Nigeria’s external debt of $42.46 billion in 2025 would have been approximately ₦6.6 trillion. Under that fixed exchange rate, Jonathan’s total external borrowing would have been approximately ₦1.07 trillion over five years. Buhari’s about ₦4.48 trillion in eight years.

Tinubu’s about ₦1.12 trillion in under two years. This means if Tinubu continues at this pace, he’ll hit Buhari’s figure—₦4.48 trillion—in about eight years. Yes, the exchange rate plays a significant role. But that’s not the whole story.

Others argue that Tinubu’s debt problem is not just about FX. It’s also about spending discipline. Unlike Buhari, Tinubu removed fuel subsidies and slightly increased oil production (1.5–1.6 million barrels per day, compared to Buhari’s average of 1.2–1.3 million barrels), and customs and tax revenue also improved. Buhari faced more challenging conditions—global oil crashes, two recessions in 2016 and 2020, the COVID-19 pandemic, and high subsidy payments—during his early years. So, Tinubu had more room to save, but instead, borrowing has increased.

The 2025 budget projects a deficit of ₦13.08 trillion. It assumes oil at $77.96 per barrel and production of 2.06 million barrels per day. However, in reality, March production was only 1.65 million barrels per day, including condensates. And as of July 8, Brent crude was $70.20 and WTI was $68.42—both below the assumed price. That means revenue projections may fall short, and the government will likely borrow even more.

Tinubu has already requested $21.6 billion in new loans. In May 2025, Reuters reported that he also asked the National Assembly to approve loans of €2.2 billion, ¥15 billion (approximately $104 million), and an additional $2 billion in domestic loans. That’s not all.

The Federal Government also secured a $747 million syndicated external loan to fund Phase 1, Section 1 of the Lagos-Calabar Coastal Highway—from Victoria Island to Eleko Village. At ₦1536/$, this loan adds ₦1.147 trillion to the debt. The lenders include Deutsche Bank, First Abu Dhabi Bank, Afreximbank, and Zenith Bank, among others. The Islamic Corporation for the Insurance of Investment and Export Credit (ICIEC) is providing insurance. That brings Tinubu’s total borrowing to about ₦63.157 trillion in under two years.

This highway is being built under a Public-Private Partnership using an EPC+F model. The road is over 70% complete and is designed using CRCP technology—concrete with a 50-year lifespan and low maintenance requirements. While the loan adds to debt, it shows some confidence from global investors and introduces a financing model that shares risk between the government and private firms.

Now to the bigger picture. As of 2024, Nigeria’s debt-to-GDP ratio is around 25.1%, based on ₦144.67 trillion in debt and a nominal GDP of about $375 billion. That means debt accounts for about one-quarter of the economy—not yet alarming, but becoming risky if borrowing continues at this rate. What’s more worrying is the cost of servicing debt.

In 2024, debt service took up 4.1% of GDP—up from 3.7% in 2023 (AfDB report). That’s a lot. Imagine 4.1% of the entire economy going towards just paying off debt, instead of building schools, roads, or hospitals. Even worse, the debt service-to-revenue ratio rose from 76.86% in 2023 to 77.4% in 2024 (APA News). This means more than three-quarters of government revenue is now used to repay debt. That leaves very little for anything else. That’s not sustainable.

As Economics graduates, the way forward is clear. First, we need to depoliticise how we manage public finances. Countries like Chile, Sweden, and the UK have independent Fiscal Councils that enforce rules like debt limits and balanced budgets. Nigeria needs something like that to restore discipline and rebuild investor trust.

Second, loans must be tied to development goals—not used for consumption. Borrowing should be used for essential services like roads, electricity, and digital infrastructure, rather than paying salaries or covering bloated administrative costs. Rwanda and Ethiopia have shown how debt used for infrastructure can boost exports and growth. A cost-benefit analysis should accompany every loan.

Third, we must cut waste and off-budget liabilities. That includes fuel subsidies, failing state-owned enterprises, and unauthorised bailouts. Ghana passed a Fiscal Responsibility Act in 2018, capped its deficit at 5% of GDP, and ran audits that exposed massive leakages. Nigeria can cut borrowing by 30–40% just by following that path.

Fourth, improve tax collection—not by harassing small traders, but through fairness and the use of technology. Indonesia raised its tax-to-GDP ratio by digitising filing, automating risk detection, and linking tax IDs with national identity numbers. Nigeria can do the same—target high earners and multinationals instead of informal workers.

Fifth, public-private partnerships and syndicated loans, such as the Lagos-Calabar road, shouldn’t be used to conceal debt. They should help us attract private capital, share risks, and deliver real development. Countries like Morocco and Kenya make their PPP contracts public. Nigeria should also strive for greater transparency.

Finally, if things get out of hand, we can consider debt restructuring—but only as a last resort and if tied to fundamental reforms. Ghana restructured its debt in 2023 by extending maturities and cutting interest under IMF guidance. But what made it work was reform—cutting subsidies and improving tax systems. Without reform, restructuring solves nothing.

This is the time for Nigeria to act. If we continue on this path, we are only postponing a more profound crisis. But with the right decisions, we can still change direction.

Ibrahim is a graduate of Economics from Bayero University, Kano. He can be reached via nasirfirji4@gmail.com.

By Isyaka Laminu Badamasi 

A few months ago, I wrote about the popular one-way routes in Bauchi metropolis, where I drew the attention of the relevant authorities to the need to address the unethical behaviours of some motorists and other road users who openly violate traffic regulations on our major roads and streets in the metropolis. To my dismay, the situation is worsening by the day. 

On my way to and from the office every day, I usually encounter frightening experiences at this junction, which has become a theatre for traffic violators, accidents, and altercations. People openly, without considering their safety or that of other road users, cross the road, either through a U-turn or a median. This is not peculiar to Keke Napep and Achaba riders, but also applies to cars, lorries, and trucks.

For months, I never witnessed the traffic warders or staff of the Bauchi Road Traffic Agency (BAROTA) working to avert the routine occurrences of road accidents at the junction. I’m not sure if this is another ‘new normal’ in our way of doing things. 

An Achaba rider once informed me that all these were a result of the ongoing flyover construction at the central market roundabout. He added that, “as soon as the project is completed, the traffic violation will be history”. Others believe that a roundabout should be constructed at the junction, as it is for the Bakaro-Shagari and Karofi junctions behind the Bauchi correctional facility. I’m not sure if this is possible.

Whatever the solution may be, I am appealing to the BAROTA, as a matter of public interest, to deploy a special team at the junction for 24-hour surveillance to ensure the safety of people’s lives and properties. Officers of the agency were always seen at the newly constructed Muda Lawal market road and/or under the Wunti flyover, arresting those who parked their vehicles incorrectly and Achaba riders; why is this junction neglected?

Recently, the Chairman, House Committee of Roads and Transport of the Bauchi State House of Assembly, Hon Engr. Garba Adamu engaged officials of the agency to discuss some important issues. I’m not sure if this particular case is part of their discussion.

The media houses should also embark on rigorous sensitisation, thanks to Albarka Radio for taking the lead in this regard. Religious and traditional institutions, as well as youth groups, should also utilise their respective domains in preaching good morals, which include abiding by traffic rules and regulations. All the other places I mentioned in my earlier write-up are still dangerous. The Tashan Babiye and Bayam Bata communities should form a volunteer team to address this lingering issue.

The picture is from the internet.

Isyaka Laminu Badamasi is the Team Lead, Initiatives for Sustainable Development (I4SD).