Opinion

By Mubarak Umar

There are television series you watch for entertainment, and there are those that remind you what storytelling is truly capable of.

Matan Gida, created by Abubakar Bashir Maishadda, is one of those rare productions.

For years, Hausa television has largely remained within the familiar territory of domestic disputes, predictable romances, and neatly resolved family conflicts. Audiences have become accustomed to stories that rarely challenge expectations. Matan Gida breaks away from that tradition with remarkable confidence.

The series is driven by a screenplay that feels fearless. I can sense that when Ibrahim Birniwa opened his PC to draft Matan Gidan, he wasn’t writing to satisfy convention; he was writing to provoke thought. The script explores uncomfortable realities, moral ambiguities, power dynamics, and the hidden complexities in our everyday lives, subjects that many filmmakers have hesitated to approach. Every episode feels intentional, with dialogue that carries weight and scenes that linger long after the credits roll.

The entire cast truly deserves equal praise. The ensemble is balanced, with each actor bringing a distinct personality and energy to the screen. There is no sense of characters competing for attention; instead, every performance contributes meaningfully to the larger narrative. It is this diversity of characterisation that gives Matan Gida its emotional richness and realism.

Abubakar Maishadda deserves credit for trusting a script that challenges Kannywood’s conventional cinema. Because producing a series like Matan Gida is a creative statement. It proves that audiences are ready for mature, thought-provoking stories.

And now comes the real test.

With Season Two premiering today, expectations are high. The first season didn’t just tell a complex story—it raised the standard in Kannywood. Audiences will be expecting deeper conflicts, higher emotional stakes, more character arcs, and answers to the questions deliberately left hanging. More importantly, viewers will expect the series to preserve the boldness that made the first season stand out rather than retreat into familiar territory.

If Ibrahim Birniwa’s pen remains as fearless as it was in Season One, and if the series continues on the pedestal that challenges both the industry and its audience, Matan Gida has every chance of becoming one of the defining works of modern Hausa television.

By Ibraheem A. Waziri

Moses E. Ochonu, Boko Haram: The Past of the Present Upheaval, University of California Press, Oakland, 2026.

There are books that inform, books that provoke, and, rarer still, books that compel you to interrogate not merely their subject but the assumptions through which it has long been misread. Moses E. Ochonu’s Boko Haram: The Past of the Present Upheaval belongs, in large measure, to this last category. It is a serious, learned, and often illuminating work. It is also, at a foundational level, a work that mistakes genealogy for inheritance. In a region where the stakes of historical narrative are measured in mass graves rather than academic citations, that error deserves honest reckoning.

Let me be clear from the outset: Ochonu is no lightweight, and no serious reviewer should pretend otherwise. His central argument, that Boko Haram did not emerge in a historical vacuum but must be situated within a long tradition of Islamic reform, dissidence, and theological contestation in Northern Nigeria, is not only defensible but necessary. His four-phase map of postcolonial Muslim dissidence, from Sheikh Abubakar Gumi’s pragmatic shiga a gyara (enter to reform) politics, through the revolutionary “Islam Only” radicalism of the 1980s, to the Salafi fence-sitting of the 1990s, to the full-blown jihadism of Muhammad Yusuf, is genuinely useful. His insistence that Boko Haram be studied as a rational, calculating actor rather than dismissed as inexplicable barbarism reflects an intellectual courage sorely needed in the debate. All of this deserves acknowledgement. 

But respect for a scholar’s craft does not require silence about where it occasionally leads him astray. After sustained engagement with this book, I find that Ochonu’s historical genealogy – meticulous and intellectually compelling as it is – ultimately commits the cardinal error of confusing proximity with equivalence. That the Fodiawa jihad and Boko Haram invoke similar texts, deploy similar vocabulary, and emerge from overlapping cultural landscapes does not make them participants in the same civilisational project. Resemblance is not identity. And a genealogy is emphatically not a pedigree.

The fact that Boko Haram claims Dan Fodio does not mean Dan Fodio claims Boko Haram. Throughout history, movements of radically different character have invoked the same ancestors. Revolutionary France invoked Rome. Such invocation tells us about the claimant; it tells us nothing reliable about the legacy claimed.

The Missing Dimension: What the Genealogy Leaves Out

Ochonu’s framework operates almost entirely along the axis of theological and political dissidence, the reformist impulse, the grievance against corrupt rulers, and the appeal to textual authority. What it leaves almost entirely out of view is the civilisational dimension of Northern Nigerian history: the long, patient, and extraordinarily durable process by which the Hausa-speaking world built not only political orders but also moral architectures, shared systems of meaning, obligation, hierarchy, and dignity that survived dynasties, empires, conquest, and colonial transformation alike.

That moral architecture did not originate with Dan Fodio. It was already ancient when the Fodiawa arrived. The old Hausa city-states and the Kanem-Bornu, which Ochonu himself acknowledges as a sophisticated Islamic civilisation predating Sokoto by centuries, had already created the conditions for a complex society organised around recognisable concepts of hierarchy, obligation, and social responsibility. The Fodiawa did not create this order. They found it, deepened it, gave it sharper Islamic articulation, and codified it in law and administrative structures. This is the real achievement of the nineteenth-century jihad, not that it overthrew the existing order, but that it built upon and consolidated what was already there. The Caliphate succeeded because it was, in the deepest sense, continuous with the civilisation it reformed.

At the centre of that civilisation lies a concept absent from every reformist movement Ochonu analyses, whether in the Fodiawa corpus, the MSSN anthems, or a single Boko Haram sermon. It is the concept that the late Anthony H. M. Kirk-Greene famously described in his landmark essay, “Mutumin Kirki: The Concept of Good Person in Hausa.” Mutumin Kirki, The Good Person, is the civilisational ideal at the heart of Hausa moral order.

The Mutumin Kirki ideal captures something no purely theological analysis can adequately convey: that social legitimacy in Hausa society derives not from ideological purity or reformist credentials, but from kirki, the cluster of virtues encompassing mutunci (dignity), kunya (shame as a moral conscience), responsibility, restraint, and recognition of one’s obligations within the social order. The framework placed duties on Sarakuna and Malamai alike, gave meaning to the roles of Attajirai and ordinary farmers, and even extended its logic to those society defined as marginal. Everyone knew where they stood. Everyone knew what was expected. Dignity required discipline. Power required restraint. And knowledge without wisdom was understood to be incomplete, even dangerous.

Colonialism, for all its violence and extractive logic, largely preserved the structure within which this framework operated. Indirect rule in Northern Nigeria worked precisely because the existing institutions already possessed legitimacy. The Emirates, the Alkali courts, and the hierarchies of office were incorporated into, and in some respects reinforced within, the colonial administrative framework. The resulting order was imperfect, as every historical product is. But it remained broadly legible to the moral universe the Kirki framework had constructed over centuries. In this sense, each successive political order, from Kanem-Bornu to the Sokoto Caliphate to colonial administration, can be understood as a successive tenant of the same civilisational operating system, adapting it, straining it, but ultimately operating within its logic.

The Verdict: Why Boko Haram Is Different, Categorically

Against this backdrop, the comparison between Boko Haram and the Dan Fodio jihad does not merely strain; it collapses. The Fodiawa jihad, whatever its human costs, was oriented towards institution-building. It produced a legal system, an administrative hierarchy, an educational network, a scholarly tradition, a literary culture, and a deepened moral framework that placed obligations on rulers and ruled alike. It expanded the universe of the Mutumin Kirki ideal; it did not attack it.

Boko Haram has done the exact opposite, systematically. It has attacked schools, murdered scholars, destroyed markets, abducted children, and reduced entire communities to rubble. It has not built a single institution that a future generation will inherit with gratitude. It has not produced a single scholar whose work will outlast the insurgency. It has not deepened the social hierarchies in which dignity and obligation are mutually reinforcing; it has weaponised those on the margins of society and enslaved those it was supposed to protect. Whatever else this represents, it is a direct assault on the civilisational operating system that both Kanem-Bornu and the Sokoto Caliphate spent centuries constructing.

Ochonu acknowledges this divergence; he explicitly notes that Boko Haram’s positions “directly contradict major aspects of the Fodiawa reformist creed and statecraft.” Yet within his framework, these divergences occupy a subordinate position. Structurally and rhetorically, the main assertion is the connection. And it is that connection, Boko Haram as participant in Northern Nigeria’s reformist DNA, that lingers in the mind and provides precisely the legitimacy Boko Haram’s ideologues have always craved. This is not a small risk. It is the central vulnerability of an otherwise admirable intellectual project.

Those of us who have observed Northern Nigerian politics, society, and intellectual life across decades, including pundits and commentators who know this civilisation not only from the archive but from the inside, find this framing, however sophisticated its execution, essentially uninitiated. It reads like the work of someone who has mastered the grammar of Northern Nigerian Islamic history with enormous care but has not quite absorbed its spirit: the civilisational confidence, the deep institutional memory, and the quiet but unmistakable recognition shared by virtually every segment of Northern Nigerian society not affiliated with Boko Haram that this movement does not belong to the tradition it claims. It is not reform. It is rupture, a specifically anti-civilisational rupture that the region’s history has not witnessed in any comparable form.

A movement may quote the same texts as its predecessors and still negate them. The Dan Fodio movement built what endured. Boko Haram destroys what was built. That distinction is not a footnote to the history of Northern Nigeria. It is the history of Northern Nigeria.

Final Reckoning: The Question History Is Actually Asking

Ochonu’s book asks: Where did Boko Haram come from? It is a vital question, and the book answers it with real skill. But the deeper question, the one the civilisational history of this region most insistently raises, is: What does Boko Haram’s existence reveal about the resilience of the moral architecture it attacks?

The long view of Northern Nigerian history suggests this: the Kirki operating system has survived before. It survived the disorder preceding the Fodiawa jihad. It survived the internal rebellions of the post-jihadi Caliphate period. It survived British conquest and the dismantling of the Sokoto political order. It survived the postcolonial state’s repeated failures to honour the obligations the Caliphate tradition placed on rulers. It did so because it is not merely a political arrangement or a theological position. It is a civilisational inheritance, embedded in culture, language, social practice, and moral imagination, that no single insurgency, however violent, has yet to erase.

Moses Ochonu has given us an important, serious, and deeply researched book. He has expanded our understanding of the landscape in which Boko Haram emerged, and he has done so with intellectual integrity. But genealogy, to repeat, is not pedigree. The real story of Northern Nigeria is not the story of rebellion. It is the story of civilisation, the long, patient construction of a moral society anchored in dignity, responsibility, learning, and character. Measured against that standard, Boko Haram appears not as the culmination of Northern Nigerian history but as its most violent recent attempt at self-erasure.

And on that measure, the verdict of civilisation itself remains, as it has always been, clear: this is not our inheritance. This is our wound.

By Abdurrazak Mukhtar

The late John Okafor, popularly known as Mr Ibu, spent decades making Nigeria laugh. He gave his best years to Nollywood, entertaining millions across Africa with his unique comic genius and irreplaceable screen presence. He was more than an actor. He was a cultural institution. Yet today, the story surrounding his estate and his family’s welfare is anything but funny. It is a tragedy of greed, betrayal, and inexcusable injustice.

Mr Ibu rose from humble beginnings to become one of the most recognisable faces in Nigerian cinema. His comedy was not merely entertainment. It was a mirror held up to society, reflecting the struggles and absurdities of everyday Nigerian life with warmth and wit. When he fell ill, Nigerians did not hesitate. From all walks of life, fans, colleagues, and well-wishers contributed generously to his medical bills, demonstrating the depth of love this nation had for him. That outpouring of support was a testament to the kind of man he was and the joy he had brought to so many homes.

Reports indicate that Mr Ibu left behind significant assets, including properties in Lagos, Enugu, and Asaba, several cars, and substantial funds. Beyond his personal estate, generous Nigerians donated large sums during his illness to cover his medical treatment. Additional funds were raised at the time of his burial. By all reasonable accounts, there was more than enough to ensure that his widow and young children would be protected and provided for in the years ahead. But that is not what happened.

His son, Somotochukwu, came forward with a deeply troubling allegation. He claimed that his stepmother, Stella, sold a Lagos property for ₦60 million, an Enugu property for approximately ₦17 million, and another in Asaba for ₦11 million, yet he received only ₦40,000, presented not as his rightful share of his father’s estate, but as a personal gift. Furthermore, family members accused one another of embezzling the very donations that kind-hearted Nigerians had sacrificed to give during Mr Ibu’s illness.

The consequences of this alleged mismanagement are not abstract. They are visible and heartbreaking. Mr Ibu’s widow is reportedly fetching water from a well because she cannot afford her rent. Three young children, aged 10, 12, and 14, have been forced to drop out of school. The family’s electricity was disconnected for months, leaving them to depend on neighbours to charge their phones. These are the children of a Nollywood legend, reduced to conditions that no Nigerian child should endure.

This is not a private family matter to be quietly swept aside. It is a public failure with public consequences. The funds donated by ordinary Nigerians for Mr Ibu’s treatment were not gifts to any individual. They were acts of collective love for a man who belonged to the nation. Those who received and managed those funds bear a moral and legal responsibility to account for every naira. Silence in the face of such allegations is not neutrality. It is complicity.

The Actors Guild of Nigeria, Nollywood stakeholders, and relevant authorities must not look away. If funds donated publicly were misappropriated, the law provides remedies, and those remedies must be pursued. Transparency is not optional in matters such as these.

To the family of Mr Ibu, this moment calls for maturity, unity, and honesty. Whatever grievances exist between the widow and the children from other relationships, they must not be settled at the expense of the innocent. Those children did not choose the circumstances of their birth. They did not create the disputes dividing this family. They deserve access to education, shelter, and a dignified life, not as charity, but as their rightful inheritance from a father who worked hard all his life.

It is strongly advised that all parties submit to a transparent, legally supervised process for the distribution of Mr Ibu’s estate. A lawyer or court-appointed administrator should be engaged immediately to protect the interests of all dependents, especially the minor children. Settling this matter in the media through emotional appeals and counter-accusations serves no one, least of all the children.

The story of Mr Ibu’s family is not an isolated one. Too many Nigerian entertainers have died, leaving their families in poverty, not because they did not earn, but because there were no structures in place to protect what they built. The entertainment industry must begin to take the welfare of its members seriously, not only in death but in life. Wills, estate planning, life insurance, and welfare funds are not luxuries. They are necessities that every serious professional body must promote and facilitate.

The Actors Guild of Nigeria and similar bodies should establish a dedicated welfare framework that provides legal and financial guidance to members, ensuring that what happened to Mr Ibu’s family does not become a pattern.

Mr Ibu gave Nigeria laughter when it needed it most. He gave the film industry his talent, his energy, and ultimately his health. In return, the very least Nigeria owed him was the assurance that his children would be cared for and that his legacy would be honoured with integrity.

It is not too late to make it right. Mr Ibu’s children are still young. They still have futures ahead of them. Whoever holds the keys to their father’s estate must open that door with justice, fairness, and the fear of God. Because a man who made millions smile deserves far better than to be remembered as a cautionary tale about family greed.

He deserved better. His children deserve better. And Nigeria must do better.

By Maimuna Katuka Aliyu

Imagine your body as a bustling city, an intricate network of systems powered by one indispensable element—water. Think of waking groggy, with a mouth as parched as desert sand. You might blame a late night or too much caffeine, but often it is your body’s quiet alarm bell, warning that its most vital fuel is running low.

Just as electricity keeps a city alive, water is the current that powers every cell. When it runs short, it is like a blackout in a metropolis, order gives way to chaos, systems slow down, and the risk of breakdown multiplies.

Dehydration rarely storms in with fanfare. It slips in unnoticed, first a dry mouth, then a slight headache, then a fog that blurs your thoughts. Even mild dehydration can dull your memory, weaken your focus, and pull down productivity.

The brain, that grand conductor of your daily rhythm, begins to miss its cues. For students, it may mean struggling to concentrate; for adults, the risk of poor decisions at work grows sharper.

In a hydrated body, blood flows like a gentle river. But when water is scarce, blood thickens into sludge, forcing the heart to labour harder. Soon, dizziness, weakness, and muscle cramps follow.

The skin, often dismissed as just a covering, loses its glow and elasticity, while the kidneys, the body’s tireless custodians, send out distress signals in the form of dark urine.

Our fast-paced lives only sharpen this risk. Long days under the burning sun, intense workouts, endless travels without a sip of water, each chips away at the body’s reserves.

And here lies the irony: by the time you feel thirsty, you may already be dehydrated. That is why hydration is not just a habit; it is preventive care, the quiet maintenance that keeps the “city” of your body humming, your mind sharp, your heart steady, and your skin radiant.

The symptoms of dehydration must never be taken lightly. It may begin with thirst and fatigue, but left ignored, it can escalate into confusion, rapid heartbeat, or even life-threatening complications.                                                  

Kidney stones, urinary tract infections, and heatstroke are some of its harsh penalties. The body’s cry for water is one alarm you cannot afford to silence.

Water is the simplest cure, but sometimes the body demands more, electrolytes to restore balance, oral solutions to replenish salts, or, in severe cases, intravenous fluids under medical care.

Hydration is not merely about pouring in water; it is about restoring the delicate balance that sustains life. Yet in the rush of daily living, hydration often takes the back seat. We forget that this basic elixir is both personal and societal.

In regions where clean drinking water is scarce, dehydration becomes a public health emergency, threatening the young and elderly most. Governments are pressed to act, building infrastructure, ensuring access, and educating citizens.

The cost of neglect is staggering. Health systems already stretched thin must spend resources treating preventable conditions, diverting funds from education and wellness.

Economies pay the price as productivity falters and budgets strain. Hydration, so simple and so often ignored, becomes not just a personal duty but a societal challenge.

Climate change sharpens the danger. Rising heat, shrinking water sources, and punishing droughts expose millions to the harsh reality of thirst. Water, once taken for granted, is now a policy priority, a sustainability crisis, and a public health concern rolled into one.

But the solutions lie within reach. Choosing water over sugary or caffeinated drinks. Carrying a bottle as a habit. Eating water-rich fruits like cucumbers and watermelon. Schools, offices, and public spaces can lead with hydration stations and campaigns.

When society makes water accessible, it empowers individuals to make the right choice. Ultimately, prevention remains the wisest cure. Sip steadily through the day, not just when thirst demands it.

Treat water not as a chore but as a daily act of self-care, a quiet gift that renews every cell. The next time you lift a glass to your lips, see it as more than hydration—it is your lifeline, your body’s power source, the fuel that keeps you thriving.

Hydration is not just a lifestyle tip. It is the foundation of health, the difference between fatigue and vitality, between a body faltering and a body flourishing. It is the lifeline every human being needs to live fully and thrive.

Maimuna Katuka Aliyu wrote via munat815@gmail.com.

By Fatih Lawal-Garu 

The editorial published by the Nigerian Tribune on May 14, 2026, titled “Divorce: The Kaduna woman who has nowhere to go,” raises an emotionally compelling and socially important issue. It tells the painful story of a 44-year-old woman in Kaduna who, after three decades of marriage and raising ten children, now faces uncertainty and displacement following the collapse of her marriage. No reasonable person can read such an account without sympathy. 

The plight of divorced women abandoned without adequate support is a serious social concern that deserves national reflection, institutional response, and moral accountability. In that regard, the editorial performed an important public service by drawing attention to the suffering of vulnerable women who often find themselves economically and emotionally exposed after divorce. However, while the editorial correctly highlights the woman’s distressing condition, it unfortunately places the blame on Sharī’ah law itself. In doing so, it arrives at a sweeping conclusion that deserves careful scrutiny.

The editorial argued that “in a justice system that appears discriminatory against women and girls, the likelihood was high that the judge would have ordered the forceful eviction of this woman if her ex-husband had not volunteered to pay for a new accommodation.” This statement is problematic for several reasons. 

First, it amounts to a premature judgment regarding a matter that has not yet been fully adjudicated by a competent Sharī’ah court. It assumes judicial bias and predicts an unjust verdict before due legal process has run its course. Such conclusions risk undermining public confidence in the judicial system based on speculation rather than evidence. More fundamentally, the editorial goes further to characterise Shari’ah as “oppressive,” “unfavourable,” and “discriminatory,” implying that Islamic law itself is inherently unjust to women. This is where the central analytical flaw emerges.

The unfortunate experience of one woman—even a deeply painful one—cannot reasonably serve as sufficient evidence to indict an entire legal and moral framework followed by millions across centuries and societies. Doing so conflates implementation failures with failures in principle. The Kaduna woman’s suffering is not proof of the failure of Sharī’ah. Rather, it reflects the failure of individuals, institutions, and society to properly uphold the rights and protections that Sharī’ah itself explicitly provides. 

Many injustices wrongly attributed to Sharī’ah are, in reality, products of harmful cultural practices, ignorance of Islamic legal obligations, weak institutional enforcement, economic neglect, and social irresponsibility. Islam did not establish marriage as a prison, nor did it sanction the abandonment of women after years of sacrifice and commitment.

On the contrary, Islamic law imposes profound responsibilities upon husbands to act with justice, compassion, dignity, and accountability—particularly during divorce. The Qur’an itself contains explicit protections for divorced women. 

In Surah At-Talaq (65:1), divorced women are not to be expelled from their homes unjustly. In verse 65:6, husbands are instructed to provide accommodation according to their means. Surah Al-Baqarah (2:231) forbids oppressive treatment during divorce, while verse 2:241 mandates fair provision for divorced women. These are not marginal principles within Islamic law; they are foundational ethical obligations. The tragedy, therefore, lies not in the law itself, but in the failure to implement it faithfully and justly. To portray this painful incident as evidence that Sharī’ah is inherently oppressive overlooks the extensive protections embedded within Islamic legal tradition. It also ignores an uncomfortable reality: abuse, neglect, and injustice occur under virtually every legal and social system when institutions fail, and human beings abandon moral responsibility.

Indeed, women face abandonment, economic hardship, and domestic injustice in societies governed by secular legal systems as well. No legal framework—religious or secular—is immune from misuse when justice is poorly administered. The deeper issue exposed by this case is the persistence of harmful social attitudes toward divorced women, inadequate welfare and family support systems, poor legal literacy, and weak enforcement mechanisms for protecting vulnerable individuals after marital breakdown.

These are societal failures that demand reform, education, and stronger accountability—not the wholesale condemnation of a divinely grounded legal tradition.

Critiquing the abuse of Shari’ah is legitimate. Critiquing failures in judicial implementation is equally necessary. But condemning Sharī’ah itself on the basis of individual misconduct or institutional shortcomings is intellectually unsound and ultimately counterproductive.

If anything, cases like this should encourage a renewed commitment to proper Islamic legal education, ethical family conduct, judicial fairness, and stronger institutional protection for women—not the dismissal of Sharī’ah altogether.

To mistake the abuse of a system for the failure of the system itself is a serious analytical error. It shifts attention away from the actual causes of injustice and risks obstructing meaningful solutions.

The real challenge before society is therefore not whether Sharī’ah is just, but whether those entrusted with implementing it are willing to uphold its principles with sincerity, knowledge, compassion, and fairness.

That is where the conversation truly belongs.

Fatih Lawal-Garu is a Mass Communication graduate from Bayero University, Kano, and can be reached at ibnkamilgaru1@gmail.com.

By Aisha Musa Auyo 

Innalillahi wa inna ilaihi raji’un. I am still struggling to absorb the shock of Baba Ahmad’s passing. Saying goodbye to a father, mentor, and teacher whose impact on my life cannot be overstated is one of the hardest things I have ever had to do.

I owe my Doctorate in Educational Psychology entirely to him. Among all the paths I could have taken in life, he was the one who steered me toward this field.

I was sixteen, in my first year, when I walked into Educational Psychology 001 and met Prof. Ahmad for the first time. Back then, I resented studying education when all I had ever wanted was medicine. But his intellectual energy, his rigour, and his sheer passion changed something in me. I remember thinking, so there’s a medical side to education, a psychology that isn’t strictly clinical. This is it. This is what I should specialise in. The workings of the human mind had always fascinated me, and the learning theories he introduced us to were captivating, made simple by his rare gift for turning abstract ideas into something anyone could grasp.

That evening, I told my father about this brilliant professor. He smiled. “We went to secondary school together, in Hadejia,” he said. “Prof. Abubakar, too, from educational psychology, also from Hadejia. They’re your fathers as well. You should go and greet them sometime.”

When I finally did, before I could even say a word, he looked at me and said my name. “You’re Aisha Auyo. Your resemblance to your father is striking.” We wouldn’t cross paths again until I returned for my master’s.

He was nothing short of supportive through it all. During my defence, he could be stern, but it was the kind of sternness that steadied rather than shook you. “Aisha, kinga, dukanmu nan mu iyayenki ne. Ki kwantar da hankalinki.” Aisha, look, all of us here are your parents. If there’s anything you don’t understand, we will always be here to help and guide you.”

Whenever Prof. Ahmad spoke about psychology and research, you understood immediately that you were in the presence of someone who had mastered his craft. There was no corner of educational psychology, no angle, including its Islamic dimensions, that he hadn’t explored. He designed curricula, taught, researched, supervised, and mentored thousands. How he managed to keep expanding his knowledge alongside everything else he carried never ceased to amaze me. Dedication, commitment, grit, passion….. that rare combination made him a force wherever he stood.

His mind absorbed and retained information in a way few others could. Many of us in educational psychology drew our energy from him. He pushed people to study even on the days they had no will left to. His influence stretched across Northern Nigeria and beyond.

Students called him the “Dodo” of every defence session because if you tried to cut corners or talk your way around a gap in your work, he would catch it from a single glance. He could smell unpreparedness from a mile away, and he had no patience for laziness or carelessness, which led some to assume he lacked warmth. He didn’t. He was simply a principled man who valued hard work and honesty. Behind that exacting exterior was a humble, selfless, generous soul who helped more people than most of us will ever know.

I remember a conference in Gombe, when he learned I was staying with family friends instead of with him. He was furious and immediately tried to change the arrangement. “Aisha ba ki da inda ya fi cancanta ki zauna fiye da gidana a garin Gombe”. Aisha, there is nowhere more fitting for you to stay in Gombe than my house. He was on sabbatical at the time. When my hosts came to collect me, he kept insisting, “Diyata ce fa. Babanta yana nan” …She is my daughter. Her father is right here. Eventually, we compromised: two days with my hosts, two days with him. He opened his home to so many students, and those days were full of warmth and laughter.

When I finished my master’s defence, relieved and overjoyed that I was finally done, he called my father to congratulate him and urged him to push me back for a PhD. My father called and said, “Babanki Dr Kaugama ya ce ki dawo PhD”. Your father, Kaugama, says you should return for your PhD. I told him I would, just not yet, in sha Allah, someday soon.

My father never let it go. Every time we spoke, while I was in Ogun, he reminded me about the PhD. Your father, Ahmad, says you will have all the support you need. That was how I found myself buying the form and sitting the aptitude test. When he saw me in the exam hall, he lit up. “Aisha, I know you’ll ace this,” he said. “Kina da ƙoƙari da himma” Those words carried me through. I told myself I would not let down everyone who believed in me. Alhamdulillah, I passed and was given admission number 00001 that year.

During my PhD coursework exams, he once noticed my hands trembling and asked what was wrong. “I’m hungry, sir, I haven’t eaten,” I admitted. I had been reading and lost track of time. He told me, plainly, that as an educational psychologist, I ought to know better that the brain runs on food. He said, You need it to read, to understand, to recall, to organise your thoughts. He asked what I wanted to eat and went out himself to arrange it. I couldn’t write a word until I had eaten. Once I was full, he said, “Now continue your paper. I won’t add a single second for you. Time off is time off, for everyone.” I wrote as fast as I could and managed to answer every question. I never made that mistake again.

After my PhD viva, I asked to take a photo with him. “Aisha, ba ni da lokaci,” he teased. “Baba, you forced me to come back for this program,” I reminded him. “Remember how you called my father?” He laughed. “Yes, I remember everything.” “Then I’m forcing you to take this picture with me,” I said. “You’re part of my academic journey. You’re the reason I fell in love with educational psychology.” We took a few photos together and said our goodbyes.

Baba Ahmad was a father to many. His home was always full of orphans and relatives from Kaugama. He was a comrade, a tireless community man, a teacher in the truest sense. His death is an immense loss to his immediate family, to the NISEP family, and to every endeavour he poured himself into. May his contributions to academia continue to benefit him in this life and the next.

When I heard the news, my first thought was: Will he meet my father there? Allah ya yi musu rahama da gafara duka. Allah ya kula da bayansa. Allah ya hada mu duka a Aljanna.

May Allah grant them mercy and forgiveness, watch over those they left behind, and reunite us all in Paradise.

Aisha Musa Auyo, PhD, is an Educational Psychologist, author, and media professional passionate about translating research into practical, everyday impact. She writes on parenting, family dynamics, and education, drawing from both professional expertise and personal experience. Aisha is also a parenting and relationship coach and the founder of Eesher Auyo’s Empire. She is based in Abuja, Nigeria.

By Munir Aliyu Kabuga

It is indeed disheartening, though sadly not surprising. A nation’s commitment to the welfare and security of its citizens is often measured by how it responds when its finest men and women make the ultimate sacrifice in service to their country.

The deaths of senior military officers in the fight against terrorism, including Brigadier General Uba and Brigadier General Momoh, and many more, remain painful reminders of the enormous sacrifices being made daily by members of the Armed Forces. These officers dedicated their lives to defending Nigeria against insurgency and insecurity, yet many Nigerians were left with the feeling that the national response to their deaths did not adequately reflect the magnitude of their service and sacrifice.

Beyond official statements of condemnation and condolences, many citizens expected a more robust and visible response—one that would demonstrate an unwavering resolve to bring the perpetrators to justice and intensify efforts to defeat the forces of terror. Such losses should serve not merely as moments of mourning but as catalysts for decisive action against those who continue to threaten the nation’s peace, security, and unity.

It is against this backdrop that concerns are being expressed regarding the death of General Rabe Abubakar. If the loss of serving generals did not elicit the level of response many Nigerians had hoped for, it is understandable why some fear that the passing of a retired general may receive even less attention from the authorities.

Ultimately, the greatest tribute to fallen heroes is not found in words of sympathy alone, but in concrete actions that strengthen national security, honour their sacrifices, and ensure that those responsible for such acts are relentlessly pursued and brought to justice.

The manner in which some military personnel have been treated, both in life and in death, is bound to have consequences for morale within the Armed Forces and for the willingness of future generations to enlist. It is only natural for a young citizen to think twice about joining the military when those who devote their lives to the service of the nation sometimes appear abandoned at their most vulnerable moments.

Why would one not hesitate when brave men and women give their all in defence of their country, only to face the prospect of falling into the hands of ruthless and barbaric terrorists? The courage required to wear the uniform is immense, but that courage must be matched by an unwavering national commitment to protect, support, and honour those who serve.

There is something profoundly troubling about the thought of a nation that entrusted a man with its uniform, bestowed upon him rank and responsibility, benefited from his years of sacrifice, celebrated his retirement, and yet seemed unable to guarantee his safety when he needed it most.

Today, we mourn General Rabe Abubakar.

He served his nation with honour, dedication, and distinction. His passing has reignited important questions about how a country values those who dedicate their lives to its service and security. It challenges us to reflect on whether we have done enough—not only to honour our heroes after their deaths, but also to safeguard them while they are alive.

This is more than a eulogy; it is a call to reflection. It is a reminder that the true measure of a nation’s gratitude to its heroes lies not merely in ceremonial tributes or eloquent speeches, but in its enduring commitment to their welfare, dignity, and security, both during and after their years of service.

May Allah forgive General Rabe Abubakar’s shortcomings, expand his grave, and grant him Aljannatul Firdaus. May He comfort his family, grant patience and strength, and bless them with peace and security, ameen. May Allah grant him eternal rest and comfort those he left behind, ameen.

By Umar Mohammed Dewa

As Nigeria marks 27 years of uninterrupted democracy on June 12th, some are popping champagne bought with democracy dividends, while others are eating their hearts out in lamentation. Such is the paradox of Nigeria’s democratic experience, a journey marked by notable achievements and persistent challenges.

June 12 remains a defining symbol of the Nigerian people’s struggle for democratic governance. It commemorates the historic 1993 presidential election, widely regarded as the freest and fairest in the nation’s history, and honours the sacrifices of countless patriots who fought against military rule and for the restoration of civil liberties.

Twenty-seven years after the return to democratic rule in 1999, Nigeria can point to significant gains. Democratic institutions have endured, political participation has expanded, and citizens continue to exercise their right to choose their leaders at the ballot box. Yet for many Nigerians grappling with economic hardship, insecurity, unemployment, and rising living costs, the promised dividends of democracy remain elusive.

Democracy is more than periodic elections; it is about accountable leadership, responsive governance, social justice, and the improvement of citizens’ welfare. As the nation celebrates this year’s Democracy Day, it is also an opportunity for sober reflection on how democratic governance can better serve the people and fulfil the aspirations of those who fought for it.

The significance of June 12 lies not only in remembering the past but also in recommitting to the ideals of freedom, equity, transparency, and national unity. Only through such commitment can Nigeria’s democracy continue to strengthen and deliver meaningful progress for all.

Happy Democracy Day, Nigeria.

Umar Mohammed Dewa wrote from Yola, Nigeria.                                                                                                                              

By Zayyad I. Muhammad

The loss of an Army General, whether retired or in active service, at the hands of ragtag bandits, insurgents or terrorists is heartbreaking and a major loss to the nation.

What Nigeria is witnessing today can no longer be described merely as insurgency or banditry. Nigeria is at war. Simple.

Over the years, the country has suffered painful losses of highly trained military officers in the fight against terrorism and armed criminal groups. These incidents clearly show the scale, sophistication, and dangerous evolution of insecurity across the country.

In November 2021, Brigadier General Dzarma Zirkusu was killed in an ambush while commanding the 28 Task Force Brigade in the Chibok area of Borno State.

In November 2025, Brigadier General Musa Uba was killed in an ISWAP ambush near Wajiroko along the Damboa–Wajiroko Road in Borno State.

On April 9, 2026, Brigadier General Oseni Omoh Braimah, a Brigade Commander, was killed during a coordinated Boko Haram/ISWAP assault that overran a military base in Benisheikh, Kaga Local Government Area of Borno State.

On June 13, 2026, the Katsina State Government announced the death of retired Major General Rabe Abubakar, a former Director of Defence Information, who died while in captivity after being abducted by bandits.

Similarly, in September 2018, retired Major General Idris Alkali was killed by a mob in Plateau State, another painful reminder that even retired senior military officers are not spared from the growing insecurity.

Reaching the rank of General in the Nigerian Army is an extremely competitive, merit-based process that often requires 25 to 35 years of dedicated service, sacrifice, discipline, and commitment to the nation.

These are not ordinary individuals. Generals and indeed all well-trained security personnel, whether active or retired, are strategic national assets. Their experience, intelligence, leadership, and institutional knowledge are invaluable to any country.

When a nation begins to lose such high ranking officers to terrorists and bandits, it is a clear indication that the threat has grown beyond ordinary criminality.

The time has come for Nigeria to fully confront this reality and respond with the seriousness, unity, and determination that war demands, despite the heavy consequences that often come with prolonged conflict and guerrilla warfare. The country’s survival, stability, and future depend on it.

Nigeria is at war with the bandits

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

By Jamiu Abdulgafar Olamilekan

The Punch Newspaper editorial on May 5, 2026 (Page 18), titled “Women Need Better Access to Credit”, highlights one of Nigeria’s most persistent economic blind spots. Despite their immense contributions to business, agriculture, trade, and family welfare, women remain locked out of the financial support they need to grow and thrive.

Across Nigerian markets, women dominate petty trading and small-scale enterprises from fashion shops and food businesses to salons, online ventures, and farming. Yet, securing loans from banks is often impossible.

As the editorial points out, collateral requirements, guarantors, and complex documentation create barriers that many hardworking women in both rural and urban communities cannot overcome.

This exclusion is, to say the least, unjust. Women are among the most financially responsible members of society, stretching limited resources to support children, families, and entire communities. Still, government empowerment programmes frequently fail to reach them.

In some cases, corruption, favouritism, and poor implementation dilute their impact, while lack of financial education and weak communication leave rural women unaware of opportunities that could change their lives.

Going forward, banks and other financial institutions must design loan systems that are flexible and inclusive. Lower interest rates for female-owned small businesses, coupled with expanded financial literacy programmes, would ensure women not only access credit but also manage it effectively.

The government, on its part, must enforce transparency and accountability in policies aimed at empowering women.

Beyond economics, financial empowerment strengthens families and reduces poverty. A woman with a stable income is more likely to invest in education, healthcare, and better living conditions for her household. The ripple effect benefits society at large.

Nigeria cannot claim to pursue inclusive growth while millions of women remain financially excluded. Empowering women is not charity — it is a strategic investment in the nation’s future.

Jamiu Abdulgafar Olamilekan is a Strategic Communication student at Yakubu Gowon University, Abuja. He can be reached at jamiuabdulgafar510@gmail.com.