Opinion

By Fatima Ishaq Muhammad

Kano, known for its deep Islamic practices and royal traditions, witnessed a historic and uneasy moment during the 2025 Eid-el-Kabir celebrations as two rival Emirs led separate congregational prayers in different parts of the city.

This development demonstrated the woeful crisis over the leadership of the Kano traditional Emirate, which, indeed, remained one of the most powerful traditional institutes in northern Nigeria.

Moreover, on one side was Emir Muhammadu Sanusi II, reinstated in May 2024 by the Kano State Government after being dethroned in 2020. Aminu Ado Bayero was installed as Emir on the other side after Sanusi’s removal. He still maintains that he remains the rightful occupant of the royal seat.

During the Eid celebrations, Emir Sanusi II led prayers at the Kofar Mata Eid Ground, traditionally recognized as the seat of the Emir’s religious leadership.

Meanwhile, Emir Aminu Bayero held his prayers at a different location, with loyalists gathered around him. For the first time in recent memory, Kano experienced two major Eid congregations, each holding up to a divided royal allegiance within the ancient city.

This unprecedented situation did not happen in isolation, but it resulted from the recurring tussle over the Kano Emirate, rooted in politics and personal rivalries.

Sanusi II’s removal in 2020 by the administration of former Governor Abdullahi Ganduje was widely termed as punishment for his massive outspoken criticism of the government.

His reinstatement by the current government of Governor Abba Kabir Yusuf has been challenged in court by Bayero’s supporters, creating legal and political uncertainty over who the legitimate Emir of Kano is.

The split Eid prayers skyrocketed across Kano and beyond, symbolizing the Emirate’s division and disunity of authority.

What should have been a day of religious unity became a visible sign of division in the state’s leadership. Thankfully, no major disturbances were reported, though tensions remain high.

Adding to the complexity of the situation, the traditional Durbar festival, which usually follows the Eid prayers, was banned by the police for security reasons.

The ban disappointed many residents, as the Durbar is integral to Kano’s cultural identity and economic life.

As the legal battles escalate, many residents and observers fear that the division within Kano’s traditional leadership could escalate unless a clear resolution is provided by the courts or through dialogue among key stakeholders.

For now, Kano remains a city with two Emirs, two congregations, and a divided loyalty, awaiting clarity on the future of one of northern Nigeria’s most important royal institutions.

Fatima Ishaq Muhammad via fatimaishaq021@gmail.com.

By Lawan Bukar Maigana

Political drama recently unfolded in Gombe State as tensions escalated between the All Progressives Congress (APC) National Chairman, Dr. Abdullahi Ganduje, the APC National Vice Chairman (Northeast), Comrade Mustapha Salihu, Gombe State Governor Muhammadu Inuwa Yahaya, and Borno State Governor, Prof. Babagana Umara Zulum.  At the heart of the storm were whispers of a plot to replace Vice President Kashim Shettima. But in the eye of that storm stands Shettima himself; silent, composed, and unfazed.

There has been no speech, social media post, or press release. Shettima has not acknowledged the theatrics or addressed the speculations. There is no rebuttal, no outrage, just purposeful silence—a silence that suggests a man far more committed to duty than distractions.

While the speculations make the rounds in political circles, Vice President Shettima’s schedule remains unchanged. In January 2025, he represented Nigeria at the World Economic Forum in Davos, Switzerland. There, he engaged in high-level sessions on digital trade and investment and co-chaired discussions focused on humanitarian resilience, building international bridges while avoiding the noise of local politics.

He used the global platform to launch the Humanitarian and Resilience Investment Roadmap for Africa, advocating for deeper public-private partnerships across the continent. As always, his approach was less about rhetoric and more about results.

Back home in Maiduguri, Borno State, the Vice President continues to prioritise grassroots development. He commissioned the Expanded National MSME Clinic and Fashion Hub, a project expected to create over 48,000 jobs annually. He also distributed unconditional grants to entrepreneurs and pledged continued support through public-private partnerships to boost local businesses.

Shettima also inaugurated the National Asset Restoration Programme, reinforcing his long-standing commitment to post-insurgency reconstruction in the Northeast.

His record across sectors reflects structural impact. Over 300,000 businesses have been supported, and more than one million jobs have been generated under initiatives he directly oversees. These aren’t political promises; they’re measurable achievements.

At the national level, he chairs the National Council on MSMEs, advocating for innovation, job security, and stronger synergy between the public and private sectors, all under the framework of President Tinubu’s Renewed Hope Agenda.

As a champion of youth empowerment, Shettima spearheads human capital development efforts. He inaugurated the Nigeria Jubilee Programme Steering Committee, designed to train and equip thousands of graduates with marketable skills and workplace readiness.

He has also remained active in strengthening regional cooperation. At the 5th Lake Chad Basin Governors’ Forum in Maiduguri, he emphasised the importance of pairing military security with economic inclusion to secure lasting peace in the subregion.

In every assignment, Shettima has demonstrated sagacious loyalty, not only to his office and the President but also to the people he serves. Amid swirling conversations about his replacement, he has not lost focus. He has doubled down on leadership, service, and delivery.

His calculated silence is a strategy. He understands that emotional outbursts or political mudslinging could deepen divisions within the party. His restraint underscores a higher allegiance to duty, national stability, and unity.

The Vice President’s quiet determination sends a message: true leadership is about resolution, not reaction. In a political landscape often dominated by noise, Shettima has chosen the steady path of substance, letting results, not rumours, define his legacy.

Even as political storms gather, Shettima stays the course. His silence isn’t ignorance or weakness—it is discipline. And with his continued focus on economic development, job creation, and regional security, his work speaks louder than any rebuttal ever could.

Lawan Bukar Maigana is a journalist with PRNigeria and Economic Confidential, headquartered in Abuja. He can be reached via email: Lawanbukarmaigana@gmail.com.

By Sabiu Usman

On a Thursday evening, I began to experience symptoms of a fever. I took paracetamol, which temporarily reduced the temperature, but the fever returned more aggressively by nightfall. I spent the entire night shivering and praying for dawn, hoping to visit a nearby pharmacy for further treatment.

By morning, I was too weak to leave the house alone. I contacted a neighbour who often assisted people with basic medications. He came over with some drugs, inserted a cannula into my hand, and administered an injection. After some time, I felt slightly better, just enough to perform my early morning obligatory prayers.

After prayers, I visited my parents for the usual morning greetings. They noticed the cannula in my hand and expressed concern. I explained that I had been battling a fever all night. They offered prayers for my quick recovery and good health.

I returned to my room to rest, but a few hours later, the fever returned. I decided to visit a hospital for a proper diagnosis and treatment. I informed my mother and father, who responded with prayer and support.

Just as I stepped out, NEPA restored electricity, so I went back inside briefly to plug in my phones. Then I picked up my HMO & ATM card, some cash, and headed out. I stopped an Okada taxi motorcycle and climbed. However, midway through the trip, I suddenly felt dizzy and weak. I asked the Okada man to stop so I would not fall off. He parked and waited with me for about 10 minutes. When the dizziness did not subside, he advised me to stop another Okada when I felt better, and he left.

As I sat by the roadside with my head lowered, trying to recover, I heard someone call my name: “Sabiu, what are you doing here?” I looked up and saw a man who seemed to recognise me. I told him I was heading to Doma Hospital, and he offered to give me a ride. Without much thought, I entered his tinted glass car, given my background working in places like banks, I often encountered many people, so I did not find it unusual that he knew me, even though I could not recognise him.

I did not realise the danger until the doors shut behind me. The two men in the back seat immediately pulled me to the centre and forced a long beanie over my head, covering my face. We drove for about 25 minutes. When the cap was finally removed, I found myself in an unfamiliar room with three men surrounding me.

One of them, wearing a face mask and medical gloves, opened a kit, pulled out a syringe, and took my blood. He also forced me to give a saliva sample by pressing my jaw and collected it in a small container. Then he asked for a urine sample. I told him I did not feel the urge, but he insisted. One of the men, a tall, heavy-set individual, struck me twice in the back. The pain and fear triggered an immediate urge, and I had no choice but to comply. I gave the sample.

They offered me food, which I refused. I was scared and confused, still burning with fever. I noticed a wall clock, and it was 11:20 am. They left me locked in the room around noon and did not return with food and water until late that night, around 10:00 pm. Again, I refused to eat.

Later, one of the men sitting beside me was scrolling through what appeared to be my Facebook profile on his phone. I realised he had likely performed a reverse image search using the photo he had taken of me earlier. As he continued scrolling, a call came in from a contact saved as “Dr. Gombe.” He answered briefly, and shortly afterwards, they opened the door to let the doctor in. He appeared again wearing a face mask, this time also with a pair of glasses.

He reviewed some papers and likely test results and told the others that my vitals were fine and the only issue was my fever. He handed me medication I recognised and trusted, so I took it. It relieved the fever, but I remained cautious and continued to reject all food and drinks they offered.

That night, I could not sleep. I was terrified, and I knew something terrible was about to happen.

On Saturday morning, I refused to eat the breakfast they brought. They eventually left, leaving me alone inside the room. Around 9:00 pm, they returned. I overheard a tense conversation between the men and the doctor from behind the door. The doctor confirmed that everything had been arranged for a journey to Kaduna, where a surgery was scheduled for Monday. The driver, whom I had become familiar with by voice, asked about payment and the buyer of the kidney. Suddenly, one of them realised the door had not been entirely shut and might have allowed me to overhear their plans. He quickly pulled it closed and locked it properly.

When I realised they were planning to transport me to Kaduna, surgically remove my kidney, and sell it, a wave of fear surged through me. My heart began to race uncontrollably. I knew, without a doubt, that I had to find a way to escape or I might not live to tell the story.

That night, after they all left with the doctor, I gathered what little strength I had left and began inspecting the room. The doors were solid, and the windows were tightly secured with reinforced burglar-proof bars. Then, as I looked upward, I noticed the ceiling was made of a thin, rubber-like material, not as strong as the rest of the room. I dragged a chair to the centre, climbed onto the headrest, and carefully broke through two ceiling panels. With trembling hands, I pulled myself up into the roof cavity.

Carefully crawling along the ceiling joists, I broke through another panel leading into a different bedroom. I did not stop. I kept crawling, searching for a way out, until I spotted a weak point near the edge of the roof. With all the strength I could muster, I pushed through it, and to my relief, it opened to the outside.

I jumped down and instantly heard approaching footsteps. My heart pounded as I dove into a nearby flower bed, pressing my body flat against the ground. A man walked by, sweeping the area with a flashlight. I held my breath, praying he would not see me. Fortunately, he moved on to another part of the compound. When his back was turned, I leapt up, climbed onto a drum near the wall, and scaled it, disappearing into the night as fast as my legs could carry me.

I ran blindly, barefoot, and disoriented. Eventually, I found a road. I tried flagging down cars, but most sped past. Finally, an elderly man stopped. He asked where I was going. I said Nasarawo. He said he was not going that far but would drop me at Jekadafari Roundabout.

He noticed I was barefoot and looked me over suspiciously, probably questioning my mental state, but he said nothing. When we reached Jekadafari, I got down and began walking toward Central Primary School, exhausted and disoriented. Along the way, someone who looked familiar stopped me. Though I could not remember his name, we recognised each other. 

“Sabiu, what happened to you?” he asked, shocked. I did not have the strength to explain. I simply begged, “Please just take me home.” Without hesitation, he helped me onto his motorcycle and rode straight to our house in Nasarawo.

My mother was the only one at home; all of them were out searching for me. I knocked on her door and weakly said, “It’s me.” She opened it, and I collapsed in her arms, crying. She offered me water, which I drank desperately. After two sachets, I passed out from exhaustion and trauma.

My elder brother and his wife, both medical practitioners, had returned by then. They immediately began treating me. I was given injections and placed on intravenous fluids. Their swift care helped stabilise me.

I didn’t wake up until midnight the next day, Sunday. I had slept for more than 24 hours straight. My body had completely shut down from the fever, stress, and trauma.

When I finally regained enough strength to speak, I sat with my mother and narrated everything, from the moment I fell ill to my escape from the traffickers. As I said, her eyes filled with tears. She listened in horror, then pulled me close and wept.

Through her sobs, she kept repeating, “Alhamdulillah. Your prayers and ours worked. Allah protected you.” Today, I am recovering, still feeling aches and pains, but alive. I thank God for giving me the courage and the opportunity to escape.

I share my story to warn the public: organ trafficking is real. These people are organised and patient, and may even know your name or background. They work like professionals, from collecting samples to contacting buyers.

Please be cautious when interacting with strangers, even those who seem familiar. If you ever feel dizzy, disoriented, or experience sudden symptoms after a simple injection, seek professional medical help immediately.

Above all, always let your loved ones know where you are going and don’t move around alone, especially when you are unwell.

May Allah continue to protect us all, ameen.

Sabiu Usman can be reached via sabiuusman12@gmail.com.

By Muhammad Umar Shehu

Let’s stop sugarcoating it. Nigeria’s leaders have failed the very people they swore to serve. The signs are everywhere. Millions go to bed hungry, communities are under constant threat from bandits and terrorists, and families bury loved ones over avoidable tragedies. The cry from the North to the South is the same: “Where is the government?”

For decades, we have watched politicians campaign with promises and disappear after elections. We have listened to speeches full of hope, only to wake up to worsening hardship. Whether in education, healthcare, security, or the economy, Nigerians are primarily left to fend for themselves in a country that seems to work only for the elite.

Electricity is unstable. Public schools are underfunded. Hospitals lack basic equipment. Roads are death traps. Jobs are scarce. The police often protect the rich while the poor face brutality. The gap between government and the governed has become dangerously wide.

But the failure didn’t start yesterday. It results from years of corruption, mismanagement, and lack of vision. Successive governments, both military and civilian, have chipped away at the country’s foundations while enriching themselves. The civil service, once respected, is now known more for inefficiency and bribery than service delivery.

What’s worse is that people have grown tired. Tired of voting without results. Tired of protesting with no response. Tired of hoping for leaders who never come. This fatigue is dangerous because when people lose faith in the system, they seek alternatives. And that is where chaos begins.

Still, all hope is not lost. The first step is honesty. We need to admit that things are not okay. Then, we must demand better. Louder. Consistently. In unity. Good governance doesn’t happen by chance. It happens when citizens hold leaders accountable during elections and every day after.

Nigeria is not poor. Nigerians are not lazy. The failure lies in a leadership that treats public service like a private business. Until that changes, the suffering will continue. But if the people find their voice and use it, we may turn this broken system into something that works for all.

Muhammad Umar Shehu wrote from Gombe and can be reached via umarmuhammadshehu2@gmail.com.

By Lawan Bukar Maigana

At a birthday lecture titled “Weaponisation of Poverty as a Means of Underdevelopment: A Case Study of Nigeria,” organised in honour of former Governor Rotimi Amaechi at the Continental Hotel in Abuja, the Emir of Kano, Sanusi Lamido Sanusi, bitterly complained about the unprecedented hardship Nigerians face today. 

According to him, the inflation and poverty gripping the nation are the direct consequences of loving to rule over people rather than loving them through developing favourable policies. That’s what I understand from his statement. But isn’t the fuel subsidy removal connected mainly to the realities he pointed out? 

Many might forget, or conveniently overlook, that this same Sanusi Lamido Sanusi has been one of the strongest advocates for removing fuel subsidies since 2012. Years ago, I heard him proudly state on BBC Hausa that he had repeatedly advised President Muhammadu Buhari to remove subsidies and shut down Nigeria’s borders. 

Respectfully, Buhari granted only one of his two wishes—closing the borders while leaving fuel subsidies intact. The subsidies lingered for years, postponed amid fears of political backlash.

Under President Bola Ahmed Tinubu, the fuel subsidy has finally been removed. The impact on ordinary Nigerians has been brutal—prices for fuel and essential commodities have surged, sending inflation into uncharted territory. People are being hunted by hunger and economic hardship like never before.

In this context, I believe Sanusi’s recent criticisms miss the mark. If anyone deserves celebration, it is President Tinubu,who dares to implement what Sanusi himself recommended years ago. Blaming Tinubu alone, even though Sanusi didn’t mention his name, for the hardship is unfair because he and other elite policymakers never offered concrete solutions or mitigating measures to cushion the blow on the poor when pushing for subsidy removal.

It is important to remind Nigerians that the blame for this economic situation is shared, not the fault of any one individual or administration. As the former Governor of the Apex Bank, Sanusi is part of the problem he now publicly laments. He advocated for the policy without proposing corresponding safety nets or economic reforms to soften the impact. The failure to plan has cost Nigerians dearly.

At the Abuja event, Sanusi asked a question that cut to the heart of leadership in Nigeria: “Do we as leaders truly love Nigerians, or do we just like ruling over them?” The answer is painfully obvious: too many leaders are interested in power for power’s sake. They seek to rule over the masses rather than serve them by crafting policies that uplift the poor.

This question should prompt serious reflection. If policymakers want to see genuine progress, they must remember that leadership is more than advising harsh policies; it is about standing with the people during the painful transitions these policies cause. It is about preparing the ground and providing support systems before asking citizens to bear the burden of economic reforms.

Nigeria’s elites, including Sanusi, need to own their history, yesterday. They must remember their past advocacies and be willing to share responsibility when those policies create hardship. It is easy to blame the current government for long-advocated but poorly planned decisions. It is far harder to admit one’s role in the consequences.

The harsh reality is that many elites conveniently forget their yesterday—the positions they took and the policies they championed. When those policies are finally implemented, and Nigerians bear the consequences, those same elites criticise the outcomes as if they had no hand in shaping them.

The lesson here is clear: policymaking in Nigeria must be holistic. It must consider not only economic theories but also social realities. Removing subsidies may be necessary, but without effective mitigation strategies, it becomes a weapon of poverty, inflicting untold suffering on the most vulnerable.

So, as Nigerians struggle with inflation and hardship, we should remember the true colours of our elites. They must be held accountable—not only for the policies they recommend but also for the human cost of those policies.

Lastly, I ask again: Should those who recommend harsh policies also bear part of the responsibility for their outcomes? The answer is a resounding yes. True leadership demands not just bold ideas but also the courage to accept the consequences and work tirelessly to protect the people.

Lawan Bukar Maigana is a journalist, humanitarian, Pan-Africanist, and social commentator. He’s known as Ibn Maigana on Facebook.

By Usman Abdullahi Koli, ANIPR

It is difficult to tell the story of a man whose life was not just lived but felt deeply, genuinely, and profoundly. It’s over now, the last file signed, the final handshake exchanged, the door gently closed behind a man whose entire life has been anything but ordinary.

As of May 30, 2025, Dr. Bala Maijama’a Wunti stepped out of public service, quietly bowing out from a remarkable journey that shook boundaries, lifted lives, and left behind a trail of courage, dignity, and truth. I find it not only fitting but necessary to say this: Now that it is done, let this be my tribute.

Much has been said, written, and whispered in admiration since his retirement announcement. But what I pen today is not a replica of what others have offered. This is personal. This is from a heart that was moved years ago when I sat quietly among students of ATBU Bauchi, listening to a man speak not as a bureaucrat, not as a technocrat, but as someone who had walked through fire barefoot and came out not burnt, but better.

He wasn’t speaking to impress. He was telling the truth, raw and unfiltered. He spoke of days when meals were not guaranteed, when dreams seemed laughable in the face of brutal reality. He described the hunger, the worn sandals, the sleepless nights, and how faith became his pillow. I remember that moment clearly. That day, in that humble auditorium, something shifted. It wasn’t just a speech. It was a defining moment for him and for us who listened.

In that moment, I carried three life lessons from Dr. Wunti—ones he never explicitly taught but demonstrated through his life.

First: Prayer is not optional. I have never encountered a man more grounded in submission to the Divine. No matter how tight his schedule, how demanding the office, and how crucial the meeting was, he found time to pause and connect with his Creator. And he did it not out of habit but conviction. It shaped everything about him: his calm, clarity, and confidence.

Second: He never forced what his heart didn’t embrace. Dr. Wunti did not do things just to tick boxes. He left it alone if his soul wasn’t aligned with a cause. This rare integrity gave his actions an unusual depth. Whether leading multi-billion-naira reforms or quietly helping an ailing community clinic, he did so with full acceptance and sincerity.

Third: Compassion wasn’t a virtue for him; it was a reflex. He gave not because he had to, but because he knew what it felt like to need and not have. Every school he built, child he sponsored, borehole he commissioned, and hospital bill he paid came from a heart softened by experience. He remembered. And in remembering, he uplifted.

Born in Bauchi, in a household where survival often came before ambition, Dr. Bala Wunti grew up in the shadows of lack. But he did not let it define him. Instead, he let it refine him. He pushed through school with sheer determination — from Chemistry at Ahmadu Bello University, Zaria, to earning his MBA in Marketing from ATBU Bauchi, and a Postgraduate Diploma in Management. These were not just academic milestones but small battles won against the odds.

Then came the Nigerian National Petroleum Corporation (NNPC). He joined in 1994, and what followed was a remarkable odyssey. From Production Programming Officer to GM Corporate Planning, and eventually MD of the Petroleum Products Marketing Company (PPMC), he did not just fill positions — he transformed them. His work at NAPIMS as Group General Manager changed how Nigeria handled petroleum investments. Projects like Operation White restored sanity to a system many had given up on.

But beyond strategy and structure, he brought the soul into the system. He refused to let numbers dehumanise policy. He saw the downstream sector not as a marketplace but as a lifeline, and he made it work for people, not just profits.

Still, if you asked Dr. Wunti his proudest achievements, he would not point to the boardroom. He would likely tell you about the girl in Dass who got a scholarship and later became a pharmacist, or the widowed mother in Katagum who now has a roof over her head. He would tell you about community boreholes, school renovations, and the youth he mentored who are now leaders in their own right.

He didn’t just serve; he saw. He saw people not as statistics but as stories. And he listened. And when he could, he helped. Quietly. No cameras. No hashtags.

In his family, Dr. Wunti is not the oil executive; he is Abba. A father who sits with his children teaches them not just by advice, but by example. A husband who understands that love is shown in small acts, in presence, in patience. He did not let success steal him away from those who mattered most. He carried them with him.

Now that his chapter in public service closes, many will remember Dr. Wunti for the policies he shaped, the reforms he led, and the titles he bore. But I will remember him for something more enduring: the humanity he never let go of.

Some may chase greatness by building empires. But some, like him, choose to make people. And when people grow, they remember. They speak. They write just like I am doing now.

Dr. Bala Maijama’a Wunti didn’t retire. He simply stepped into another phase of influence that does not require office walls or government files. His impact now lives in the echoes of children’s laughter in classrooms he built, in the gratitude of patients treated in hospitals he supported, and in the hearts of all of us lucky enough to know the kind of man he truly is.

Thank you, sir, for rising and taking many of us along with you.

This is not goodbye. It’s an honour.

Usman Abdullahi Koli wrote via usmankoli31@gmail.com.

By Amir Abdulazeez

If we can recall, on 7^th October, 2015, a 19-year-old student, Hassan Mohammed Damagum, sacrificed himself to save others from a suicide bomber who attempted to attack a mosque during the Subh (Dawn) prayer at Buhari Housing Estate in Yobe State. Hassan had sensed that the individual standing next to him was a suicide bomber trying to kill people. The boy was said to have confronted the bomber, who blew both of them off. 

Again, on 25^th January 2017, Yakubu Fannami, another student from Borno State who was just in SS1, died a hero while preventing a suicide bomber from entering the Darrusalam Science and Islamic Academy in Maiduguri. Fannami tackled the female suicide bomber, preventing her from reaching the mosque and detonating her explosives, thus saving the lives of many worshippers.  

To the best of my research, which may be inadequate, neither of the two boys was publicly given significant national recognition. Nigeria’s story is replete with the neglect of brave and heroic citizens who had sacrificed a lot and even laid down their lives to save others. 

Since 1999, Nigeria has always chosen to reward and honour many lazy elites who contributed virtually nothing but became huge beneficiaries of government patronage and corruption. Every President has made it a duty to bestow national honours on his chosen elites as one would do with his personal property.

In line with the routine tradition of his predecessors, President Bola Tinubu used the June 12, 2025, Democracy Day to confer over 100 national honours, some posthumously. As expected, many awardees are members of his administration and personalities very close to him. A section of the awardees list portrays a belated compensation package to a gang of Abacha victims, who actually need justice more than honour.

While people like Prof. Humphrey Nwosu (CON), Prof. Wole Soyinka (GCON), Alhaji Balarabe Musa (CFR), Bishop Matthew Hassan Kukah (CON) and Femi Falana, SAN (CON) truly deserve their awards, it would have been wiser and more balanced to include people like Late Bashir Tofa (Abiola’s NRC opponent), Late Abubakar Rimi and Magaji Abdullahi (two important SDP figures who miraculously delivered Kano, Tofa’s State, to Abiola) and, of course, M.D. Yusufu, the presidential candidate of MDJ, who was Abacha’s sole challenger in his bid to undemocratically transform into a civilian president, among others. Perhaps, they would be remembered by this or another President in the next set of awards, for at this rate, every political household name, dead or alive, may soon have a national honour in Nigeria by 2030.

What exactly is this national honour, and who deserves it? The honouring system was originally envisioned as a prestigious recognition of exceptional service to the nation. It was formally established by the National Honours Act No. 5 of 1964 to inspire patriotism, reward merit, and foster national unity. 

The structure of national honours, divided into two orders (Order of the Federal Republic and Order of the Niger) and eight ranks (GCFR, GCON, CFR, CON, OFR, OON, MFR, MON), was designed to reflect degrees of national impact. However, the system’s proliferation and indiscriminate distribution have undermined these distinctions, often placing true heroes, statesmen and national icons equal or below some presidential sycophants, political loyalists and officeholders, regardless of their performance or public standing. 

The early years of Nigeria’s national honours system reflected its original purpose. Recipients such as Dr. Nnamdi Azikiwe, Sir Ahmadu Bello, Chief Obafemi Awolowo and Mrs. Funmilayo Ransome-Kuti were honoured for verifiable and transformative contributions. However, over time, the politicisation and personalisation of the awards diminished their integrity, giving way to an annual ritual often characterised by hundreds of questionable awardees whose contributions to the nation are neither tangible nor verifiable. In the past 15 years, things have gotten worse as the selection system itself has been incompetently reduced to a mechanism marred by political patronage, duplication and credibility crises. 

Today, the integrity of this noble initiative is in serious jeopardy, with widespread scepticism about its selection process and relevance. Ideally, recipients should be individuals whose lives exemplify ethical integrity, measurable public impact and selfless service. However, the current trend favours tenure over achievement and proximity to power over merit. Politicians under corruption investigation, individuals with no tangible contributions and business moguls with opaque wealth have all made their way into the honours roll. Prominent Nigerians have rejected national honours in protest. Chinua Achebe, Gani Fawehinmi and Wole Soyinka famously turned down honours, citing corruption, misgovernance and the lack of transparency in the process. Their principled refusals sent powerful messages about the need to restore the system’s credibility. As Achebe aptly put it, ‘a government that fails its people cannot in good conscience bestow honours’.

Numerous scandals have exposed the flaws of the system. In 2022, the conferment of awards to serving ministers during a prolonged ASUU strike and the inclusion of people accused of corruption represented a new low. Even more embarrassing were administrative blunders such as conferring posthumous awards to please certain interests and duplicating awards to the same person under different titles. Meanwhile, countless unsung heroes remain ignored. Rural teachers shaping future generations, healthcare workers battling epidemics without protection and community leaders mediating conflicts receive no recognition. 

The establishment has reluctantly recognised a few non-elitist Nigerians in the past. The belated honour to Dr. Ameyo Stella Adadevoh (posthumous OON, 2022), whose sacrifice averted an Ebola catastrophe in August 2014, only came after sustained public pressure for about eight years. In August 2018, then President Muhammadu Buhari and the United States Embassy honoured the Bauchi State-born 83-year-old Malam Abubakar Abdullahi, a Muslim Imam in a village in Plateau State. He sheltered and fed 300 Christians for five days to prevent them from being killed in an uprising. The old man ran from one corner to the other, stopping youths who wanted to enter the mosque to get hold of his guests. Eventually, they gave up after realising that the only way to execute their evil plan was to kill the old man. That was how he saved their lives. I am not sure whether the man was given any national honour beyond that presidential acknowledgement.

If we are to continue like this, I will suggest the renaming of the awards to “Special Presidential Honours”.  The National Honours Act, last revised in 2004, offers the President near-total discretion, with little room for public input or institutional checks. With time, it has been turned into a presidential farewell affair as outgoing Presidents routinely populate honours lists upon leaving office to pay back loyalists. Recent attempts at reform, such as the proposed National Honours and Merit Award Commission, represent a step forward but are insufficient on their own. Far-reaching legislative and administrative reforms are needed to restore the honours’ integrity. This includes public nominations, independent vetting panels, open selection criteria and mandatory justification of award decisions. 

A critical reform must also introduce public objections and transparency mechanisms, such as publishing nominee shortlists and designing revocation protocols. Honours should be rescinded from individuals found guilty of crimes or misconduct post-conferment. The system should no longer shield disgraced figures or treat national honours as irrevocable symbols of status, regardless of later behaviour. Furthermore, awards should be capped annually to preserve their exclusivity. Honouring fewer, more deserving Nigerians will increase the prestige of the titles and prevent undeserving awards. Most importantly, the honours system must reconnect with the grassroots. By recognising farmers, nurses, teachers, inventors and humanitarian workers, Nigeria can turn the system into a true tool of national inspiration. 

All these are, by the way, because ordinary Nigerians no longer care about leaders honouring themselves and their cronies. No impoverished Nigerian has the luxury of waiting to be honoured by someone whose honour is questionable himself. All Nigerians are asking for is guaranteed security to farm, stable power supply to produce, quality and affordable education to learn, reliable healthcare to survive and a stable economy to thrive. When they can provide this, they can go on naming and renaming national monuments after their wives and continue with the vicious cycle of self-glorification in the name of national honours.

Twitter/X: @AmirAbdulazeez 

By Sani Surajo Abubakar

Dr. Sani Danjuma was among Governor Abba Kabir Yusuf’s personal aides appointed on the 16th of June, 2023 as Senior Special Assistant (SSA) Administration I, but later assigned to oversee the portfolio of Principal Private Secretary (PPS) to the governor following the redeployment of the earlier appointment PPS Dr. Faruk Kurawa to (Kano State Agricultural and Rural Development Authority) KNARDA as substantive Managing Director.

Before his first appointment into the administrative circle of the government of Alhaji Abba Kabir Yusuf, he served as a senior lecturer and the Head of the Computer Science Department of the Northwest University, Kano. 

In the intricate web of governance, the role of a Principal Private Secretary to a Governor is often understated yet profoundly impactful. Dr. Sani Danjuma, as the Principal Private Secretary to the Governor of Kano State, exemplifies the qualities of an uncommon gatekeeper. 

His dedication, strategic acumen, and unwavering commitment to public service have made him an indispensable asset to the Kano State Government.

As a pillar of support, Dr. Danjuma’s role extends beyond mere administrative duties. He is the linchpin in the Governor’s office, ensuring seamless communication, efficient coordination, and timely decision-making. 

His expertise in managing complex schedules, facilitating high-level meetings, and advising on strategic matters has been pivotal in the smooth operation of the government.

Dr. Danjuma’s role has contributed to the smooth operation of the government by ensuring that decisions are implemented effectively; his robust coordination between public agencies is leading to more efficient service delivery.

Beyond his administrative responsibilities, Dr. Danjuma serves as a trusted advisor to the Governor, providing informed and innovative insights. His ability to analyse complex issues, foresee potential challenges, and propose effective solutions has earned him the respect and trust of his peers and superiors.

Also, his commitment to public service is evident in his tireless efforts to support the Governor’s initiatives and policies.

He is driven by a passion for contributing to the development of Kano State and improving the lives of its citizens. 

His work ethic and professionalism set a high standard for others in the public service.

What sets Dr. Danjuma apart is his uncommon leadership style, which combines humility with effectiveness. He leads by example, inspiring those around him to strive for excellence. 

Thus, his ability to work collaboratively with various stakeholders, from government officials to community leaders, has been crucial in advancing the Governor’s agenda.

Dr. Sani Danjuma’s role as an uncommon gatekeeper is a testament to his exceptional skills, dedication, and commitment to public service. 

As he continues to serve the people of Kano State in this capacity, his contributions will undoubtedly have a lasting impact on the state’s development. 

His story inspires all who aspire to make a difference through public service.

In recognising Dr. Danjuma’s contributions, we acknowledge not just his professional achievements but also his character and the values he upholds. He is indeed an asset to the Governor’s office and a role model for future generations of public servants to emulate.

By highlighting Dr. Danjuma’s qualities and impact, it becomes clear that he is an indispensable tool in the number office in the state, contributing significantly to the state’s development.

His dedication to public service and strategic thinking is one of the tools that make him an exemplary figure in governance. 

Sani is the deputy director of the Public Enlightenment at Kano Government House.

By Arita Oluoma Alih

Anthony de Mello’s book The Prayer of the Frog explores human nature. An excerpt states, “Human beings react, not to reality, but to ideas in their heads.” The writer illustrates this concept with a metaphorical story about a pestilence travelling rapidly to a particular city. 

The pestilence met someone on the way who asked why he was speeding. He replied, “I am going to kill 1,000 lives.” On his way home, he met the same person, who said, “You killed 50,000 lives, not 1,000.” He replied, “I killed 1,000 lives; the rest died of fear.”

This phenomenon expounds how the human mind works. The additional 49,000 died solely due to fear and the thought of being killed, demonstrating the powerful impact of perception on reality. The human mind can be potent and perilous, as people’s thoughts and fears can shape their experiences and outcomes.

As simple as the words ‘self-awareness’ may sound, they hold significance. Just like people will say some statements do not hold water, these have a lot of water. Many folks do not understand what it means to be self-aware. 

Self-awareness shields you from manipulation in today’s complex world. It keeps you alive and conscious, helps maintain spiritual balance, gives you a sense of identity, and enables you to reflect on your personality, allowing you to stand firm in the face of adversity.

While I was reflecting on my personality, including my purpose and fears about not achieving certain things before reaching a certain age and how it may affect my mental health, self-awareness of these concerns led me to plan countermeasures if I don’t achieve them as envisioned.

Before proceeding, self-awareness needs to be understood: what is the self, what is awareness, and what does the compound term self-awareness entail? The self refers to a person’s entirety, encompassing their sense of identity, being, character traits, and individuality, distinguishing them from others. 

On the other hand, awareness is an individual’s capacity for reasoning and knowledge about things, including how to navigate potentially distressing situations; it’s essentially consciousness of mind. Self-awareness is the development of a conscious mind that observes, perceives thoughts, and reflects on its own personality.

I am an advocate of self-awareness because it helps shape lives. It enables one to stand firm on one’s goodwill. It helps self-discovery and ultimately prevents manipulation into doing something against one’s conscience and purpose.

Although an important life tool, many youth do not understand self-awareness and its significance. In a society where immorality is becoming the norm, do youths know how not to allow themselves to be convinced that such acts and other social vices are not the norm in a society that craves growth?

To thrive, we must answer these questions as youth in a Nigeria with over 200 million people, where the national grid is constantly collapsing, where the ASUU is always on strike over wages, where the farmers-herders clash is unending, and where politicians are continually toiling with the masses’ intelligence.  

In all these, self-awareness comes into play through self-interrogation. For example, will I allow myself to be used as a thug for politicians because of some necessities? Your answers and actions reflect your level of consciousness. When ASUU is on strike, you ask yourself, “What do I do with my time?” and so on. 

The power of observation, a component of self-awareness, is often underrated. Pay attention to your surroundings and the people you interact with. Notice their level of self-awareness, openness to learning, and mindset. Surround yourself with positivity, as those lacking these traits often spread negativity, which is not good for either growth or development.

This also takes us back to a story from Anthony de Mello’s The Prayer of the Frog, in which a Viennese surgeon taught his students that a surgeon needs two gifts: freedom from nausea and the power of observation. He demonstrated this by dipping one finger into a foul-smelling fluid and licking another, testing his students’ observation skills. While they passed the first test by showing no nausea, they failed the second by not noticing the surgeon’s trick. This underscores the veracity of observation.

Thus, navigating the murky waters of life, especially for Nigeria’s youthful population, requires one to train their mind and be self-aware because self-awareness begets self-consciousness and self-observation.

Arita Oluoma Alih writes from Abuja and can be reached at aritaarit118@gmail.com.

By Salisu Uba Kofarwambai

The annulment of the June 12, 1993, presidential election by General Ibrahim Babangida stands as one of the most consequential events in Nigeria’s political history. What began as a tragedy for democracy soon became a powerful weapon of political repositioning for the Yoruba elite, who skillfully leveraged national sympathy to strengthen their grip on Nigeria’s democratic evolution.

This singular incident opened the doors for the Yoruba to produce three heads of state—an achievement that might never have occurred under normal political circumstances. Ironically, this is the same political milestone that the late Chief Obafemi Awolowo, the revered father of Yoruba nationalism, spent his entire life trying to attain but could not.

Sadly, many who ultimately benefited from the June 12 crisis were not even supporters of Chief M.K.O. Abiola during the election. Instead, they emerged later as political opportunists—vultures who hijacked the struggle, turned it into a sectional movement, and weaponized it for political dominance.

It is important to recall that the North overwhelmingly voted for Abiola over its own son, Alhaji Bashir Tofa. But following the annulment, the Yoruba intelligentsia cleverly shifted the blame from the military, a national institution, to the North, creating a narrative that painted the region as the villain of democracy. This deflection became a foundation for the Yoruba to assert political superiority, while the North unknowingly fell for the narrative.

In the aftermath, Chief Ernest Shonekan—a Yoruba technocrat—was installed as head of the Interim National Government. Later, in 1999, the North once again conceded power to the South-West, with Chief Olusegun Obasanjo returning as a civilian president. However, Obasanjo’s tenure is remembered by many in the North for economic policies that led to the decline of the region’s industrial capacity. Many northerners believe these policies were deliberate, politically motivated, and economically harmful to the North.

Today, with President Bola Ahmed Tinubu at the helm, the North’s frustration appears to be deepening. Recently, a ₦16 trillion infrastructure project was allocated to the South, while liberal economic policies continue to disproportionately impact northern states, compounding existing inequalities.

This growing sentiment of marginalization was reinforced by President Tinubu’s Democracy Day national address. During the broadcast, a list of recipients of national awards was unveiled to honour those who fought for democracy. Yet, the list revealed a clear bias. While individuals like Professor Wole Soyinka—who went into exile during the military era—were honoured, many who stood their ground and bore the brunt of military repression were ignored.

Where are the names of Abubakar Rimi, Abdulkarim Dayyabu, Sule Lamido, Gani Fawehinmi, and M.D. Yusuf—figures who paid a heavy price for resisting military rule? Most of them were imprisoned under General Abacha and only released after his death. Yet, these sacrifices appear forgotten, excluded from a national recognition that should be inclusive.

Even the institutionalization of June 12 as Nigeria’s Democracy Day under the Buhari administration has continued to project the day as a Yoruba affair—further entrenching the idea that the Yoruba were the sole victims of the annulled election. This skewed narrative continues to sideline other critical voices and regions, especially the North, which was deeply invested in the democratic struggle of the 1990s.

As we mark June 12, the North must soberly reflect on how much has been lost—from the annulment of 1993 to the current political dispensation. The region must also begin to ask tough questions about its place in the national project and how to reclaim a fair share in Nigeria’s democratic future.

June 12 was a national tragedy and should be a national symbol of resilience—not a sectional emblem of victimhood. Until this is fully acknowledged, the spirit of June 12 remains only partially honoured.