Climate change

By Abubakar Idris Misau 

Altitude: 120 m AGL; Latitude: 9.0538° N; and Longitude: 7.4913° E.  Through an aerial assessment, we see clearly Mr Engineer working in a high-tech lab [read: field] and dealing with the precision of machines and equations, and Oga Forester standing in a quiet woodland handling the unpredictable messiness of nature. The picture shows two different professionals occupying completely distinct worlds. On the ground, however, a meticulous survey presents two applied scientists, each drawing on established knowledge from the basic sciences and working to solve real-world problems. The Engineer collects data from Physicists, Chemists, and Mathematicians; the Forester receives inputs from Biologists, Agronomists, and Ecologists — all for the very same reason: improving life on land. In other words, they do not study the laws of nature merely out of curiosity [though curiosity is one reason], but as applied scientists who take foundational science and use it to create practical solutions for humanity. 

Historically, however, their professional training has led them to view the same landscape through different lenses. For example, when an engineer looks at a rural community, they see a need for roads, bridges, transmission lines, and power grids. A forester, by contrast, sees ecosystem dynamics, deforestation, desertification, and climate change. Meanwhile, if these scientists are to solve Nigeria’s pressing energy challenge, the two views must merge. The engineer must realise that the answers to our modern energy crisis might just be growing right outside their laboratory windows, and the forester must accept that “climate activism” has to go beyond anti-deforestation policies and tree planting campaigns. Tangible solutions must produce clean, affordable energy alternatives for people. This piece argues that the engineer-forester marriage can give birth to the figurative “ɗan mai ido”.

It’s unfortunate that, on the basis of the current arrangement, when modern engineers think about renewable energy, their minds instantly drift toward fields of sleek solar photovoltaic panels or towering wind turbines. These technologies are undeniably the vanguards of the global energy transition. However, as any engineer in the field will admit, solar and wind power have certain vulnerabilities. Solar panels, for example, lose efficiency as ambient temperatures increase, and wind turbines face structural strain from turbulent, unpredictable wind currents. Here, engineers can reliably work with foresters to strategically design and deploy agroforestry shelterbelts and windbreaks around large-scale solar farms and wind corridors. Foresters know exactly which deep-rooted tree species can thrive in specific zones to act as localised, natural cooling mechanisms through transpiration. By lowering the ambient temperature of the surrounding microclimate, a well-managed forest perimeter helps solar panels operate closer to their optimal temperature, boosting overall performance.

Nigerian media houses have had enough of national grid collapse news. While solar and wind energy alternatives are decentralised and, as such, cannot cause national grid collapse, anyone using these technologies knows they have their own version of intermittency. This is due to the limited storage capacity of their batteries. This means that, beyond structural protection for solar and wind, the forestry-engineering alliance has to solve the notorious puzzle of grid intermittency without relying exclusively on expensive, environmentally unfriendly chemical battery storage. Simply put, it must produce its own clean, affordable energy! 

Here, the energy security crisis in Nigeria cannot be divorced from the broader threat of climate change. In fact, they exist in a destructive feedback loop. Isn’t it true, for example, that severe droughts drastically reduce the water levels of our major hydroelectric dams (like Kainji and Shiroro), cutting off baseline electricity generation? Well, how about extreme heatwaves adding pressure to transmission grids? Documented evidence points to desertification in the north forcing human displacement and completely altering local energy demands. Most importantly, fossil fuels are not considered clean for obvious reasons. All of that. What do we do?

In my view, to break this cycle henceforth, engineers must design systems that operate in harmony with natural carbon cycles. Applied forestry science could be essential here. Since forests sequester greenhouse gases directly from the atmosphere and store them as biomass, foresters can work to improve efficiency in the production process while engineers tackle the energy-conversion part of the equation… You gerrit?!  After all, as a forester, I know that forestry is the active protection, scientific management, and wise usage of trees for the benefit of the present generation while considering future generations. It doesn’t say we shouldn’t use them.

As I see it, therefore, the future of energy security, especially in rural communities, lies in hybrid bio-solar and bio-wind microgrids. In these systems, solar or wind power serves as the primary energy source during peak daytime or windy conditions. When these sources drop, a localised, automated biomass gasification system fueled by a continuous, scientifically managed pipeline of forestry and sawmill residues kicks in seamlessly to provide baseline power. Biogas is here to serve us. It should be utilised. Since forests produce biomass, we can maintain them as a living component of solar and wind grid infrastructure. In this unified, resilient ecosystem the forester manages the inputs, and the engineer optimizes the outputs.

Following this line of thinking, therefore, working with foresters is a sure path for engineers to efficiently transition from carbon-emitting energy to carbon-neutral or carbon-negative energy systems. Consider establishing “energy plantations” on degraded lands. Foresters choose species that restore lands and ensure high biomass production, while engineers build localised conversion plants. Because the carbon released during biomass energy generation is exactly equal to the carbon the trees absorbed while growing, the entire cycle remains net-zero. For a country like Nigeria, heavily bedevilled by oil pollution in the Niger Delta and desert encroachment in the North, this approach lets us restore ecosystems while securing a sustainable fuel source that displaces petroleum dependency. This is beyond win-win.

Whenever issues like this are discussed and similar solutions proposed, people dismiss them as unrealistic, inefficient, expensive, and so forth. But those are not academic submissions. History offers examples of even more dismissive assumptions that innovations and engineering solutions later proved wrong. Perhaps the clearest example was the global perspective on coal in the 19th century. No sensible person thought oil would take the place of coal, and it happened. In his 1865 book The Coal Question, to show the supremacy of coal over all other alternative energy sources, the English Economist William Stanley Javons even praised the black substance as “the sole necessary basis of our material power”. And, “the naturally best source of power as air and water and gold and iron are, each for its own purpose, the most useful substances and such that would never be superseded.” Javons published his work when oil wasn’t even discovered in commercial quality. But alternatives always exist.

Back to the solution. The engineering-forestry partnership is very relevant to the Global Agenda 2030, famously known as the United Nations’ Sustainable Development Goals (SDGs). When we fuel decentralised bioenergy grids with managed forest products, we directly support SDG 7 (Affordable and Clean Energy) by providing power to communities using local resources. And because this energy cycle displaces fossil fuels and prevents open-air waste burning, it directly contributes to the almighty SDG 13 (Climate Action). Meanwhile, as foresters oversee resource generation, this energy security is achieved without destroying ecosystems. Isn’t that aligning with SDG 15 (Life on Land)?

The marriage of engineers and foresters also breathes life into the African Union’s Agenda 2063, which envisions “The Africa We Want”. Its goals include climate-resilient economies and sustainable natural resource management. Genuinely, I don’t think achieving Agenda 2063 is feasible if we import foreign technological solutions wholesale and ignore local geographical realities. Instead, I see the place of capitalising on our ecological endowments (forestry) with structural innovation (engineering) to pioneer a uniquely African model of green industrialisation.

Notably, I believe this collaboration is the missing key to the Nigeria Energy Transition Plan (ETP). Nigeria’s bold roadmap to achieve carbon neutrality by 2060 includes an aggressive milestone: phasing out 72% of decentralised diesel generators by 2030. For decades, Nigerian industries and homes have run on an expensive, polluting “shadow grid” of petrol and diesel generators. To eliminate them, the ETP explicitly calls for a dramatic ramp-up in solar PV, hydro, and biomass integration. However, the ETP’s ambitious targets are mathematically impossible if treated as purely mechanical problems. We cannot replace millions of diesel generators with intermittent solar power alone. As argued in this piece, we need a steady, dispatchable baseline power source. Sustainable biomass, managed by professional foresters and processed by engineers, provides that exact baseline. Without the forester to secure a sustainable, non-deforesting supply of wood residue, sawdust, and other forms of biomass waste, the engineer’s transition turbines will simply run out of fuel.

There’s no doubt at all: the complex riddle of Nigeria’s energy security will not be solved by a single breakthrough in a software lab, nor will it be answered by digging deeper into old oil wells. The challenges of our time demand that we outgrow the rigid intellectual silos built into our university curricula and professional institutes. As long as engineers look only at cables and solar panels, and foresters look only at climate change impacts on biodiversity and nature conservation, we will remain trapped in a landscape of fragmented, half-baked solutions.

Go to Brazil, and so forth; the story is different. It says we are behind. It says it’s doable.

It’s therefore high time we rethink what “technology” actually means. In my view, a forest gives us fertile ground to invent and test technologies. A tree is a highly sophisticated solar-powered machine that captures carbon, cools the environment, and manufactures organic energy. When we learn to treat the forest as a vital partner in our infrastructure plans, we unlock an entirely new toolkit for national development.

As a forester, I invite engineers to a talk on and in the forest. I am confident that together, through the shared practical language of the applied sciences, we can build a highly resilient, decentralised, and truly self-sustaining Nigeria. The answers, I opine, to our nation’s energy security are growing right outside our windows, waiting for us to start talking.

It’s July. We are in the second half of 2026. Those farmers who, during the first half of the year, prepared their lands in what the agronomists call [pre-planting] “cultural practices”, are today already smiling. Others are probably green with envy. A famous proverb attributed to ancient Chinese wisdom captures my call for a proactive mindset. “The best time to plant a tree was 20 years ago. The second best time is now.” I believe this proverb perfectly mirrors my visionary argument. A long-term proposal that says we haven’t done what we should have, but still, we should.

Abubakar Idris, a graduate in Forestry and Wildlife from the University of Maiduguri, writes from Benin City, Nigeria. He can be reached at abubakaridrismisau@gmail.com.

By Onumoh Abdulwaheed 

The water came first to the Ojota Maryland bridge, then to Lekki, then to Oshodi. By mid-morning, offices sat locked, bus stops stood empty, and cars floated where traffic should have been. On social media, Lagosians did what they always do when the rains return: they joked, filmed, and asked again where the government was.

Nigeria has rehearsed this scene for years. Not a single flood, but a season that arrives on schedule, floods a familiar set of streets, and leaves behind the same unanswered question: why does this keep happening?

The numbers say it will keep happening. The Nigeria Hydrological Services Agency’s 2026 flood outlook warns that 33 states and more than 14,000 communities sit in high-risk zones this year. It is not a new warning. In 2022, floods killed over 600 people, displaced 1.4 million, and destroyed more than 82,000 homes. By 2024, another million people had been displaced, and 1.3 million hectares of farmland were lost. Economists put the average cost of the 2022 and 2024 disasters at $6.68 billion money that vanishes from an economy that can least afford it, shaving up to half a percentage point off agricultural GDP each bad season.

Nowhere is the pattern of official neglect clearer than at Dasin Hausa. In the 1980s, Nigeria and Cameroon agreed to build twin dams: Lagdo, in Cameroon, to hold back water, and Dasin Hausa, in Adamawa State, to absorb whatever Lagdo released. Cameroon built its dam. Nigeria did not. More than forty years on, Dasin Hausa exists mainly in feasibility studies and press statements, while Lagdo’s floodwaters continue to pour, almost on cue, into Benue, Kogi, Anambra and Delta.

Jonathan Ikwebe, a farmer in Benue whose rice fields were wiped out in 2022, put it plainly: “We are at the mercy of the water.” He said the government keeps promising a dam that nobody sees being built.

That promise has been renewed often. In 2023, the Senate urged President Bola Tinubu to prioritise the project. In 2025, officials announced a public-private partnership to fast-track it, citing renewed political will. In 2026, the dam is still on paper. Officials cite funding and bureaucracy; critics say what is missing isn’t money but the will to finish what’s been started.

By Abubakar Idris Misau

At first glance, the words “Deserting” and “Desertification” sound almost identical and, taken together, seem to make no sense; ironically, however, especially as intended here, they are the antagonists who jointly tell us what we must do to save life on Earth. Sorry, let me explain.

It was my elementary school Maths teacher who first taught me that multiplying two negative numbers yields a positive result. I had to concede later that this isn’t a conspiracy. If it were, it would never have been corroborated by our English teacher. The two core-subjects’ teachers were staunch enemies [I mean, non-friends]; yet the latter said there’s a similar rule in linguistics and semantics about what is called the “double negatives”.

Since deserting literally means abandoning something, it seems negative. By contrast, desertification, the process by which fertile, productive land becomes arid and desolate, is so dangerous that it no doubt qualifies as another negative. Following the arithmetic-linguistic logic of double negatives, therefore, “deserting”, as used in this piece, becomes an honourable cause. Simply put, deserting desertification does not mean running away from what one needs to care for, but rather abandoning our harmful habits that are turning our green, fertile lands into dry, lifeless deserts. In other words, desertification is a call to action to change how we treat the surface of our dear mother Earth.

Come to think of it, Mother Earth is the only mother whose children are hell-bent on turning her barren, out of greed. We do this by double-dealing, on the one hand with the mother and on the other with her enemies. It seems to me as though we love coming to her in the morning, saying “Oh, Mama, give us today our daily bread”, and then going behind her back and setting the bakery on fire at night! I mean, it’s no different when the so-called most intelligent species, numbering up to 8 billion, dedicates its intellect to deforestation, overgrazing, poor agronomic practices, open-pit mining, and other unsustainable land-use practices that strip land of vegetation, exhaust soil nutrients, and disrupt the water cycle; all while expecting the mother to keep providing us with every ecosystem service as if nothing happened. But it is simply an “inevitable consequence of nature” [to borrow from Prof. Brian Cox] that when we stretch dryland ecosystems to their breaking points, they turn into arid wastelands – read: deserts – or, more appropriately, “sandlands”.

As a matter of fact, whichever way one sees the bad guy, the truth is that Mr Desertification hardly ever acts alone. In the Sahelian ecological region of Northern Nigeria and other regions globally, he almost always works with Madam Earth’s children to damage her reproductive organs. Now, that’s a bad revelation. Meanwhile, the good news is that not all her children are the same. Some good Samaritans have even been working to extinguish the fire, in which case they deserve some support; some conspire against her out of ignorance, in which case they can do with some education; and so on – hence this call to action.

Here, forgive me for introducing the Greek philosopher Aristotle. It was his idea that writers, in fulfilling their duty, should try to structure arguments around the three fundamental pillars [modes] of persuasion, the rhetorical triangle: Ethos, Pathos, and Logos. Ethos concerns the communicator’s credibility; Pathos, the audience’s emotions; and Logos, the logical reasoning contained in the presentation.

Long story short, since this writer is not an authority on the subject in question, he ought not to suggest any social behavioural change straight out of his moro-moro head. He is simply to convey the message of the world’s most credible Who’s Who on the issue: namely, the United Nations Convention to Combat Desertification (UNCCD).

According to the UNCCD, humanity destroys about 10, 20, 30, 40, 50 …100 million hectares of productive land every year. The first time I read this, I was shocked. I knew that we cleared up to 10 million hectares of forest land annually, but I didn’t know that we were destroying the rangelands, grasslands, and so on at that rate. For perspective, damaging 100 million hectares of land annually is equivalent to losing the whole of Egypt. Or, better still, destroying the equivalent of four football fields every second. Most probably, this message would make more sense to us if the changes were happening right before our eyes. Imagine two countries playing a game in the ongoing World Cup, only for the stadium to turn into a total desert in a second. The World Cup would likely be asked to give way for an emergency UNCCD Summit.

In fact, there is no doubting it, the more land we allow to desert encroachment, the more likely we are to go to war with each other. That is why, in 2020, during a UN Security Council meeting to discuss ‘Maintenance of international peace and security: the humanitarian impact of environmental degradation and peace and security’, Ibrahim Thiaw, Executive Secretary of UNCCD, said: “In arid lands, such as in Africa’s Sahel region, violence often erupts over competition for access to depleted land and scarce water resources.” He then went on to outline three factors that are adding fuel to the fire: over-dependence on natural resources by rural dwellers; shrinking resources due to land degradation, drought, and climate change; and high population density.

All of these are self-evident. In Northern Nigeria, the conflict between farmers and herders over scarce natural resources is a vivid case of that. It’s also common knowledge that Lake Chad has lost up to [a staggering] 90% of its surface area since the 1960s, shrinking from 26,000 km² in 1963 to as low as <1,500 km² in 2018 when the United Nations Environment Programme (UNEP) published the story “Tale of a disappearing lake”. These affect millions of people.

There is no question whatsoever: drylands are the closest bus stops to deserts and are therefore the major victims of desertification. Now, let’s go back to Bonn to collect some statistics from the UNCCD again. Covering up to 41% of the earth’s land surface, mainly in developing countries of Africa and Asia, drylands are home to more than 2 billion people. And because more than 70% and 20% of them are rangelands and grasslands, respectively, half of the world’s livestock and up to 44% of crops are produced from drylands. How essential are they?

Meanwhile, right now, as scientists say, up to 40% of the world’s land is already degraded, directly affecting over 3.2 billion people. Also, land degradation and droughts cost the global community an estimated eye-watering $878 billion every single year. Isn’t that a lot of money to squander on making the earth look like the surface of Mars, huh?! For me, turning the green planet into another red planet is a cold, dry, bitter joke.

As the Roman Philosopher-Emperor Marcus Aurelius put it 18 centuries ago, “You can commit injustice by doing nothing”. Indeed, this is an issue on which neutrality is complicity. It now makes more sense to me what one of my mentors once told me, for which I must quote him verbatim: “Mr Idris”, he said, “you see, doing nothing is such an expensive hobby…” Suffice it to say that if we continue to ignore this crisis, the financial and physical hangover will be brutal. Well, it actually already is.

I don’t want to go into a discussion of the need for governments and big corporations to invest $1 billion a day until 2030 to meet global land restoration targets, which, in fact, is precisely required. I know it might sound like a hefty price tag, but it is actually the ultimate buy-one-get-one-free deal. We know for a fact that for every $1 invested in healthy land, the economic return ranges from $7 to $30. It turns out that, under this realistic assumption, saving the planet is highly profitable.

While not everything can be detailed in an article this short, addressing desertification isn’t rocket science. We know how to do it well enough. The solution simply requires a massive shift. We first need to address deforestation and work toward restoring already degraded lands. Farmers need to switch to smart agricultural methods that protect the soil. If we can save rainwater and give the soil periodic holidays to “fallow”, we definitely can stop the deserts from winning. I tell you all these because I have a modest understanding of the basics. After all, I am a development practitioner who envisioned a climate-resilient, food-secure sub-Saharan Africa and whose work and current focus span sustainable land-use practices, assisted natural regeneration, and agroforestry and livelihood systems in Nigeria.  

In 1994, the UN General Assembly established the UNCCD and declared June 17 as the World Day to Combat Desertification and Drought. Since then, June 17 has been commemorated to raise awareness of solutions to land degradation, drought, and desertification. The theme for this year, 2026, is “Rangeland: Recognise. Respect. Restore.” As this writer presumes we all know what rangelands are, it’s fair to allow relevant MDAs, such as the Ministries of Agriculture, Environment, and Livestock, and initiatives such as the African-led Great Green Wall Initiative, to deliver their mandates in peace. At the same time, we equally do our parts as individuals and as groups.

Therefore, the choice before us is simple, yet likely embarrassing depending on how we manage it. We can either continue on our current path, in which case we will watch our favourite green spaces turn to dust, or we can take a stand today to save life on land. Because if we don’t desert our destructive habits right now, the desert is going to move in and claim our dessert (dessert, not desert). My ancestors would say, “Dabara ta rage wa mai shiga rijiya.”

There I lie.

Abubakar Idris Misau, a Forestry and Wildlife graduate from the University of Maiduguri, writes from Akure, Southwest, Nigeria. He is reachable via email abubakar.consult@gmail.com.

By Abdulhamid Abdullahi Aliyu

Nigeria has become dangerously familiar with the ritual of disaster. The warnings often come early, the forecasts are circulated, vulnerable communities are identified, and officials hold preparedness meetings. Yet when the floods finally arrive, or fire tears through crowded markets, or another preventable emergency pushes families into distress, the country still reacts with the same confusion, urgency and humanitarian panic, as though tragedy appeared without notice.

It is one of the ironies of public life in Nigeria that disasters are rarely taken seriously until they become spectacles. Before then, they exist as predictions, advisories, technical reports, stakeholder meetings and public warnings. Afterwards, they become breaking news, condolence visits, emergency relief, public anger and committee recommendations. Between those two moments lies the real weakness of the system: the stubborn national habit of knowing danger in advance but failing to prepare adequately for it.

This is the difficult terrain in which the National Emergency Management Agency, NEMA, operates. To many Nigerians, the agency is most visible in moments of distress, when flood victims need support, when displaced persons require relief, when fire victims are counting losses, or when communities suddenly discover the meaning of vulnerability. But the true measure of an emergency management institution is not only what it does after a tragedy has occurred. It is also what it can prevent, reduce, coordinate, and anticipate before the situation becomes a national emergency.

That is why the two-year stewardship of Mrs Zubaida Umar as Director General of NEMA deserves a more thoughtful reading than routine anniversary praise. When President Bola Ahmed Tinubu approved her appointment in March 2024, the expectation was not merely that another public officer would occupy another office. The assignment carried the heavier burden of strengthening operational discipline, improving coordination and repositioning the agency toward a more proactive model of emergency management. Two years later, the useful question is not whether disasters have disappeared. They have not. The real question is whether there are signs that the agency is beginning to think differently about its mandate.

Perhaps the most important development under Umar is not the kind that announces itself loudly. It is not found only in relief distribution photographs, ceremonial visits or official statements. It is evident in a gradual institutional shift from reaction to anticipation, from waiting for disaster to happen before mobilising to placing greater emphasis on preparedness, early warning communication, simulation exercises, inter-agency coordination, and community-level sensitisation.

This shift may appear modest to the casual observer, but in Nigeria’s emergency management culture, it is significant. The country’s problem has never been simply the absence of warnings. Flood forecasts are issued. Meteorological advisories are released. Hydrological risks are mapped. Vulnerable states and communities are repeatedly mentioned. Environmental experts warn against blocked drainage and settlements along waterways. Yet the same cycle continues because warnings, in themselves, do not save lives. They only become useful when they are understood, trusted and acted upon.

For years, Nigeria has struggled to convert prediction into preparedness. Communities remain in danger zones long after alerts have been issued. Drainages remain blocked despite annual warnings. Buildings continue to rise where water must naturally pass. Local structures often wait for Abuja. Citizens sometimes treat evacuation advice as government disturbance until water is already at the door. By then, emergency management becomes more expensive, more chaotic and more painful.

It is within this context that NEMA’s renewed attention to grassroots sensitisation becomes important. Across several states, the agency has intensified preparedness campaigns aimed at reducing the gap between forecast and response. One of the more telling examples was the flood preparedness campaign in Ebonyi State, where the engagement moved beyond formal speeches and stakeholder protocols into direct community interaction. Emergency officials went into vulnerable communities, spoke in local languages, distributed safety information, and discussed flood risks, evacuation culture, and prevention measures with residents.

That may look ordinary on paper, but it carries a deeper meaning. A warning trapped inside a technical report is not yet a warning. A forecast discussed only in Abuja has not fully served the woman whose house sits near a riverbank, the farmer whose farmland will be submerged, the school head who must protect pupils, or the local leader whose community may need to move before danger arrives. Disaster communication becomes meaningful only when it reaches ordinary people in the language of their daily reality.

This is one of the most important lessons Nigeria must learn. Preparedness is not achieved by issuing statements alone. It requires translation, persuasion, repetition and trust. It requires taking risk information from conference halls to communities, from policy language to household action, from official alerts to behavioural change. In that sense, public communication is not an accessory to emergency management; it is one of its strongest instruments.

The same logic applies to coordination. Disasters do not respect institutional boundaries. A flood is not only a NEMA issue. It is an environmental issue, an urban planning issue, a housing issue, a public health issue, a food security issue, a security issue and, quite often, a governance issue. When water overruns a community, it affects homes, roads, schools, markets, farmlands, hospitals and livelihoods at the same time. No single institution can carry that burden alone.

This is why the increasing emphasis on multi-sectoral coordination under the current leadership is notable. The agency’s engagements with ministries, departments and agencies, state emergency structures, security agencies, humanitarian partners and technical institutions suggest a clearer understanding that NEMA’s strength lies not in behaving like a lone responder, but in making the wider emergency management ecosystem function better. In a federal system where fragmentation often weakens public response, that coordinating role is not a small matter.

There is also a growing recognition that modern emergency management must be more technical than sentimental. It must be driven by data, monitoring, logistics planning, early warning systems, communication flow and rapid decision-making. This explains the growing relevance of structures such as the National Emergency Operation Centre, which serves as the command-and-coordination infrastructure required for monitoring and responding to serious disasters. Such systems may not excite the public in the way dramatic rescue scenes do, but they are central to the quiet work of preventing confusion before it becomes costly.

Simulation exercises also belong to this quieter but more serious side of emergency management. Nigeria has never been poor in policy documents; the problem has often been what happens when real pressure arrives. Preparedness drills help institutions identify their weaknesses before a disaster exposes them. In an emergency, questions that look simple in a meeting can become decisive on the field. Who leads the evacuation? Who communicates verified information? Who coordinates medical response? Who controls movement? Who protects children, women, older persons and persons with disabilities? Who documents needs and prevents duplication? The difference between order and confusion often lies in whether such questions were answered before the crisis.

The increased emphasis on rehearsals, simulations, and preparedness drills, therefore, suggests an agency seeking to move from theoretical to practical readiness. The process may be gradual, but the direction is important. A country that waits for every disaster to teach it the same lesson again has not taken preparedness seriously.

The wider humanitarian environment also makes this change unavoidable. Flooding remains one of Nigeria’s most devastating recurring threats, but it is not the only one. Urban fires, tanker explosions, building collapses, communal displacement, food insecurity, climate shocks and other emergencies have expanded the meaning of vulnerability across the country. A serious emergency management institution can no longer think narrowly or seasonally. It must understand how climate, poverty, infrastructure failure, insecurity, public behaviour and weak local governance combine to create disasters.

This broader thinking is beginning to reflect in NEMA’s engagement with issues such as food security, climate vulnerability and community resilience. That is an important evolution. In today’s Nigeria, food insecurity is not merely an agricultural concern. Floods destroy farms. Conflict displaces farming communities. Climate shocks weaken harvests. Poor roads and insecurity disrupt supply. Once these pressures converge, they become humanitarian problems. Emergency management in the 21st century is therefore not simply about distributing rice, mattresses and blankets after tragedy. It is about understanding risk before it matures into a crisis.

Still, any honest assessment must avoid the temptation of easy celebration. Nigeria’s emergency management architecture remains burdened by serious structural weaknesses. Many state emergency management agencies are still underfunded or poorly equipped. Local emergency management committees are inactive in many places. Urban planning violations continue with impunity. Floodplains are still occupied. Drainage systems remain poor across several cities. Citizens still ignore warnings. State and local authorities too often treat disaster preparedness as a seasonal ritual rather than a governance responsibility.

These are not problems one Director General can solve alone, and it would be unfair to pretend otherwise. But leadership matters because it sets institutional tone. It determines whether preparedness becomes a culture or remains a slogan. It influences whether an agency merely reacts to tragedy or begins to organise itself around prevention, anticipation and coordinated readiness. It shapes whether the system waits for sympathy after loss or pushes harder for discipline before loss.

It is not a transformation that should be overstated. Floods have not stopped. Fire outbreaks have not disappeared. Communities still suffer avoidable losses. Operational gaps still exist. But there are visible indications that the agency is increasingly speaking, and slowly institutionalising, the language of preparedness, coordination, public education and anticipatory action. In a country where public institutions often confuse activity with progress, even this shift in emphasis is worth noting.

Some achievements in public service are loud because they are visible. Others are valuable because they prevent losses that the public may never fully count. A community that evacuates early may never become headline news. A market that takes fire safety seriously may never trend online. A state that prepares before floodwater rises may not attract national attention. Yet these quiet outcomes are often the real victories of emergency management.

As Nigeria moves through another season of environmental uncertainty and humanitarian pressure, emergency management must no longer remain an afterthought, activated only after tragedy strikes. State governments must strengthen their emergency agencies. Local governments must revive community response structures. Traditional and religious leaders must help translate warnings into action. Citizens must stop treating risk alerts as routine government grammar. The media must give preparedness the same urgency it gives to disasters.

Two years into Zubaida Umar’s leadership, the agency appears to be attempting something important: the slow rebuilding of a preparedness culture in a country too accustomed to panic after warning signs have been ignored. It is an unfinished journey, certainly. But it is also a meaningful one.

Nigeria may never fully escape disasters. No country does. But stronger institutions can prevent familiar hazards from repeatedly becoming national tragedies. That, ultimately, is the real test of emergency management, and perhaps the quiet significance of the institutional shift now taking place at NEMA.

Abdulhamid Abdullahi Aliyu is a journalist and syndicated writer based in Abuja.

By Abdulhamid Abdullahi Aliyu

As Nigeria edges closer to the peak of the 2026 rainy season, a familiar but troubling question resurfaces: will the country once again be caught between early warnings and late responses? With fresh projections indicating widespread vulnerability in thousands of communities nationwide, the stakes have never been higher. The challenge is no longer about the absence of forecasts, but about the nation’s readiness to translate those warnings into timely, coordinated action. In this unfolding reality, the role of the National Emergency Management Agency (NEMA) becomes not just important, but central to determining whether preparedness will finally take precedence over panic.

The 2026 Annual Flood Outlook has once again sounded a stark warning. Over 30,000 communities are at risk nationwide, with 14,118 classified as high-risk across 33 states and the Federal Capital Territory. A further 15,597 fall within moderate-risk zones, while 923 communities are considered low risk. These are not just statistics; they represent homes, livelihoods, and entire local economies that could be disrupted within days if proactive measures are not taken.

Flooding in Nigeria has evolved into a complex and recurring crisis, driven by a combination of climate variability and human factors. Increased rainfall intensity, rising water levels in major rivers, and the impact of climate change continue to heighten vulnerability. At the same time, rapid urbanisation, poor drainage systems, encroachment on waterways, and indiscriminate waste disposal worsen the situation. The result is a dangerous cycle where natural triggers meet human negligence, amplifying the scale of destruction.

Against this backdrop, the federal government has signalled a renewed commitment to strengthening emergency response systems. President Bola Ahmed Tinubu, represented by the Minister of Environment, Balarabe Lawal, has acknowledged existing challenges while reaffirming efforts to improve coordination among relevant ministries and agencies. The emphasis on faster, more effective response mechanisms reflects a growing recognition that disaster management must evolve alongside emerging risks.

At the centre of this evolving response is the National Emergency Management Agency (NEMA), which continues to play a pivotal role in coordinating preparedness and mitigation efforts. In recent years, the agency has shifted its focus from largely reactive interventions to a more proactive strategy anchored in early warning and early action. This approach recognises a critical reality: disasters may not always be prevented, but their impact can be significantly reduced with the right level of preparedness.

One of the most notable aspects of NEMA’s current strategy is the strengthening of early warning systems. Working closely with technical agencies such as the Nigerian Meteorological Agency (NiMet) and the Nigerian Hydrological Services Agency (NIHSA), NEMA ensures that flood forecasts are disseminated well ahead of peak rainfall periods. However, the real challenge lies not just in issuing warnings, but in ensuring that they translate into timely and effective action at the community level.

To bridge this gap, the agency has intensified its grassroots sensitisation campaigns. Across flood-prone states, communities are being educated on evacuation procedures, the dangers of ignoring flood alerts, and the importance of maintaining clear drainage systems. These engagements, often carried out in collaboration with state emergency management agencies and local authorities, are gradually fostering a culture of preparedness that has long been lacking.

Equally significant is the increasing emphasis on simulation exercises and inter-agency coordination. Recent flood response drills conducted in vulnerable areas have brought together security agencies, emergency responders, and community volunteers to rehearse real-life scenarios. These exercises are not merely symbolic; they serve as practical tests of response capacity, helping to identify gaps and improve coordination before disaster strikes.

Yet, despite these efforts, persistent challenges remain. Early warning information does not always reach remote or underserved communities. In some cases, residents underestimate the risks or delay evacuation until it is too late. There is also the issue of uneven commitment at the sub-national level, where some state governments have yet to fully prioritise local preparedness measures. These gaps highlight the need for a more integrated approach that goes beyond federal interventions to include stronger state and community ownership.

Mitigation, in the broader sense, must also address structural and environmental factors. The desilting of drainage systems, enforcement of urban planning regulations, and prevention of construction on floodplains are critical steps that require sustained political will. Long-term solutions such as afforestation, improved land management, and climate-resilient infrastructure must also be prioritised if Nigeria is to reduce its vulnerability to recurring floods.

Technology is another area with significant potential. Real-time data monitoring, predictive analytics, and digital communication platforms can enhance both preparedness and response. When effectively deployed, these tools can ensure that warnings are not only timely but actionable, reaching people in formats they understand and trust.

Ultimately, the story of flooding in Nigeria is not just about rising water levels; it is about the intersection of environment, governance, and public behaviour. While agencies like NEMA continue to strengthen institutional response, the role of citizens cannot be overlooked. Simple actions such as proper waste disposal, adherence to building regulations, and responsiveness to evacuation directives can collectively make a significant difference.

As the 2026 flood season unfolds, Nigeria stands at a critical crossroads. The warnings are clear, the risks are well documented, and the institutional frameworks led by NEMA are steadily improving. Yet, the real test lies beyond projections and policy statements; it rests on collective action. Preparedness must move from paper to practice, from government desks to vulnerable communities. If the lessons of previous floods are taken seriously and early actions are sustained, this year could mark a turning point in Nigeria’s disaster management story. But if complacency prevails, the consequences will once again be measured in avoidable losses. The choice, ultimately, is not in the hands of nature, but in the resolve of a nation determined to act before the waters rise.

Abdulhamid Abdullahi Aliyu is a journalist and syndicate writer based in Abuja.

By Muhammad Abubakar

Germany’s new multi-billion-euro electric-vehicle subsidy program officially launched today, with the Federal Office for Economic Affairs and Export Control (BAFA) opening its digital application portal.

The initiative aims to revive domestic EV sales by offering private buyers between €1,500 and €6,000 in direct state funding. Under the new guidelines, fully electric vehicles are eligible for the maximum tier of support, while select plug-in hybrids can receive up to €4,500. Buyers can claim the subsidies retroactively for any qualifying vehicle registered on or after January 1, 2026.

Unlike previous incentive schemes, this program introduces strict social scaling based on household income. Individual buyers must have a taxable annual income under €80,000 to qualify, while the cap increases to €90,000 for families with two children.

The federal government has allocated a total of three billion euros to fund the initiative, which is projected to run through 2029 or until the budget is fully exhausted.

By Abubakar Idris 

As promised in an earlier piece with the same title, published by The Daily Reality [Islam and Conservation of Natural Resources (I)], this sequel centres on certain Islamic concepts that promote environmental stewardship and the sustainable use of natural resources. To refresh our minds, the previous article established that Islam recognises humanity as stewards (khulafa, singular khalifa) of the Earth. And as argued, the stewardship is a position that comes with responsibility and accountability (Qur’an 10:14, 33:72, 6:165). 

Going into specifics, this article discusses frameworks that guide the protection, management, and wise use of forests, water bodies, and their derivatives. While modern environmental discourse often searches for new approaches – such for example as; the faulted Holistic Management by Allan Savory, and the now seemingly-promising Assisted Natural Regeneration (ANR) – the principles of Hima (protected areas), Waqf (endowment), and Israf (prohibition of wastefulness) have long been established within Islam as practical measures of conservation for what now counts more than fourteen hundred years. This paper explains.

Say it in Arabic and it’s a new term all together; say its English equivalent and everybody [I can say] knows exactly what it stands for. Hima. A designated protected area in which resource exploitation is restricted or prohibited to ensure sustainability is one of the earliest environmental conservation practices in Islamic civilisation. National Parks or Game Reserves probably came to mind. That, partly, is what it is. 

The Prophet Muhammad (PBUH) himself implemented this system, declaring certain lands off-limits for private use to preserve their ecological balance. For example, the Prophet, in his wisdom, restricted access to certain grazing lands for public welfare (Abu Dawud, Hadith 3061). Ibn Taymiyyah (1984) emphasised that Hima reflects the principle of hifz al-mawarid (resource preservation) to ensure that communities use natural resources responsibly. This was not an arbitrary decision; it was an application of the trust (Amana) that mankind was given over the Earth (Qur’an 33:72). 

In some parts of Northern Nigeria, where I know better, similar traditional conservation practices still exist, even if not under the name Hima. After all, this system is not much different from modern-day protected areas or wildlife reserves. Yankari. Sumo. Gashaka-Gumti. Maladumba.

There is an argument that the Prophet preached the conservation of nature because he lived on the desert Arabian Peninsula. Interestingly, however, elements of Hima can be found in Nigeria’s traditional conservation practices, such as the Osun-Osogbo Sacred Grove, where land and water bodies are protected through customary religious and cultural laws (Adeogun, 2017). Such parallels are only set to reinforce the compatibility of Islamic conservation ethics with indigenous African traditions. And, if you like scientific practices as we know them today. 

Hima may be the leader, but not the only player. There is the concept of Waqf – charitable endowment – which is another major player with a vital role in conservation. Depending on how one chooses to see it, waqf allows individuals or institutions to dedicate land, water sources, or other resources for communal benefit in perpetuity. Historically, Waqf-funded public wells, orchards, and grazing lands have supported sustainable agriculture in Muslim societies (Kahf, 1995). Usman and the Ruman Well. Khalid and his oh-my-God shield. The list is long… 

In Nigeria, the practice of Waqf has been used in various forms, including the Sultan of Sokoto’s endowment initiatives for agricultural development (Abdullahi, 2018). No doubt, a revival of Waqf-based conservation efforts could support modern environmental sustainability programs. Instead of waiting for external interventions from what the Nigerian writer Chimamanda described as a “white kind foreigner”, communities can take responsibility for their environment by dedicating land as protected areas, ensuring it remains useful for generations to come.

Meanwhile, Islam strictly forbids wastefulness under the principle of Israf. The Qur’an warns: “Eat and drink, but do not waste. Indeed, He (Allah) does not love those who waste” (Qur’an 7:31). This principle extends beyond food consumption to all natural resources. The Prophet (PBUH) reinforced this in his teachings, stating: “Do not waste water, even if you are by a flowing river” (Sunan Ibn Majah, Hadith 425).

Modern environmental crises – deforestation, pollution, and climate change – can be linked to excessive resource exploitation and wastefulness. Meanwhile, Islam’s stance on Israf stresses, again and again, the need for moderation, a lesson that remains relevant in contemporary sustainability discourse. In fact, Islam not only encourages conservation – it actively condemns wastefulness. 

As if that were not enough, Islamic economic frameworks such as ‘Ushr and Zakat also contribute to conservation. ‘Ushr, a 10% tithe on agricultural produce, serves as an incentive for sustainable farming, discouraging over-extraction of soil nutrients (Kahf, 1995). Similarly, Zakat – an obligatory charity levied on wealth – can be directed toward environmental protection projects, such as afforestation and water conservation initiatives (Ibn Rushd, 2005).

If properly implemented today, these principles could provide an Islamic framework for addressing environmental challenges. In terms of sustainability, societies can address both environmental and economic challenges by aligning with the Qur’anic injunction: “And do not cause corruption upon the Earth after its reformation” (Qur’an 7:56).

Deducible from the argument presented in this short note, it does not require much argument to establish that Islam not only supports environmental conservation but also provides a structured approach to it. With comprehensive environmental ethics that integrate faith with practical conservation strategies through concepts such as Hima, Waqf, Israf, ‘Ushr, and Zakat, one staggering fact holds: protecting our environment and natural resources is a divine responsibility and not just a Western-imposed modern practice of sustainability. Like the figurative Hausas have it: “Tun kafin ayi daran aka yi kwandi”. 

Therefore, with climate change and environmental degradation intensifying, the question is whether we will take these lessons seriously or continue to ignore them as environmental crises escalate. Either way, the Qur’an is unequivocal: “Indeed, Allah does not change the condition of a people until they change what is in themselves” (Qur’an 13:11).

* Years attached to the cited sources are for the English translations consulted.

Abubakar Idris [Misau], a Forestry and Wildlife graduate from University of Maiduguri, writes from Akure, Ondo State. He can be reached through: abubakaridrismisau@gmail.com | +2349030178211.

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.

By Abdulsalam Mahmud

Across the world today, governments are recalibrating their economies to fit a green and sustainable future. From Brazil’s vast reforestation drive in the Amazon to Morocco’s solar revolution in Ouarzazate, nations are realising that the path to prosperity now runs through the low-carbon economy. 

The green transition has become more than an environmental necessity; it is the new global economy in the making — one that rewards innovation, resilience and foresight. For Africa, this transition is both an urgent challenge and a rare opportunity. 

As the continent most vulnerable to climate change, Africa stands to lose the most from inaction. Yet, it also possesses immense natural capital — sunlight, land, biodiversity and youthful human potential — that can power a sustainable transformation. Countries that act early and boldly will not only build resilience but also attract the finance, partnerships and technologies shaping the next century.

In this global context, Niger State, under the visionary leadership of His Excellency, Farmer Governor Mohammed Umaru Bago, has chosen to define its future differently. Over the last two years, the state has pursued one of the most ambitious subnational green economy transformations in Nigeria’s history. 

By linking local realities to global climate ambitions, Niger is steadily positioning itself as a hub for climate-smart agriculture, clean energy, and green industrial development. Governor Bago’s administration began by recognising an undeniable truth: climate change is not just an environmental issue but an economic one. 

Desertification, flooding and deforestation have long undermined livelihoods across the state. To confront these threats, Niger launched its “Green Economy Blueprint”, an integrated strategy designed to build resilience while creating green jobs and sustainable prosperity. From that moment, the state’s engagement with the world deepened. 

At COP28 in Dubai, Niger presented its blueprint before international partners, and by COP29 in Baku, it had become a recognisable name in subnational climate leadership. These appearances were not symbolic. They yielded partnerships that have since defined the core of Niger’s transition agenda.

One of the most transformative was the Memorandum of Understanding with Blue Carbon, a UAE-based company committed to developing sustainable climate solutions. The agreement to plant one billion economic trees across one million hectares in Niger State is among the largest private–public reforestation programmes on the African continent. 

Beyond ecological restoration, the initiative promises rural employment, carbon credit generation and long-term economic dividends from timber, fruit and non-timber forest products. Equally significant was the partnership with FutureCamp Germany, a globally renowned firm in carbon markets. This collaboration aims to unlock over ₦1 trillion in climate investments and build the technical framework for Niger’s carbon market activation.

For a subnational entity, this is pioneering work — one that could see Niger emerge as the first Nigerian state to fully participate in voluntary carbon trading, attracting new revenue streams while promoting transparency in climate finance. The MoU with the NNPC Limited extends Niger’s climate action to the energy frontier. 

It covers a suite of renewable and low-carbon projects, including a Greenfield hydroelectric power plant, mega solar parks for institutions and home solar systems targeting 250,000 households. The agreement also envisions an ethanol plant capable of producing 500 million litres annually, powered by crops cultivated across 100,000 hectares — a project that will create value chains, empower farmers and reduce dependence on fossil fuels.

Meanwhile, the collaboration with ECOWAS Bank for Development and the Environment for an $11 million Madalla Green Economic Market promises to turn commerce itself into a model of sustainability—blending trade, recycling, and renewable energy into a single modern ecosystem. Similarly, Niger’s partnership with the Turkish firm Direkci Camp is reshaping agribusiness through smart agriculture, irrigated soya cultivation and export-oriented value chains.

These developments are not isolated. They are coordinated through the Niger State Agency for Green Initiatives (NG-SAGI), the institutional anchor established two years ago and now led by Dr Habila Daniel Galadima. Beyond a doubt, NG-SAGI is more than a bureaucracy; it is a policy engine designed to harmonise the state’s environmental, agricultural, and energy programmes into a coherent climate-resilience framework.

Under this framework, Niger hosted Nigeria’s first-ever subnational Green Economy Summit in 2023, attracting investors and development partners from across the globe. The summit’s outcomes validated the Governor’s approach: local action can be globally relevant if guided by a clear vision and credible governance. The pledges and partnerships secured there continue to serve as foundations for current projects — from afforestation to renewable energy and sustainable agriculture.

Another milestone was the creation of the Niger State Agriculture Development Fund, with ₦3.5 billion in startup capital from the state and local governments. The fund is enabling 1,000 young farmers to access ₦1 million in grants, along with hectares of land for nurseries across all 25 local governments. This initiative has quietly triggered an agricultural mechanisation revolution, empowering a new generation to view farming as a business —and sustainability as a strategy.

Partnerships with the United Nations Industrial Development Organisation (UNIDO), the Energy Commission of Nigeria, and the Global World Energy Council are driving new frontiers in wind energy and industrial decarbonization. Niger’s growing alignment with UNIDO is already yielding plans for circular-economy models within the agro-processing free trade zone, blending job creation with environmental responsibility.

And while some of these projects are at different stages of implementation, the direction is unmistakable: Niger State is building a green identity anchored on innovation, inclusion and international collaboration. Even modest steps, like installing solar-powered streetlights across Minna, tell a larger story — one of a government deliberately moving toward a future powered by clean energy and driven by public safety and climate consciousness.

As the world prepares for COP30 in Brazil next month, Niger State’s delegation is expected to present these achievements not as isolated efforts, but as part of a coherent subnational climate narrative. It will highlight how a state, once challenged by deforestation and poverty, is now leading a structured march toward carbon neutrality and green prosperity. 

The focus this time will be on climate-smart agriculture, renewable energy expansion, youth inclusion, and green finance innovation—key pillars aligned with the global call for just and equitable transitions. At COP30, Niger’s voice will also speak for Nigeria’s broader subnational climate movement — demonstrating how state-level leadership can accelerate the nation’s commitments under the Paris Agreement. 

The lessons from Niger are clear: climate action must be localised, data-driven and economically beneficial. Beyond the conference halls of Brazil, Niger’s agenda carries deep human meaning. Every hectare reforested, every solar panel installed, every youth trained in sustainable agriculture is a statement of faith in a livable future. 

Climate action here is not an abstract ambition; it is a lived policy that transforms communities, restores hope and redefines governance as stewardship. If properly amplified, Niger’s story could inspire other states to view climate change not as a threat but as an opportunity—a chance to create industries, attract green finance, and protect generations unborn. 

That is the broader promise Governor Bago’s vision now represents: that sustainability is not an aspiration for rich nations alone, but a shared moral and developmental duty for all. As COP30 draws near, Niger’s turn to shine on climate action is not just about showcasing progress; it is about reinforcing possibility. 

For a state once defined by its rivers and farmlands, the journey toward a green economy may well become its most enduring legacy — one that proves that in Africa’s heartland, the seeds of a sustainable future are already being sown

Mahmud, Deputy Editor of PRNigeria and a rapporteur at the maiden Niger State Green Economy Summit, writes via  babasalam1989@gmail.com.

By Hadiza Abdulkadir

Rector Cares Foundation’s documentary “Dying for Water” has won the Award of Excellence for Best Film on Climate Change at the Africa Film for Impact Festival (AFFIF) 2025, earning widespread recognition for its powerful portrayal of water poverty in rural Nigeria. 

Screened at the festival’s 4th edition, held from October 29–31 at Silverbird Cinemas, Yar’Adua Centre in Abuja, the film tells the story of Fatsuma, a mother grieving the loss of her child who drowned in an unsafe community well, and highlights the daily struggles faced by women and children relying on hazardous water sources. 

Founder and executive producer Onyedikachi Erete described the honour as a validation of the Foundation’s mission. “This victory validates our mission to ignite conversations about water poverty and the crucial role of WASH in fostering sustainable development,” he said. 

Directed by Omoregie Osakpolor and co-produced by Stephanie Ohumu, the documentary forms part of Rector Cares Foundation’s ongoing efforts to raise awareness of climate-driven water crises and strengthen collaborations with organisations working in water provision and technology.