Opinion

By Abdulrahman Sani  

It started like any other routine assignment. A simple task in a place that, on paper, seemed no different from the others. I was sent to a remote village in the heart of the North West, tasked with completing an enumeration in a region that was increasingly known for its volatile security situation. But what I didn’t realise then was that this seemingly innocuous assignment would lead me straight into the heart of danger.

The village, Rugar Yashi, sat on the fringes of the wilderness, far from the usual path of most travellers. The journey had been long, but I arrived early enough to begin work without delay. The protocol for entering any enumeration area was clear. 

Before stepping foot into the village, I was to call my security contact to get a briefing, obtain clearance, and receive a pass that would ensure my safety. I dialled his number repeatedly, but there was no answer. I tried once more, but the line remained dead. Frustration rose within me, but it was quickly overshadowed by the realisation that I had no choice but to proceed.

I wasn’t new to the idea of security checks. Over time, I had come to view the process as a mere formality, a minor inconvenience in the grand scheme of things. Security clearance was just another uncomfortable routine, a small hurdle before getting to the heart of the work. The reality of how precarious the situation honestly was hadn’t fully sunk in. In my mind, it was just another remote village, no different from the countless others I had visited. Little did I know, I was about to step into the lion’s den.

The Village on the Edge of a Whisper

Rugar Yashi wasn’t on any tourist map. You wouldn’t stumble upon it unless you were sent there or running from something.

The place looked serene, almost cinematic. It was tucked neatly between rustling trees and the distant hum of wilderness. I walked in alone, unseen by the world, accompanied only by a curious blend of optimism and unawareness.

I didn’t meet him in the village.

I met him at a farm by accident.

He was tending to something near a stand of goruba trees. I greeted him and mentioned I needed a cutlass to slice through one of the fruits. Without hesitation, he handed me his.

It was only after I introduced myself, explaining why I had come and what I was doing, that he nodded and said simply,

“I’ll guide you.”

That was it.

No suspicion. No resistance. Just a quiet offer that, in hindsight, held far more weight than I realised.

And so we began.

He led. I followed.

At first, he was nothing more than a helpful local. His voice was calm, measured. He spoke sparingly, and when he did, it was often with a faint, unreadable smile. The villagers treated him with a mixture of casual reverence and respect. Nothing overt. Just the kind of nods, glances, and silences that said more than words ever could.

Of Questions and Rifles

As we walked through Rugar Yashi, I quickly noticed something odd. The men around us were armed. Their rifles glinted in the sun as they moved with deliberate ease. Their eyes darted around, scanning the horizon as if waiting for something—anything—out of the ordinary. Some of them offered brief nods of acknowledgement to my guide, a quiet understanding passing between them that I couldn’t quite place.

At first, I dismissed it. I assumed they were simply vigilantes, locals tasked with protecting their community. The village seemed peaceful. The people were humble. And my task was simple. What could go wrong?

We continued through the village, and I conducted my enumeration with the usual questions—family members, occupations, and living conditions. He knew exactly where to take me. At one point, I inquired about his family, which was part of the enumeration form. He smiled and said that his brother, Aliyu, was studying at ABU Zaria. I nodded and moved on.

It sounded plausible enough.

After the work was done, he walked me to the edge of the village where a group of armed men stood, exchanging hushed words and scanning the trees. As we passed, they gave us more than a passing glance. He shook my hand, gave me his contact information, and said casually,

“Call me next time before you come. It’s safer that way.”

I smiled, nodded, and walked away. The road back to the main track was quiet. Just a few goats, wind in the trees, and my own footsteps.

The Call

Then my phone rang.

It was the security contact I had been trying to reach all morning. His voice came through tense and unfiltered.

“Where are you?”

“Done. Just leaving Rugar Yashi.”

There was a pause, and then his voice dropped.

“Who did you work with?”

I gave a brief description. His voice turned sharp.

“That man you were with, Labbo Jauro? He’s one of the most notorious bandit leaders in the region. His brother isn’t at Zaria. He was killed months ago. Deep in the forests of Niger.”

Silence.

The kind that makes your spine go cold.

I had shared a blade with him and walked through the village under his protection. Sat beside him in quiet moments. All while unknowingly under the watchful eyes of armed men who could have changed the course of my story in an instant.

The glances. The nods. The stillness in the air. It all made sense now.

But at the time, I thought I was just doing my job.

Reflection on the Edge

Looking back, I wonder whether he knew what I didn’t. Whether he had already decided for me before I’d even finished cutting that goruba fruit. Or whether, by some strange twist of fate, I had walked straight into danger and was spared not by wisdom or caution, but by simple, Divine grace.

That day in Rugar, Yashi changed how I saw the work. It blurred the line between routine and risk. It reminded me that, sometimes, the man offering help in the fields may be more than just a friendly farmer.

Sometimes, he’s the one everyone else fears.

And sometimes, he’s the reason you make it back home alive.

Postscript: This story is based on a true account. The subject’s name has been omitted, and the narrative is told in the first person by the author. Specific details have been altered or excluded to protect privacy and ensure safety.

Abdulrahman Sani can be contacted via Twitter @philosopeace.

By Muhsin Ibrahim

Talk about Kannywood and, often, some people who are scarcely literate or have little knowledge of film will dismiss the entire industry as a sanctuary for good-for-nothing folks. But that is not always true.

I first met the late Malam Umar Maikudi (also known as Cashman) at the 2019 Kano Indigenous Languages of Africa Film Market and Festival (KILAF) conference. We connected immediately, discussed various issues, and ultimately exchanged phone numbers.

Although Malam was old enough to be my father, we maintained a relatively cordial relationship. He would send me some of his writings, and I would send him mine in return. We also met a few more times during subsequent editions of the KILAF conference. I am sure Alhaji Abdulkarim, the CEO of Moving Image and the organiser of KILAF, will dearly miss Cashman.

He was among the few brilliant individuals blessed with the talent to blend theory and practice seamlessly, and he excelled in both. 

Malam was a lecturer at Nuhu Bamalli Polytechnic, Zaria, and President of the Motion Picture Practitioners Association of Nigeria (MOPPAN). 

Malam was a bridge between Kannywood and Nollywood, as he featured in films from both industries. Many Kannywood viewers may not be very familiar with him, though.

Cashman only recently started featuring in more mainstream Kannywood productions, such as Gidan Badamasi and Labarina. As a lawyer in the latter (Labarina), who is expected to code-switch and code-mix, you can tell this actor is definitely educated. He was.

His death is a significant loss to his family, of course, and to the Nigerian entertainment industry. May Allah forgive his shortcomings and grant his loved ones the fortitude to bear the loss, amin.

Muhsin Ibrahim, PhD, is an academic and writes about Nigerian films. He can be contacted via muhsin2008@gmail.com.

By Sani Surajo Abubakar

At the commencement of the 28th Kano State Executive Council on Monday 19th of May, 2025, held at Kwankwasiyya City, Governor Abba Kabir Yusuf presided over the swearing-in of Air Vice Marshal (AVM) Ibrahim Umaru (rtd.) as the new commissioner of Internal Security and Special Services.

His nomination, screening and confirmation by the Kano State House of Assembly and subsequent swearing-in followed the resignation of the pioneer Commissioner of the Ministry some few weeks back.

The new commissioner was the immediate past Director-General of the Special Service Directorate, Kano Government House, responsible for coordinating the operations of security agencies and other engagements critical to safer living in the state.

Before his debut in the government business of Kano State, he was a retired Airforce Officer with vast experience in peacekeeping operations and national assignments both locally and internationally.

He is passionate and committed to youth empowerment and entrepreneurship skills development, with a firm belief that empowering youth will help improve the living standard of the state’s residents and boost rapid socioeconomic development and prosperity.

As a retired Air Vice Marshal, his new position as commissioner will bring a wealth of experience from his illustrious military career in curbing security challenges in the state.

 Indeed, his sojourn as Director-General of the Special Service Directorate and subsequently as commissioner underscores the state government’s commitment to harnessing expertise from various fields to drive progress.

The appointment of Air Vice Marshal (AVM) Ibrahim Umaru as Commissioner in Kano State Government has sparked widespread interest and debate. As a seasoned security expert, AVM Umaru’s induction into the state executive council is seen by many as a strategic move to leverage his expertise in bolstering security and development initiatives in the state.

Many observers view AVM Umaru’s appointment as fitting, given his background and the current security challenges facing Kano State. His experience in security matters is expected to significantly contribute to the state’s efforts in maintaining peace and stability.

The appointment seems to align perfectly with the needs of the state, making it a case of a “square peg in a square hole.”

With AVM Umaru on board, the Kano State Government will likely benefit from his strategic insight and operational expertise. His role could be pivotal in enhancing Security Measures.

He will also utilize his military background to strengthen security frameworks and responses, advise on policy matters, provide informed counsel on security and development policies, and Facilitate dialogue and cooperation between security agencies and local communities.

AVM Ibrahim Umaru’s appointment appears well-considered, aligning his skills with the state’s needs. As he takes on this new role, expectations are high for meaningful contributions to Kano State’s security and development landscape. Only time will tell how effectively he navigates the complexities of his new position, but the outlook seems promising.

Congratulations, AVM, and may your appointment yield positive results for our dear state, Kano.

Sani is the Deputy Director of Public Enlightenment at the Kano Government House.

By Abdulhamid Abdullahi Aliyu 

To many Nigerians, the security allocations in national budgets often appear inflated. Year after year, billions are allocated to the military, defence procurement, intelligence operations, and internal security initiatives.

Yet, the level of insecurity across the country continues to raise eyebrows. The common question remains: “Where is all this money going?” It is a valid concern.

However, beyond the budget lines and official pronouncements lies a more complex reality—one that is often overlooked by the average citizen. The actual cost of warfare and intelligence operations is not just steep—it is staggering.

Take air operations as an example. Military insiders have long noted that flying an Alpha Jet for a single mission can gulp up to a million naira in aviation fuel alone.

This figure excludes routine maintenance, spare parts, logistics, or crew allowances. Multiply these flights across days and theatres of operation, and it becomes easier to understand why security efforts are financially demanding.

On the ground, the story is similar. Armoured vehicles, patrol vans, and tanks require constant fuelling, often idling for hours during missions. Soldiers deployed to remote areas require food, clothing, and equipment.

Medical support must be on standby, and when fatalities occur, families of the fallen deserve compensation. These are not occasional expenses—they are daily operational necessities.

Yet, beyond the financial weight of military engagement lies an even more fragile dimension: intelligence gathering. In parts of the country, particularly the North East, North Central, and North West, attacks by insurgents and bandits continue with frightening regularity.

People often ask: Why aren’t these attacks being preempted? Where is the intelligence? These questions are justified. Comparisons are frequently drawn to agencies like the FBI or Israel’s Mossad, known for preemptive actions.

But intelligence is no miracle tool. It relies on actionable information—gathered, processed, and relayed with accuracy. In many of Nigeria’s conflict zones, such information is scarce.

Locals often fear reprisals and refuse to share what they know. Rural and forested areas remain difficult to monitor due to the absence of surveillance infrastructure.

Moreover, intelligence work is not the sole burden of the military. It requires seamless coordination among the police, DSS, NSCDC, and even vigilante groups. Where this collaboration falters, intelligence fails.

That is not to absolve our agencies of their failings. Reports of negligence, delayed responses, and poor communication abound. However, these shortcomings, while real, are not insurmountable.

Nigeria urgently needs to rethink its approach to intelligence. There must be fresh investment in surveillance tools, inter-agency communication systems, and the training of personnel in modern techniques.

Citizens, too, must become active partners by volunteering timely and truthful information. This war cannot be won solely by the military. It requires collaboration, from the government to the grassroots.

Technology, including drone surveillance and satellite imagery, must be embraced. But more than anything else, there must be political will to treat intelligence not as a side note, but as the beating heart of our national security strategy.

Balanced expectations are also important. While it is tempting to measure Nigeria’s intelligence systems against those of global powers, such comparisons can be misleading.

Nations like the US and Israel have built theirs over decades with enormous financial commitment. Nigeria, by contrast, is still building its base. Still, quiet victories exist—many of them deliberately kept from the public domain for strategic reasons.

Terror plots have been foiled, camps dismantled, and lives saved through intelligence-led operations. These successes rarely make headlines. What are the failures, the losses, and the anguish they leave behind?

That is why we must keep asking questions—but with an understanding of the context. Accountability, yes. But also support, reform, and renewed trust. National security is not a spectator sport. It is a shared duty.

And if Nigeria is to triumph over its many threats, it must first accept that intelligence, not just guns, is its most potent weapon.

Abdulhamid Abdullahi Aliyu writes from the Centre for Crisis Communication (CCC) in Abuja.

By Abdullahi Mukhtar Algasgaini

Across many regions, there are wells that dry up once the rainy season ends. These seasonal wells, which only refill with water during the rainy period, often become active again when the rains return, prompting local residents to fetch water from them for daily use.

However, consuming water from such wells poses serious health risks and should be avoided.When a well dries up after the rainy season and refills again only when the rains return, it is often a sign that the water source is unstable and potentially unsafe.

The stagnant or intermittently replenished water in these wells can harbor various harmful contaminants. Here are some key reasons why drinking from such wells is dangerous:Seasonal wells can harbor dangerous pathogens like E. coli, Salmonella, and Campylobacter.

These bacteria are commonly associated with severe illnesses such as diarrhea, vomiting, and other life-threatening gastrointestinal infections.Wells that dry up and refill can also become breeding grounds for parasites like Giardia, Cryptosporidium, and bacteria such as Vibrio cholerae.

These organisms are known to cause waterborne diseases like cholera, typhoid fever, and dysentery, which can spread rapidly in communities and cause widespread illness.These wells may also be contaminated by industrial runoff or agricultural chemicals, including pesticides, heavy metals, and solvents.

Consuming water tainted with these substances can lead to long-term health effects, such as cancer, bone diseases, and reproductive issues.Seasonal wells can also serve as a source of contamination for nearby permanent wells.

If water from these unsafe sources mixes with groundwater or nearby clean sources, it could compromise the quality of otherwise safe drinking water.

Given the serious health hazards associated with using water from seasonal wells, it is strongly advised to avoid drinking or using water from such sources. Even if the water appears clean, it may contain invisible contaminants that can cause serious illness.

Public awareness, community education, and regular testing of water sources are essential steps to ensure safe drinking water. Communities should invest in safer, more sustainable water sources and prioritize water treatment practices to protect public health.

Remember: Prevention is better than cure. Protect yourself and your family—say no to unsafe seasonal well water.

Abdullahi Mukhtar Algasgaini wrote in from Gombe.

By Abdulgaffar Tukur

The ongoing internal wrangling within our great party, the Peoples Democratic Party (PDP), is deeply disheartening—especially at a time when Nigeria desperately needs a united and visionary opposition. As a committed member and believer in our shared democratic values, I speak not out of sentiment, but out of a sense of duty: this is not a time for blames, ego, division or personal ambition.

Nigeria is bleeding. Under the reckless and dictatorial leadership of the APC-led government, headed by President Bola Ahmed Tinubu, the nation is suffering from severe economic hardship, rampant insecurity, deepening poverty, and increasing political intimidation. Our democracy is under siege—and the people are losing hope.

The PDP must rise above these petty divisions. We must remember who we are and what we once offered this nation—16 years of stability, progress and pride. That legacy is worth defending. It is worth reviving. But to do so, we must become a united and formidable force, focused not on personal ambition, but on national salvation.

It is time we start thinking strategically, patriotically, and selflessly.

Why can’t our leaders rally behind a powerful, unifying ticket—such as His Excellency Dr. Goodluck Jonathan and His Excellency Senator Bala Abdulkadir Mohammed? This is a ticket that could inspire confidence, promote healing and unite Nigerians across board. It is realistic, respectable and widely acceptable.

And to our elder statesman, His Excellency Alhaji Atiku Abubakar—sir, your legacy and lifelong contributions to this party are undeniable. But now is the moment to write your name in gold by becoming the father of a new movement. Step in not as a contender, but as a peacemaker and unifier who helps to rescue Nigeria when it matters most. That act alone could define your legacy more than any presidency ever could.

Let us make no mistake in 2027: this is not just about winning an election—it’s about saving the country. It’s about restoring dignity, good governance and democratic values. It’s about telling the Nigerian people that PDP is still their party—and that we are ready to fight for them once again.

Let us rethink. Let us regroup. And together, let us reclaim the soul of our beloved Nigeria.

Abdulgaffar Tukur is a PDP member; he writes from Kebbi State, Nigeria. He can be reached via:
abdulgaffarkalgo@gmail.com

By Habibu Maaruf Abdu 

The social media in Northern Nigeria was recently abuzz with reports that Kannywood actress Fati Washa allegedly ignored and embarrassed some of her fans. This incident mirrors the infamy of certain Kannywood stars who are generally known for disrespecting their supporters. And that’s truly unfortunate!

Fans are the backbone of every entertainer’s success. Without their support, applause, and attention, there would be no fame, no endorsement deals, and no screen presence. So why do some Kannywood stars treat them with such indifference, even disdain?

Take a look at how global celebrities carry themselves. When Lionel Messi visited a restaurant in Argentina, he didn’t ignore the crowd of fans gathered outside. Despite being with his family, he waved, smiled, and acknowledged their love. 

In Bollywood, big stars like Salman Khan often stop for quick selfies or a simple wave to appreciate their fans. Even Hollywood legends like Keanu Reeves are celebrated not just for their talent but for their humility and approachability.

So, if celebrities from such massive industries, with far greater global fame on a scale Kannywood can only dream of, still find it important to respect their fans, what excuse do the local stars have?

I know for sure that not all Kannywood actors are like that. I met many of the industry’s A-listers, and my interactions with them have been nothing short of respectful. Perhaps it’s because I know how to read the room; when I sense a dismissive attitude, I simply stay away. But I’ve had some memorable encounters worth sharing.

Back in 2012, shortly after graduating from secondary school, a friend of mine wrote a film script. I suggested we visit Shy Plaza in Gadon Kaya, where, at that time, Kannywood filmmakers had a significant presence, to discuss it with a renowned producer. I was familiar with the area, having lived nearby.

We went there full of hope. The producer wasn’t around, so we waited. Then we saw Sadiq Sani Sadiq walk by. We decided not to approach him. But he came over and greeted us. He smiled, shook our hands, and made us feel seen. We were both under 20 at the time, nobodies, really, yet he showed us respect. From that day on, he earned my admiration and loyalty as a fan.

Over the years, my interest in Kannywood deepened. I attended many of their events and premieres. When Filmhouse Cinema opened at ShopRite in Kano, I was a regular attendee. I saw many Kannywood personnel there during movie promotions. Still, I rarely approached anyone—except Falalu Dorayi and Nazifi Asnanic, both of whom responded warmly and even posed for pictures with me.

There was also Aisha Humaira, the recent bride. I once saw her being approached by a young girl at the cinema premises asking for a photo. I was seated nearby when she turned to me and said, “If you don’t mind, please snap us.” I was amazed at her subtle show of humility.

Later, when I gained a bit of recognition as a film reviewer, I made the conscious decision to stop attending premieres, just to avoid being compromised by familiarity with filmmakers. I even turned down invites to special screenings, keeping my professional distance. At festivals and award events, I would often avoid conversations with actors altogether.

But something remarkable happened recently. It was at a UNICEF function, and thanks to our mentor Malam Habibu Aminu Lawan, I attended alongside Amina Bako and other social media influencers. We were seated right next to Kannywood veterans like Rabi’u Rikadawa, Umma Shehu, Umar M. Sharif, and others.

Because of actors’ reputation for snobbery, we decided to “maintain our steeze,” acting like we didn’t care. Interestingly, we ended up sharing laughs and engaging in light-hearted conversations. I even had an insightful discussion with Rikadawa about his acting prowess and the industry at large.

Therefore, based on my experience, I can confidently say that there are truly humble and grounded personalities in Kannywood, especially among the educated and veteran actors. The problem primarily lies with the naive, up-and-coming actors who mistakenly believe that arrogance equates to importance. And sadly, it doesn’t. It only exposes their insecurity.

In conclusion, Kannywood actors need a serious reality check. Fame is fleeting. The same fans you ignore today can forget you tomorrow. You have to respect your fans. They made you who you are.

Habibu Maaruf Abdu wrote from Kano via habibumaaruf11@gmail.com.

By Oladoja M.O

Adeoye Hussain Chukwuebuka came in glowing, the kind of glow that only pure purpose can give. Fresh from the furnace of medical college, his results bore the scent of brilliance, his stride the rhythm of someone born to heal. His white coat shimmered in the sterile hallway lights, worn not just as a uniform, but as a covenant. His stethoscope draped around his neck like the bronze serpent lifted in the wilderness, signalling a promise of life to those on the brink of death.

He truly came in, not seeking escape or greener pastures. He came with a fire. A fire to serve, to make an impact, to stay.

But then… housemanship happened.

In just two weeks to the new life, Chukwuebuka’s glow began to dim. Not metaphorically, but literally. His cheeks, once full, shrank. His eyes, once bright, dulled. He was fatter before — not just in body, but in dreams. He came with life. The system began to drain it, slowly, ruthlessly.

At first, sleep became a luxury, unaffordable anymore. Then his sanity. Later, his joy.

Adeoye found himself in a loop of exhaustion so grave it warped reality. He would resume by 8 a.m., and wouldn’t see sleep again for 48 hours — not once, not twice, but repeatedly. As soon as he thought he could breathe, just for a minute, a call would come in — “Come to the ward”, “There’s an emergency”, “You’re needed in theatre.” Again. And again… and again.

His personal life? Hussain could see it walk off him without his approval. Even his relationship that survived the inferno of medical school was broken off simply because there was nothing left of him to give. Not even text messages. Not even voice notes. Nothing. Just like that, a life he already had in play, joyful about, phased off.

Oh! Could he even shake off one of the haunting experiences he forever wished he could have helped with? Adeoye had already been on duty for over 24 hours when an emergency struck. A baby. Not breathing. Even at his lowest point, he could not stand not doing anything to save the situation. His body moved on instinct… he rushed, assessed, and started resuscitation. But five minutes in, the rush wore off. His hands gave up. He couldn’t even lift his arms. His fingers couldn’t form pressure. His own pulse felt faint. And the baby…. The baby slipped away. Left. Not just into death, but into the cracks of a broken system.

And on the report, he had to write the truth — “Could not complete resuscitation due to extreme personal exhaustion.”

That sentence continues to haunt him.

It wasn’t just a failure of strength. It was a failure of structure. And his friends across other hospitals? They were fainting. Collapsing mid-shift. Crying in toilet stalls. Living like machines with rusting gears.

And you would think, with this superhuman sacrifice, the reward would be more than a room could contain.

But no.

The pay was barely enough to survive. But Adeoye said, and meant it — he would take less if it meant he could have a piece of his soul back. If he could breathe. If he could be human. This isn’t about money alone, but about dignity. About survival. About choosing between saving lives and watching his own slip away.

And even if he summons all the strength left in his marrow, there’s still this: no equipment. Oxygen runs out. Monitors don’t beep. Gloves tear. Syringes are blunt. Catheters are scarce. The barest minimum? A luxury. And in that darkness, they still whisper: “Do your best.”

What best? With what tools? With what strength?

Even those who still carry passion like a torch are now shivering in the cold winds of burnout. The system is crushing the very shoulders it leans on.

Why?

The answer is bitter: a workforce too thin to carry a country.

How many doctors are produced yearly? Nowhere near enough. And even among those, only a fraction secure placement for housemanship. Why? Because merit is suffocated by political interference. Only about 20% of placements are based on merit. The rest are claimed by sons of power, daughters of connections, and family friends of politicians. Many brilliant minds, like Adeoye once was, remain stranded, waiting, and wasting.

And yet, those lucky enough to be placed are punished for it. Overworked. Underequipped. Undervalued.

And Adeoye? He really didn’t want to leave. He honestly was determined to stay. He actually wanted to believe. But now? He would give anything to go.

Not for luxury.
Not for pride.
Just to survive.

This is the irony: Nigeria’s housemanship year, which is supposed to be a bridge from classroom to clinic, has become a crucible. Rather than refine, it breaks. Becomes a trapdoor instead of a launchpad. 

And this is not just about Adeoye Hussain Chukwuebuka.
It’s about hundreds. Thousands.
Many of whom came in glowing. Now walking corpses — souls intact, bodies crumbling.

They didn’t want to leave. They really didn’t.
Until housemanship happened.

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

By Abbas Datti

I am worried by the increasing broadcast of music videos featuring women in revealing, indecent dressing by the popular Arewa24 television station. In sum, it has reached a tipping point where women featured in music videos are sometimes half-naked, in a provocative, obscene dressing. 

Considering its audience, Arewa24, whose programming is widely accessible to viewers of all ages, must be subjected to public scrutiny for continuously airing content that contradicts the Hausa culture and traditional values of our society.

Many of these music videos not only portray women in revealing clothing but also promote gestures and themes that are inappropriate for family viewing. The consistent exposure to such content, especially during prime time when children and young adults are most likely to be watching, raises serious questions about Arewa TV’s commitment to ethical broadcasting and social responsibility. Most of those video songs are being shown during prime time.

Our society, rich in religious moral character and cultural pride, has always upheld values that protect the dignity and modesty of individuals, particularly women. The portrayal of women in such a demeaning and objectifying manner is not only an affront to Hausa Fulani’s traditions but also sends the wrong message to younger generations.

We call on the National Broadcasting Commission (NBC) and other censorship regulatory bodies to urgently investigate some content being aired by the Arewa TV station. Strict measures should be taken to ensure that all media platforms operate within the boundaries of decency, respect, and cultural sensitivity. 

Furthermore, there is a pressing need for media houses to adopt self-regulation policies and prioritise programming that promotes positive values and Hausa cultural identity. Our religion and cultural heritage must not be compromised in the name of entertainment.

The time to act is now. Authorities must rise to the occasion and safeguard the moral fabric of the Hausa people from further extinction.

Abbas Datti writes from Kano via abbasdatti448@gmail.com.

By Salim Yunusa 

When we were neck deep into planning for KAPFEST 1.0, we decided that we would definitely have a poetry slam. Having seasoned spoken word poets on the team who had participated, judged, or simply watched one made planning for it easier. Everyone knew what to expect and what structure would work. The poetry slam was not going to be a filler—it was going to be a central experience of the festival.

Then came the aspect of naming it. Without hesitating, I suggested we either name it the Aminu Kano Poetry Slam or the Mudi Sipikin Poetry Slam. Both names carried weight. Both men represented distinct traditions of intellectualism, activism, and the power of the word. At the end, we settled for the Mudi Sipikin Poetry Slam. It felt right. It felt timely. It felt necessary.

When I informed my friend Mukhtar that we decided to name a segment of our program after his dad, he was elated. Genuinely elated. We didn’t do it because we wanted sponsorship from the family or anything like that. We didn’t do it because we were friends with the family members. We did it because of what Mudi Sipikin stood for—creative expression, social commentary, economics, science, thought, and literary legacy.

Salim Yunusa is the founder of Poetic Wednesdays Initiative and curates the Kano International Poetry Festival. He writes from Zaria, Nigeria.

He was one of those voices that had shaped public thought and intellectual culture in Arewa for decades. So came to pass the first edition of the Mudi Sipikin Poetry Slam. Young people from different places participated. They competed. They poured their hearts out. They won cash prizes. And they made history.

Two of Mudi Sipikin’s children—Mukhtar Mudi Sipikin and Sani Misbahu Sipikin—were there physically. Mukhtar, in a touching gesture, gifted the winners beautiful textile materials. The SSA to the President also showed up and made generous cash donations. It was a moment of recognition. It was a moment of continuity. It was a moment of reclaiming history.

Then came ZABAFEST. I was pleasantly surprised when they named their poetry slam after Dr. Abubakar Imam, the famous writer and intellectual who lived in Zaria. His name, for those who know, is one of the pillars of early Northern Nigerian literature. The slam segment was electric and greatly thrilled the audience. Two of Dr. Imam’s children were in attendance, and they expressed their appreciation for the gesture. It was not just about honoring their father—it was about honoring an entire generation of thinkers who laid the foundations for what we now call Northern Nigerian literature.

And then, just yesterday, the Jos Art and Culture Festival announced that there would be a poetry slam and it would be named after Danmaraya Jos. That news made me deeply happy. Danmaraya Jos was not just a musician. He was a griot. A chronicler. A custodian of memory. And seeing young people take the initiative to immortalize his name within a literary event speaks volumes. It is not about nostalgia. It is about remembering rightly. It is about giving names their due.

During the opening ceremony of the maiden Kano International Poetry Festival in 2024, I emphasized the significance of literary festivals, stating: “Can we have enough festivals? I am thrilled that we are having literary festivals spring up in this part of the country, where we have many unsung literary heroes and heroines. You see, festivals are remarkable opportunities to educate, empower, enlighten, and entertain the public. They are a breath of fresh air, where we reignite the fires of our literary passion, cultivate new friendships and rekindle old ones, and above all, engross ourselves in rich conversations about the arts, culture, music, and poetry.”

This is why naming these events after literary icons goes way beyond immortalizing them. It is a way of preserving their contributions to the literary world. It is a method of introducing their names—and possibly their work—to younger audiences who may never encounter them otherwise. When I curated the poetry exhibition on the life of Alu Ɗan Sidi, I realized how much has been forgotten. For many attendees, it was the first time they were hearing that name, let alone engaging with the literary and scholarly contributions of the emir. But what pleased me most was how that exhibition opened a portal of learning. It sparked appreciation. It generated questions. And it even led to plans for follow-up conversations and more literary and cultural exploration on of our rich literary legacy. That is how preservation begins.

We are in a time where the literary contributions of our ancestors are being neglected or sidelined. Curriculums barely reflect their names. Public discourse often forgets them. Archives are dusty. Monuments are few. So it is refreshing—no, it is necessary—to see young people bringing back these names and personalities to life through poetry, exhibitions, festivals, and critical discussions. This is more than memory work. It is cultural survival. It is literary resistance. It is about stitching our present to our past, so that the future does not forget.

Hopefully, this growing momentum will lead to proper archiving of their works. Hopefully, it will inspire scholars to take interest in their contributions. Hopefully, it will lead to deeper appreciation and appropriate honor for their legacies, in Nigeria and beyond.

Because the names live on. Because we must speak them. Because the griots must never be forgotten.