Opinion

By Isah Kamisu Madachi

During the 2025 Ramadan fasting period, schools were shut in some states across northern Nigeria. The decision sparked public outrage, with many Nigerians questioning it. The unanimous reason given by authorities was that the heat had become unbearable in the affected states, necessitating the closure of schools. For many people, that was a reasonable excuse, but beneath it, to a keen observer, lay a policy failure that deserved more attention than it received. Northern Nigeria, particularly the North East and North West, sits within a semi-arid belt bordering the Sahara Desert. It has always been hotter than other parts of the country.

What that school closure quietly revealed was the absence of a national or state heat management policy. Nigeria, of course, has policies for floods, droughts, the energy transition, disaster response, climate and health adaptation. However, heat is largely unmanaged. There is no clear policy framework on how schools, workers, farmers, or low-income households should cope with rising temperatures. As a result, heat is not treated as a public policy emergency.

This is not an attempt to relitigate the school’s closure. Rather, it is an effort to call attention to how rising heat is silently pushing Nigerians deeper into poverty, food insecurity, and worsened health conditions. Heat stress is now not just an environmental concern but a development issue that largely affects productivity, education, health, and household income. Unlike floods, heat is not dramatic; it is as deadly as, or even worse than, floods. It creeps into everyday life, drains energy, reduces earning hours, and increases health risks. 

Evidence globally has established a strong link between extreme heat and poverty, particularly in low-income societies. 

For many outdoor workers, earning a livelihood has become increasingly difficult. In some places, work cannot continue after noon due to extreme heat. Those who push through do so at the expense of their health, suffering dehydration, headaches, and heat exhaustion. The result is lost income and rising healthcare costs, which also consume the little savings they manage to earn under the heat.

The education sector also tells a worrying story. Recently, during a visit to the primary school I attended in Bauchi State, I saw how teachers and pupils were struggling under the suffocating heat. The teacher was drenched in sweat. The pupils were distracted, trying to hand-fan themselves with notebooks. Learning was taking place in form, but not in substance. 

If Nigeria is serious about improving educational outcomes, then heat-resilient classrooms should be available to them. Policies must begin to prioritise basic cooling solutions, such as renewable-powered fans and ventilation systems in public schools.

Another backbone of livelihoods—agriculture—is also under serious threat. Rising temperatures stress crops, exacerbate pest and disease problems, shorten growing seasons, and reduce yields. For smallholder farmers, this condition results in lower incomes and food insecurity. Strengthening climate adaptation plans for agriculture is therefore necessary, particularly in areas most vulnerable to heat and erratic rainfall.

Reducing carbon emissions is central to addressing climate change, and Nigeria has a role to play. Governments, industries, energy companies, and individuals all share responsibility. Lifestyle changes, such as reducing reliance on biomass and fossil fuels when cleaner alternatives are available, matter. Access to solar-powered equipment and off-grid electricity can also significantly reduce emissions and improve living conditions.

However, lifestyle change alone is not the solution. Without coordinated policies that expand access to affordable renewable energy, low-income households will continue to rely on unsustainable energy sources. Heat, energy poverty, and health outcomes are connected, but our existing policies often treat them in isolation.

This is where government responsibility sets in. At the federal and local levels, there must be deliberate investment in renewable energy solutions that directly improve people’s daily lives. Solar mini-grids, clean cooking technologies, and low-cost cooling appliances should be treated as public health and poverty alleviation priorities. If heat can shut down schools, reduce productivity, and worsen health outcomes, then it, by all standards, deserves a higher place in Nigeria’s policy agenda.

Nigeria cannot afford to continue reacting to climate impacts only after damage has been done. Rising heat is shaping how we work, learn, farm, and earn. Ignoring it does not make it disappear. It only deepens inequality and exposes the most vulnerable to greater harm. A country serious about development must begin to treat heat as the policy challenge that it truly is.

Isah Kamisu Madachi is a public policy enthusiast and development practitioner. He writes from Abuja and can be reached via isahkamisumadachi@gmail.com.

Taqdeer (Divine Decree), a 2025 Nigerian Islamic film directed by Ruben Reng, is a captivating tale of love, fate, and cultural heritage. Starring Ibrahim, Sakina, Mustapha, and Zainab as leading characters, this film weaves a narrative that explores the intricacies of human relationships against the backdrop of Nigerian and Hausa traditions.

The film’s plot revolves around themes of destiny, faith, and choices, unfolding a story that keeps viewers engaged. The narrative delves into the lives of its characters, exploring their struggles and triumphs in a way that resonates deeply. 

Watching Taqdeer is a visually immersive experience. The cinematography captures the vibrant essence of Abuja, blending traditional and modern elements harmoniously. The film’s use of Hausa language and Islamic cultural references adds authenticity, making the story feel both personal and universal. The performances by the cast are compelling, bringing depth to their characters.

Taqdeer’s formal techniques, such as its cinematography and sound design, effectively enhance the narrative’s emotional impact. The film’s portrayal of Islamic moral themes and traditions provides a rich context for the story, making it relatable and thought-provoking. The blend of music and story-based sound adds to the film’s atmosphere, drawing viewers into the world it creates.

Analytically, while Taqdeer is strong in many areas, certain scenes linger longer than necessary, which can detract from the story’s overall momentum. Nevertheless, these moments are outweighed by the film’s strength, particularly its moral richness.

In conclusion, Taqdeer is worth watching for its engaging narrative, moral richness, and strong performances. It offers a glimpse into Nigerian Muslim culture and explores universal themes of love and fate, making it a compelling watch for audiences interested in diverse storytelling.  

Reviewed by

Rexford Asamoah Adu

radu@smail.uni-koeln.de

By Harajana Umar Ragada

The offer felt like a golden ticket. A celebrated Nigerian celebrity was hosting a festival and needed a spoken word documentary. For a talented artist in Northern Nigeria, this was the sought-after break, a chance to step into a national spotlight reserved for the chosen few. She believed in her craft, and she said yes.

The project was defined: two videos, one in Hausa, one in English, featuring her voice and her performance. She submitted her fees, a fair reflection of her skill. The project manager’s reassurance was smooth, hinging on the host’s lofty reputation. “Trust the process,” she was told. And so, she did.

She requested an advance to book studio time. A partial payment was made to her, but it was insufficient and did not cover Abuja’s professional studio rates. She dipped into her own resources to make it work. When the video shoot approached, another surprise: she was to supply her own costume due to “budget constraints.” Professional to her core, she invested in the perfect attire, believing her dedication would be honoured.

Then, the turnaround. After she sent the final recordings, she was called upon that the celebrity’s sister would headline the Hausa version. Her role was being reduced to just the English piece. She objected firmly; this was not their agreement, and her payment was still pending. After tense negotiations, a new, fragile deal was struck: she would be credited as a collaborator, and nothing would be posted without her approval.

On a sunny afternoon, they summoned her to the Art and Craft Village for the shoot. When she arrived, she found them already filming the sister. When she reminded them of their terms, the promises flowed anew: payment after filming, glowing accolades, and the full weight of the celebrity’s influence to boost her career. Placing her trust in that stature one more time, she completed the work.

What followed was a masterclass in creative exploitation. They chipped away at her agreed rate, pleading budgetary limitations. They sold her on a future of unlocked doors and dazzling opportunities, convincing her to accept far less, to trade monetary value for the currency of exposure and credit. She acquiesced, hoping the recognition would be worth it.

Months slipped by without the remaining payment. After persistent appeals, another fraction of the sum arrived. Weary, she let it go, choosing peace over a protracted fight.

Then the video was live. And as she watched, a cold realisation settled in. Every name was listed in the credits… except hers. Her voice filled the piece, but she had been erased completely. Not a mention, not a link, not a trace. The feeling was a hollow mix of betrayal and devaluation; she had been used and then discarded.

This story is not a solitary lament. It is the shared refrain of countless creatives. Like Abdulmajid Gambo Danbaba, a poet from Katsina, who discovered his deeply personal poem “I am Me,” born of his childhood struggles, and proudly posted it on another man’s Facebook page, claiming it as his own. The confrontation was messy, requiring the threat of legal action to force an apology and a takedown.

These are the everyday hazards in the digital marketplace of ideas, where work is copied, credit is stolen, and promises are broken. So, what can be done?

Navigating the Minefield: Wisdom from the Frontlines

We turned to experts to demystify the path from vulnerability to empowerment.

Dr. Ismail Bala, a renowned poet and critic, frames the issue clearly. He defines creative exploitation as using another’s work without payment or permission, and plagiarism as outright theft of authorship. His advice is twofold: vigilance and formalisation. “Copyright your work,” he urges. “And move beyond handshake deals. Any collaboration needs a legal contract, however simple.”

The consequences, he notes, are both emotional and economic; a loss of confidence and a loss of livelihood. While social media democratizes sharing, it also facilitates this theft. The remedy, he states, is a cultural shift toward fundamental respect, acknowledging sources and compensating creators fairly.

Muhammed Bello Buhari, a digital rights activist, frames this not as a mere commercial issue but as a human right. “Your creativity is your voice. To steal it is to strip you of your agency and dignity,” he explains. International law protects the moral and material interests of creators, but the systems are often skewed toward those with power and lawyers.

He highlights the legal grey zone that creatives must navigate. “The law protects your specific expression, not the general idea. Someone can mimic your style without crossing a legal line, which is why documentation is your greatest weapon.”

Buhari champions the “paper trail.” Your drafts, timestamped files, and email records become irrefutable proof of ownership. “That version history is your shield,” he says.

MB Buhari recommends a practical toolkit for every creator:

1. Document Everything: Create a “receipt culture.” Save early drafts, note creation dates, and follow up verbal agreements with a confirming email or message.

2. Mark Your Territory: Use the copyright symbol (©) on your work. It’s a simple but clear signal of ownership.

3. Have the “Terms” Talk: Before sharing work, state clearly how it can be used. A simple text message can form a basic contract.

4. Leverage Community and Platforms: Use the court of public opinion respectfully but firmly. Know how to issue a DMCA takedown notice on social platforms to remove stolen content.

5. Embrace Simple Contracts: Outline collaboration terms, ownership, and credit in writing. “A contract is a seatbelt for your creativity,” Buhari notes.

6. Seek Strength in Numbers: Join creative associations and leverage pro-bono legal networks. There is power in collective advocacy.

The Northern Star: A Community’s Victory

The most powerful chapter in this story is its conclusion. When the spoken word artist was erased, she did not stay silent. She shared her story. And the Northern creative community erupted. They became her amplifiers, her defenders, and her unyielding support system. Through poems, posts, and shared outrage, they applied a pressure that no individual could. Faced with this unified front, the celebrity apologised.

This is the ultimate blueprint. The fight against exploitation is not a solo journey. It is fought by building a community that values integrity over influence, that champions credit over “exposure,” and that stands as a united front against those who would diminish their peers. It is about transforming individual vulnerability into collective, unshakeable strength.

Harajana Umar Ragada wrote via kharajnah@gmail.com.

By Professor Abdussamad Umar Jibia

The year 2023 was a remarkable year in Nigeria’s history. Just like the year 1993, an election was held that generated a win for a Muslim candidate with another Muslim as his running mate.

In both 1993 and 2023, the presidential candidates were warned against choosing a Northern Christian as a running mate. Christians constitute not just a tiny minority in the North, but many of them have also proven to be very bad neighbours in their relations with their Muslim compatriots.

Wherever Christians constitute the majority, they display an unforgivable hate and marginalisation against their Muslim neighbours. A handy example is Plateau state, the home state of the current APC Chairman. The way Muslims are sidelined in Plateau state is enough to show what we should expect if Christians were the majority in Nigeria.

His Excellency Peter Obi was misled into believing that a combination of Igbo and Northern Christians could make him the President, and he moved from one church to another to campaign, only to end up in third place. 

The 2023 election was thus a religious census in disguise that showed the numerical superiority of Muslims over Christians in Nigeria. 

But no sooner had Bola Ahmed Tinubu won the 2023 presidential election than he began to sideline Muslims, the very group that brought him to power, in his appointments. Last year, we saw him personally going to the Vatican with what the state house described as a “bragging right of 62% Christian appointees”. 

We watched as he appointed a Northern Christian as the SGF. Of course, President Muhammadu Buhari did the same. President Umaru Musa Yar’Adua appointed a Northern Christian to lead the National Assembly. They did not deserve any of these, given their small number. However, Muslims gave them out of magnanimity. Or is it foolishness? They would never do the same if they were in our position. 

Many of us became disappointed when we saw a Northern Christian being chosen to lead the ruling party. This means two of the most important positions at the federal level have been given to Christians from the North Central, a geopolitical zone that is overwhelmingly Muslim. Worse still, our politicians in and outside the ruling party, our emirs and Islamic scholars are silent. When have we become animals who only care about eating food and sleeping with women?

As if that is not enough, speculation is that the President wants to drop his VP and choose a Northern Christian as his running mate in next year’s election. I commend the Honourable Minister of Culture, Hajiya Hannatu Musawa, for publicly telling the truth to Mr President. But it shouldn’t have reached this level. The decision of the President to appoint Northern Christians as SGF, Party Chairman and INEC Chair should have been opposed in the first place.

We are still expecting Mr President to correct the imbalance that favours the very tiny Northern Christians. North Central is predominantly Muslim. The only Christian majority states, where, of course, Muslims have been marginalised, are Plateau and Benue. Niger, Nasarawa, Kogi and Kwara are Muslim states. That Muslims in those states have been left out by Mr President in the above-mentioned strategic appointments is unfortunate.

Professor Abdussamad Umar Jibia wrote from the Department of Mechatronics Engineering, Bayero University Kano, via aujibia@gmail.com.

By  Ibrahiym A. El-Caleel

Senator Rabiu Musa Kwankwaso should be competing on the national stage with contemporaries such as Senator Bola Tinubu, Alhaji Atiku Abubakar, and other Class of 1999 political actors. By pedigree, experience, and longevity, Kwankwaso has clearly outgrown Kano politics, and he does not need to prove it again in 2027. However, he appears stuck in state-level politics. 

Kwankwaso is at odds with the two successive Kano governors after him, both of whom are his protégés: Dr Abdullahi Ganduje and the incumbent, Engr Abba Kabir Yusuf. He says they have “betrayed” him. There was a show of electoral force at his residence in Kano this afternoon. A large number of people trooped into his Miller Road residence in what he later called a “solidarity visit”.  

These developments indicate that Senator Kwankwaso is once again positioning himself for state-level dominance rather than advancing a national ambition in 2027. Ideally, Kwankwaso should defeat Governor Abba through a candidate he anoints for #KanoDecides2027. But a deeper question remains: should the 2027 ambition of a politician of Kwankwaso’s stature be focused on unseating a “betraying” godson at the state level, when Kwankwaso’s contemporaries have either honourably retired from politics or are positioning themselves for the presidency? 

Who exactly would Kwankwaso replace Abba with, and what assurance does he have that a newly installed godson would not eventually “betray” him, just as Ganduje and Abba did? At this point, there is little reason to believe the outcome would be different. The current godsons around him are likely to use his influence to rise and then assert their independence once in office. There is no clear indication that they would be more submissive than their two elder political siblings, Ganduje and Abba. How do you keep doing the same thing repeatedly while expecting a different result? 

There is also a genuine political risk. What if Abba Yusuf, like Ganduje before him, survives the onslaught and secures a second term? This is not an endorsement of electoral malpractice, but a recognition of Nigeria’s political realities. Kano’s 2019 gubernatorial election demonstrated how powerful interests can intervene decisively; Dr Ganduje ultimately retained office despite glaring indications that he lost at the polls.

If a similar outcome were to occur in 2027 and Governor Yusuf were to proceed to a second tenure, would that not constitute a second public humiliation for the godfather? What explanation would suffice then? That yet another protégé has matured enough to build political alliances strong enough to neutralise Kwankwaso’s influence? At that point, the narrative shifts decisively: from betrayed mentor to diminishing power broker.

On the other hand, if Senator Kwankwaso succeeds in unseating Governor Yusuf and installing another loyalist, what exactly would he be celebrating at the end of the day? That Kwankwasiyya has simply replaced Kwankwasiyya? That a godfather has prevailed over his own godson? Such victories may satisfy the logic of control, but they do little to expand political influence, strengthen institutions, or advance democratic culture. At best, they amount to an internal power rotation within the same political family, offering no clear gain to the broader society.

Ultimately, this debate goes beyond personalities. Do we really need a political model anchored on godfathers, covenants, and lifelong loyalty to patrons? Has Buhari’s repeated endorsement of anointed candidates meaningfully improved governance or political culture in the North? Has Tinubu’s entrenched godfatherism in the South West translated into measurable social or institutional progress? Until we seriously examine the long-term costs of political baptism, loyalty tests, and patronage politics, it remains difficult to argue that godfatherism is the most viable model for a modern democratic society.

 Ibrahiym A. El-Caleel wrote via caleel2009@gmail.com.

By Ali Tijjani Hassan 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

By Mallam Tawfiq

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

By Oladoja M.O

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

By Zayyad Mohammed 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

By Ibrahim Aliyu Gurin

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ibrahim Aliyu Gurin wrote via ibrahimaliyu5023@yahoo.com.