Hausa language

By Prof. Abdalla Uba Adamu

I rarely discuss politics, policy, or religion at any level on social media. These three are totally beyond my modest capabilities. However, the Educationist in me stirred when it became news in November 2025 that a bill was being proposed in the Kano State House of Assembly, titled the Kano State Mother Tongue (Hausa Language) Education Enforcement Bill. It was introduced by Musa Kachako, a member representing Takai under the New Nigeria Peoples Party (NNPP). 

The Bill seeks to ensure that all instruction in primary and secondary schools in Kano (presumably those under Local Education Authorities) is conducted in the Hausa language. According to online reports, when presenting the bill during plenary, Kachako stated that the initiative followed global best practices in education, citing countries such as China, Japan, and India, which he noted had made significant strides in science and technology by teaching children in their native languages from an early age. Kano State can do this because Education, being on the Concurrent Legislature, gives room for any policy variation of Education from that of the Federal Government’s Exclusive list. 

Certainly, the idea of teaching all subjects in Hausa springs from a noble intention — to enable children to learn in the language they understand best, and to reaffirm local identity against the long shadow of colonial linguistic domination. I witnessed this during my tenure as a Teaching Practice Supervisor in various schools in Kano. Students tended to understand language lessons more fluidly than those in other languages. And we are talking about over 40 years ago. Along the line, I even came up with how to use Hausa proverbs to teach science, based on over 30 curated Hausa proverbs with scientific content (e.g. gravity in “komai nisan jifa, ƙasa zai dawo”) and trained dozens of teachers in Jigawa (ironically enough, Kano was not interested at the time!) on this much later.   

Yet, the success of such a language policy depends on its contextual intelligence — its ability to strike a balance between local comprehension, national unity, and global relevance. In all cases of such debates, the examples of China, Japan, and India are the most commonly cited as best practices that have worked. With its virtual monolingual Hausa population (perhaps the only State in the Federation with this attribute), elevating Kano as “Little China” certainly sound, albeit contradictorily, post-colonially romantic. This all sounds inspiring. But, without taking the shine off it, how realistic is it?

There is a certain merit to the idea, but only to a certain extent. Research everywhere agrees: children learn faster and think better when taught in their native language. Even UNESCO and Nigeria’s own education policy support this approach for the first few years of primary schooling, where community languages are encouraged, rather than metropolitan languages. Let’s look at some cases.

Ethiopia is perhaps the only country in Africa with a continuous mother-tongue education system. The country did not suffer the horrors of colonisation on the same scale as the rest of Sahelian African countries, as it was only briefly occupied by Italians between 1936 and 1941. It uses regional languages (Amharic, Tigrinya, Oromo, Somali, etc.) as the medium of instruction in primary and secondary education. In universities and higher education, Amharic or English is used depending on the region and field. Thus, Ethiopia’s system is perhaps the closest to continuous mother-tongue instruction, although English dominates technical and postgraduate studies.

In Tanzania, Swahili is the dominant language in primary schools, but English is introduced from secondary schools up to universities, especially in fields such as science, medicine, and law. In Rwanda, the medium of instruction in schools was switched from French to English in 2008, while Kinyarwanda remains the mother tongue in early primary education. In Mozambique, Portuguese dominates in secondary and tertiary education, and local languages such as Makhuwa, Sena, and Tsonga are used in early primary school. 

This pattern is repeated in other African countries, such as Ghana (Twi/Ewe in early schooling, English later), Senegal (local languages in the early years, French later), and Kenya (Kikuyu, Luhya, Dholuo in early schooling, English later). Thus, no colonised African country has fully implemented mother tongue instruction from primary through university, rejecting colonial languages entirely.

In Kano, where everyone speaks Hausa, the policy could genuinely improve comprehension and reduce dropout rates. Pupils won’t have to struggle with English before grasping basic concepts in classrooms. That’s a win. However, there is a catch, and it lies in the regular comparison with China, Japan, and India, as if Kano is a nation, rather than a State within a nation that has 400 languages. Let us look at the language policies of these countries closely.

China has between 281 to 305 languages and dialects. However, it took decades — from the early 1900s to the 1950s — to standardise Mandarin (Putonghua), reform writing, and establish a comprehensive teacher-training and translation system, enabling everyone to be educated in one language. 

Japan is relatively homogeneous, but still has dialect diversity with 16 living languages. Although Japanese is the dominant language of instruction, there is no law declaring it the official language of the country. In fact, a school could use other languages. There are now a few schools that use English to teach science and mathematics classes. Japan created a national standard (based on the Tokyo speech) during the Meiji era (late 1800s) — alongside massive investment in textbooks, printing, and teacher training. India, on the other hand, is multilingual by law — it has 22 official languages and hundreds more in daily use. Each state uses its local language for early schooling, but keeps English for higher education and technology. 

So, what worked for these three was not language alone, but long-term state planning, standardisation, and bilingual balance. Each of these countries went through a long, continuously sustainable process of deliberate policy strategies that ensured the success of their language policies in Education, backed by political stability. In Kano, policies are routinely changed with new regime changes, regardless of their merit. Let us look at the obstacles. 

English remains the principal language of science, technology, and international communication. A policy that sidelines it completely in early and middle education could restrict students’ ability to compete globally and to access higher education resources. Unless a bilingual model is adopted, the system may produce students with strong local literacy but limited global mobility.

Nigeria’s labour market — in public service, academia, commerce, and technology — operates primarily in English. Graduates from a Hausa-only system would face difficulty transitioning into these environments without adequate English proficiency. This could widen inequality rather than close it. Unless there are expectations that students from Kano, who will be the products of this policy, will never work in any Federal government agency in the country. 

Nigeria’s educational bureaucracy is highly centralised. Curriculum design, examination systems (NECO, WAEC), and tertiary entry assessments (JAMB) all operate in English. Switching Hausa to the medium of instruction at primary and secondary levels, without corresponding policy alignment at higher levels, would isolate Hausa-medium students from tertiary education pathways. Thus, despite Education being on the concurrent list, centralised examinations are under the Federal Exclusive list. Kano cannot create its own WAEC, NECO, and JAMB examination boards; it must use Federal agencies for this purpose. These agencies are in Nigeria’s official language, which is English.  

Next would be concerns about teachers. Currently, and without being aware of the timeline for implementing the Bill, if it is passed successfully, there are not enough trained teachers in Kano with adequate linguistic competence to teach science, mathematics, or social studies effectively in Hausa. 

Moreover, curricular materials, textbooks, and terminologies for specialised subjects (such as chemistry, ICT, or physics) are largely underdeveloped in Hausa — except for some pioneering efforts by the Northern Nigerian Publishing Company and NTI Kaduna in the 1980s–1990s, and more recently by a few authors. For instance, the Centre for Research in Nigerian Languages, Translation, and Folklore at Bayero University, Kano, has produced eight Science textbooks in Hausa for students of primary, junior, and senior secondary schools in northern Nigeria. 

Written by Mika’ila Maigari Kashimbila of the Department of Physics, Bayero University, these are Kimiyya Da Fasaha Don Makarantun Firamare Books One to Three, Lissafi Don Kananan Makarantun Sakandare Books One to Three, Kyamistare Don Manyan Makarantun Sakandare, and Fizis (Physics) Don Manyan Makarantun Sakandare. He had earlier written Lissafin Makaratun Sakandare Na 1. 

I was even part of the committee set up by Bayero University Kano to “launch” these books, although things faltered, and I don’t think the launch ever took place. Wonderful as these books and efforts are, I believe they would serve as supplementary readers to the core textbooks, where they help to deconstruct the more esoteric prose of the English textbooks. 

Other concerns are sociological. For instance, making Hausa the exclusive medium in primary and secondary education in Kano risks political backlash from non-Hausa-speaking communities. In a multilingual federation, such a policy could be perceived as linguistic imperialism, deepening ethnic tensions and further alienating minorities. It may also entrench regionalisation rather than national integration — the very problem English was meant to solve.

Additionally, if Hausa becomes the sole instructional language, students from Kano may face difficulties participating in the global economy, digital platforms, and higher education, which remain English-dominated. True, the increasing use of Artificial Intelligence might alleviate some of these fears – but that is not the same as captive learning. A purely Hausa-medium system would require parallel translation of scientific and technological vocabulary to prevent intellectual isolation — a task that even developed monolingual nations struggle with.

On the positive side, a well-planned Hausa-medium system could revive indigenous literacy traditions, encourage the translation of modern science into local epistemologies, and restore pride in local knowledge systems. It could also expand Hausa publishing, radio, and digital content industries — thereby democratizing access to learning for those currently excluded by the dominance of English.

But the devil is in the details. Policy flip-flops reflecting a lack of consistency are the biggest danger. As antecedents have shown, this particular political climate might favour this move, complete with a law backing it. The next political class might very well destroy it simply because it was not its idea. This has always been the central characteristic of Kano politics. 

By Bashir Uba Ibrahim, PhD.

Two weeks ago, I visited Prof. Isa Mukhtar after we concluded one of the parallel sessions organised for a national conference on the works of Aliyu Kamal, in which I served as a rapporteur. The event was held at the Department of Linguistics and Foreign Languages, which was renamed the Department of Linguistics and Translation following the unbundling and upgrade of the former Faculty of Arts and Islamic Studies to the College of Arts and Islamic Studies.

Prof. Isa Mukhtar is one of the most academically generous teachers I know. After exchanging greetings, he gifted me his newly published book titled An Introductory Hausa Linguistics, which I intend to review here briefly. Unlike previous books on Hausa grammar and linguistics, Mukhtar, in this thirteen-chapter book, attempts to simplify the branches of linguistics by extensively drawing on examples from the Hausa language and redefining some linguistic terms. This review is by no means exhaustive or comprehensive, as it would be difficult to do full justice to the book in this limited space.

Chapter one, which is entitled ‘Views on the Origin of Language’ (Ra’ayoyi a kan Asalin Harshe), dissects some of the speculations regarding the origin of language. He addresses the speculations regarding the origin of language by citing Zarruk’s views on the phenomenon, including divine creation, man’s discovery, man’s invention, and man’s evolution from a human perspective. He thus attempts a glottochronological examination of Hausa and Amharic, the language of Ethiopia, and Hausa and Coptic, the language of Egypt, in his effort to relate the origin of Hausa with its cognate languages in Africa.

Chapter two, titled ‘Introduction to Language’ (Gabatarwa a kan Harshe), discusses various functions of language. Citing relevant examples from doyen linguists like Fowler (1974) and Leech (1974), he nominally examines the general functions of language, buttressing the thesis with examples from Hausa. The chapter also briefly explains numerous linguistic forms (nau’oi a cikin harshe) in which he shows arbitrary and non-arbitrary forms of language.

The third chapter is titled ‘Historical Linguistics and Stylistics’ (Tarihin Nazarin Harshe da Ilimin Salo). Here, the author provides a historical analysis of the origin and development of linguistics as a field of study from antiquity to the present day. Various schools and movements that shaped major linguistics trends and ideas, such as structuralism (bi-tsari) and its subsidiaries like the Copenhagen school (makarantar Copenhagen), American structural linguistics (Bi-tsari a marajtar harshe ta America), French structuralism (Bi-tsarin Faransa), Prague school (makaranyar Prague), rationalism (na tunani), and empiricism (gogayya). The chapter also attempts to link structuralism with stylistics by discussing some of the stylistics scholars influenced by structuralism, such as Charles Bally, Roman Jakobson, and Michael Riffaterre. These scholars developed their theory on the style of communication and contributed to generative stylistics.

Chapter four, ‘Functional Linguistics and Stylistics’ (Harshen Aiwatarwa da Ilimin Salo), builds on the previous chapter by examining stylistics (ilimin salo) from a systemic functional linguistics perspective. In this chapter, the writer attempts to appropriate Halliday’s theory of stylistics and apply it to Hausa data by extensively drawing examples from it. Thus, Halliday’s main conception of the stylistics function of language into ideational, interpersonal and textual was heavily domesticated and linked with Hausa.

The fifth chapter titled ‘Classification of African Languages’ (Rarrabewa Tsakanin Harsunan Afirka). In this chapter, the author bases his classification of African languages on Greenberg (1966), in which he classified African languages into four phyla, namely, Afro-Asiatic, Khoisan, Niger-Congo and Nilo-Saharan. He attempts to trace the Hausa language to the West-Chadic branch of the Afro-Asiatic language family. He establishes its relationship with cognate languages in Nigeria, such as Bole, Kare-Kare, Warji, Ron, and Bade.

Chapter six, which is entitled ‘Syntax and Grammar’ (Ginin Jumla da Nahawu), makes a historical examination of grammar from a Greek grammarian, Dionysius Thrax, traditional grammar (Nahawun gargajiya), structural grammar (nahawun bi-tsari), finite state grammar (nahawun kwakkwafi), phrase structure grammar (tsarin nahawun yankin jumla), generative grammar (nahawun tsirau), transformational grammar (nahawun rikida/taciya), transformational generative grammar (nahawun taciya mai tsira), etc.

The seventh chapter, ‘Advanced Syntax’ (Babban Nazarin Ilimin Harshe) served as a build on its preceding chapter. The chapter makes a deeper examination of the extended standard theory by Chomsky, looking at Government and Binding Theory of Syntax and its application in the Hausa language. While chapter eight, which is titled ‘Issues in Hausa Syntax’ (Muhimman al’amura a tsarin jumla), builds on the previous one by examining extended standard theory and its syntactic operators and how they can be applied in Hausa.

Chapter nine, which is entitled ‘Phonetics and Phonology’ (furuci da sauti), makes an extensive examination into Hausa phonetics and phonology. It looks at articulatory, acoustic, and auditory phonetics, drawing heavily from Sani (2010). It also discusses Hausa phonological inventories and processes as the backbone of generative phonology, such as assimilation, dissimilation, palatalisation, labialisation, nasalisation, metathesis, polarisation, etc. Meanwhile, chapter ten titled ‘Morphology’ (Ilimin Tasarifi) discusses Hausa morphological structure, morphemes, types of morphemes, criteria for identification of morphemes, morphological processes and word formation processes by citing Abubakar (2001) to exemplify his discussion.

 Chapter eleven, ‘Dialectology’ (Ilimin Karin Harshe), explores the relationship between language and society by examining major sociolinguistic aspects and relating them to Hausa languages, including argot, slang, jargon, sociolects, Hausa dialect variety, and language and culture. Chapter twelve, which is entitled ‘Semantics’ (Ilimin Ma’ana), makes a historical examination of the term ‘semantics’ and shows how it is problematic in relation to linguistic analysis. The chapter also examines the relationship between semantics and linguistics, as well as Hausa semantic change, collocations, componential analysis, speech-act, descriptive semantics, theoretical semantics, and general semantic theories. The chapter also delves into the relationship between semantics and other branches of linguistics, such as morphology, phonology, and syntax, in what can be called a ‘linguistic interface’. 

Meanwhile, the thirteenth chapter, which is the final chapter, is titled ‘Sociolinguistics’. It examines the issue of multilingualism in Nigeria, with Hausa as one of the major languages. It examines how sociolects served as social varieties of language that are determined by social factors rather than geography, citing examples with Hausar masu kudi, Hausar sarakai, Hausar malamai, Hausar ‘yan daba, Hausar likitoci, etc.

Overall, this book, intended as an introductory text, aims to acquaint readers with foundational topics in Hausa linguistics. Its straightforward presentation and accessible language make it especially useful for beginners. However, the author’s effort to simplify the content may have been overextended, leading to notable gaps. Crucially, important subfields such as psycholinguistics, neurolinguistics, applied linguistics, forensic linguistics, and computational linguistics are not mentioned at all.

Another significant omission is the absence of Ferguson (1970), particularly given the discussion on dialectology—a field in which Ferguson was a major contributor—as well as the exclusion of key works on Hausa dialectology such as Musa (1992). Similarly, in Chapter Twelve, the focus is limited to structural semantics, with no mention of Hausa cognitive semantics or relevant contributions like Bature (1991) and Almajir (2014).

The book appears to lean heavily towards stylistics and syntax, dedicating two chapters to the former and three to the latter, specifically Chapters Six through Eight. While these topics are undoubtedly important, the focus becomes somewhat disproportionate. For instance, in the discussion of Government and Binding Theory and complementation, the author omits important works such as Yalwa (1994), Issues in Hausa Complementation and Mukhtar (1991), Aspects of Morphosyntax of Hausa Functional Categories, both of which could have enriched the analysis from a Hausa linguistic perspective.

In conclusion, as Ibrahim (2008: 260) aptly states, “There is no perfect text. But as human life itself, the various imperfections of our life provide a constant challenge to us as scholars embroiled in the learning process.” Despite the criticisms above, Mukhtar’s ability to present complex topics clearly and subtly remains commendable. This book stands out as one of the more accessible introductory texts on Hausa linguistics, suitable for both students and newcomers to the field.

By Ibraheem A. Waziri

In the Hausa Islamic civilisation, or what one might call the moral order and cultural refinement that grew from Islam’s deep roots in Hausaland, the word mutuwa (death) is a curious thing. It is harmless, ordinary, and adaptable. One can say mutum ya mutu – “the man has died” – regardless of who the man is. The same word can apply to an animal, a tree, or even an inanimate thing whose usefulness has come to an end. It can carry tones of mockery, pity, or finality. We say ya mutu mushe when some living thing has worthlessly ended, ya mutu murus when silence or defeat takes over.

Yet, our language is not without tenderness. When someone beloved passes away, whether out of affection or courtesy, we soften the word. We say ya rasu. Rasuwa is a form of loss tinged with grief and respect. It refuses the bluntness of mutuwa. It gives the heart its due.

When it comes to the Prophet Muhammad (SAW), the most noble of all creation whose departure shook the heavens and all generations after, our forebears chose words such as wafati (a peaceful return to Allah), fakuwa (withdrawal or disappearance), and rasuwa (loss imbued with yearning). These were not accidental choices; they were marks of reverence. The Prophet’s message, after all, did not die with him. His presence lingers, like fragrance after rain. Thus, Hausa Muslims avoided the word mutuwa not because it was wrong, but because it was too plain for such a sacred absence. Language itself became a form of prayer and praise, salati towards the Prophet of Islam, as the Qur’an commands the faithful to always offer.

This sensibility reflects a civilisation shaped by Islam yet polished by Hausa thought. It has endured for over a millennium, blending revelation and reason, piety and poetry, into a coherent moral fabric. Scholars such as Professor Mahdi Adamu have rightly argued that Islam is now part of the defining essence of being Hausa. Indeed, no serious student of culture can separate the two.

When Professor Samuel Huntington, in his 1993 popular thesis The Clash of Civilisations, classified the great Islamic civilisations as Arab, Turkic, and Malay, I once protested, mildly but firmly, in my column of 22 July 2013 in LEADERSHIP Newspaper, “Egypt: Western World, Egypt, Political Islam and Lessons.” For he omitted the fourth: the African, which includes the Hausa Muslim civilisation. Perhaps he did so because we in West Africa have not been diligent in documenting our own intellectual heritage. Our scholars mostly built souls rather than libraries. Their wisdom lived largely in hearts, not in manuscripts. Yet civilisation is not measured by ink alone.

By the eleventh century, Islam had already entered Hausaland through kings, scholars, and merchants. It mingled with the social elite, who naturally became custodians of what was right and proper. Over centuries, Islamic principles and Hausa customs intermarried. Law, governance, poetry, and etiquette became fused with faith. The result was not confusion but coherence. Nothing central to Hausa civilisation contradicted Islam at its core, unless one judged too quickly or too superficially.

That is why scholars such as Murray Last, in his work The Book in the Sokoto Caliphate, observed that even the nineteenth-century jihad led by Shehu Usman Ɗanfodio did not reinvent Hausa Islamic learning; it merely revived and restructured it. The civilisation was already mature, only in need of renewal and discipline.

After colonial rule and the birth of Nigeria, this historical balance was tested. Contact with global Islamic thought from Egypt, Saudi Arabia, Iran, and beyond brought new currents of theology and reform. Many who studied abroad returned believing they had discovered a purer Islam, one untainted by “local innovation.” Movements such as Jama’atu Izalatul Bid’ah Wa Iqamatissunnah (founded in 1978) sought to purify faith and democratise knowledge. Their zeal achieved much good, spreading Islamic learning to wider circles.

The unintended cost, however, was subtle: a growing suspicion towards the inherited Hausa sense of decorum, the gentle courtesies and expressions through which Islam had long been lived here. Many young preachers, both from Izala and other traditions, began to attack words, proverbs, and customs without studying their origins or meanings. They mistook refinement for deviation. They forgot that ladabi—good manners—is itself part of faith.

In the curricula of the Arab world, where some of them studied, there was no course on “Islam and Hausa civilisation.” Thus, they returned unaware that many Hausa forms of reverence, formal linguistic expressions, and proverbs had already been filtered through the sieve of Islamic thought over centuries. They saw impurity where there was actually depth. And when a people are cut off from the noble patterns that dignify their past, they begin to doubt themselves. This self-doubt, or inferiority complex, becomes more dangerous than ignorance itself.

Still, there is light in the dusk. From the 1990s onwards, a new generation of researchers began delving into precolonial manuscripts and oral traditions, recovering the intellectual dignity of old Hausaland. They showed how Islamic education, Sufi scholarship, and Hausa ethical thought intertwined long before the arrival of Europeans or the rise of the Sokoto Caliphate. Yet this work has mostly been carried out by Western-trained scholars, the so-called yan boko. Our purely religious scholars have been slower to engage, preferring imported frameworks to indigenous memory.

The road ahead, however, must bring both together. The Hausa Muslim future—steady, confident, and intelligent—will depend on producing scholars grounded in both the Islamic sciences and the lived wisdom of Hausa culture. Not a nostalgic culture, but one aware of its thousand-year conversation with faith.

If the Turks, Arabs, and Malays take pride in their civilisational imprint upon Islam, why should the Hausa not do the same? Our civilisation too has carried the Prophet’s light for centuries, shaping it into our language, our etiquette, and even our choice of words.

So, when we say Rasuwar Manzon Tsira or Wafatin Manzon Tsira, it is not mere politeness. It is theology—lived, spoken, and refined in our own tongue. To call it otherwise is to forget who we are.

Ibraheem A. Waziri wrote from Zaria, Kaduna State, Nigeria.

Dr. Muhammad Sulaiman Abdullahi

Innalillahi wa inna ilaihi raji’un. May Allah have mercy on Professor Hafizu Miko Yakasai. He was such a wonderful man that he never held any grudges against anyone. 

I met Prof. Hafizu as far back as 2003/2004, and by 2007/2008, he had supervised my B.A. project on Hausa translation. While writing the project, Malam pushed me so hard that it later transformed my life for the better.

Malam was hardworking, friendly, calm and always gentle. You can even say that Malam was the nicest of them all. Malam was always smiling, and he spoke to us as if he were talking to his friends or even his bosses. Malam always looked down when he spoke to you. So kind and loving. We will genuinely miss his charming smile, especially when he wants to make a point or respond to an interesting topic.

To have known Malam was to have known a rare and gentle light in this world. The always smiling gentleman. Today, that light feels dimmed, the smiles have left us, and our hearts are heavy with a grief that words can scarcely hold. Yet, even in this time of mourning, we are compelled to celebrate the extraordinary person he was —a teacher, a mentor, and one of the kindest souls to have graced our lives at Bayero University, Kano.

Prof. Hafizu was a teacher in the truest sense of the word. His classrooms were not just a place of learning, but a sanctuary of encouragement and support. He didn’t just teach Semantics; he taught us how to think, how to wonder and how to believe in ourselves even when we doubted our own capabilities.

The professor saw potential in the quietest student and brilliance in the most struggling mind. His greatest lessons were not found only in the textbooks, but in his unwavering patience, smiles and profound belief that every one of us had something unique and valuable to offer the world.

When Malam became the President of Nigeria’s Institute of Translators and Interpreters, he called me and asked me to participate in a high-level process of evaluating new intakes. I felt as if Malam was elevating me to a position for which I wasn’t qualified, but Malam sat by my side while I put the records in order and smoothed out the process, and together, we made it a success.

Wallahi Malam was a very great gentleman to the core. A peace-loving fellow. A man of charisma and calibre. I never saw him become angry. Perhaps he has a unique way of swallowing all the anger and reveals only soothing smiles.

There was a time when Malam invited us to a project that he had obtained from his good friend, Barrister Dasin. It was a project of translation. We really enjoyed ourselves and have our pockets filled up.

One day, we sat at the Centre for Research in Nigerian Languages, Translation & Folklore. All of a sudden, Malam asked Muhammad, ‘How can we translate…’ He then mentioned a particular word. I was amazed that this was my teacher, who had taught me for years, now asking me for something. This is to show you how simple and easy-going Malam was.

Besides teaching us, Malam took us as his own children, always drawing us nearer. He never acted like a boss; he was a guide who walked beside us, and with us, not ahead of us. He offered counsel without judgment, wisdom without arrogance, and a listening ear that made even our most minor problems feel important. He shaped not only our intellect but our character, leading always by the quiet example of his own integrity, compassion, and grace.

And yet, what we will carry with us most indelibly, what is etched into our memory with the warmth of a permanent sun, is his utmost kindness and smile. That ever-present, genuine, and kind smile. It was a beacon of welcome in the morning, a signal of understanding during a difficult lesson, and a silent celebration of our successes. In a world that can often be too serious and too harsh, his smiles were a constant reminder that joy is a choice, and kindness is a language everyone understands. It was the purest reflection of his beautiful spirit.

Thank you for everything. Your syllabus for a life well-lived is complete, and you earned an A+ in humanity, wisdom, dedication and kindness. We will miss you more than words can say, but we will never forget your lessons and your magnificent smiles.

Malam was an HOD many years ago; he was a Dean, a Professor, and a pioneer Provost of the College of Arts, and he died in active service. He came and worked in the university even in the last days of his life. Above all, he was a very kind gentleman, a devout servant of Allah.

The best part of Malam’s life was that not many people knew he was an A-grade student and teacher of the Qur’an. Coincidentally, the last events he attended in his academic life were on the glorious Qur’an. The Centre organised the last for Qur’anic Studies under the leadership of Sheikh Prof. Ahmad Murtala. May the almighty Allah raise you among the Qur’anic reciters on the Day of Judgement, amen.

Prof. Hafizu has done his part and left. It is now time to reflect on his life and build on the good legacies he left. I extend my condolences to his family, friends, students, Bayero University, Kano, and the entire academic community.

May Allah forgive your shortcomings, Malam. May Allah make Jannatul Firdaus your final home. You have done wonderfully, Malam, with endless gratitude and love. Insha’Allah, you will continue to smile in Jannah, sir. Ameen!

By Prof. Abdalla Uba Adamu 

Let me start with a context. It happened on June 27, 2024, Gabon’s Show on YouTube.

“Zarmalulu no work” was an expression uttered by TikTok influencer Sayyada Sadiya Haruna, describing the state of her marriage to another TikToker, Abubakar Ibrahim, a Hausa Rapper based in Kano, northern Nigeria, and known by the stage name G-Fresh Alamin. She used the expression during her interview with Hadiza Aliyu Gabon, a Kannywood (Hausa cinema of northern Nigeria) film actress, in an episode of Gabon’s YouTube Show, “Gabon,” on June 27, 2024. Haruna used the expression to inform Gabon and her viewers that G-Fresh was impotent on their wedding night, using ‘Zarmalulu’ as a social code for his non-performing reproductive organ.   

The expression, which quickly became a meme referring to the male sexual organ and its (dis)abilities, became a trending term in Hausaphone social media counterculture, and G-Fresh, usually full of swagger and macho posturing, was highly ridiculed and his swagger deflated, as it were. In this process, Haruna has provided males with an easy way of explaining their erectile dysfunction to either their partners or their healthcare provider in a less embarrassing and amusing way. The use of the term openly reveals a growing vocabulary of erotic neologisms in Hausa social media and reflects the emergence of what I refer to as Hausa digital counterculture.

This media incidence – which received massive views, significantly improving Gabon’s financial standing – reflects one of the fascinating aspects of language development within the context of media anthropology. I am pretty sure that Margaret Mead, the doyen of cultural anthropologists, would have welcomed social media and its potential in studying digital natives. Safer, too. With the increasing creation of conventional and alternative communities on social media, a new discipline has emerged to enable people to study others without the necessity of being in the same physical space and time with them. So, what exactly is “media anthropology”? 

Media anthropology is the ethnographic and critical study of how media—especially digital and social media—are embedded in the cultural, social, political, and economic lives of people. It is a subfield of anthropology that examines how people create, utilise, interpret, and are influenced by media in their daily lives. It blends the traditional ethnographic methods of anthropology—such as participant observation and in-depth interviews—with the analysis of media technologies and content.

My initial focus was on Hausa literature and its transformations – from physical print to online publishing, then to the film industry – encompassing feature films and distribution through tapes, CDs, DVDs, and YouTube series. I then moved on to music, from griot wordsmiths to rap and hip hop. It was all pretty exciting. Then, social media made its entrance and created multiple new entries into the field. 

As a media anthropologist, I immerse myself in communities—both online and offline—to understand how people engage with digital media. For this study, I focused primarily on Facebook as a social network. Hundreds of communities were created on Facebook—mainly by young people—that discuss a wide range of topics, providing a rich source of data concerning youth subcultures and how social networks offer a subversive template for creating new identities and expressions. 

As I swing from one community to another – using Robert Kozinet’s Netnographic methods – I began to notice a new pattern of language usage among young Hausa online digital natives. Then I started gathering new words and expressions that offer alternative meanings to their conventional ones. For the most part, they tended to be innocuous, while hiding a deeper, often darker meaning, and are essentially communicated to ingroup members of the communities. Quite rapidly enough, some of the words began to take on a new urban lexicon on their own. 

A typical example is “capacity,” an innocuous word that means exactly what it says: maximum production or containment. Yet, digital natives have turned it into “kafasiti” to indicate an urban cool, swagger, ability, capability, “arrived”, etc. The word is now used in multiple forms and contexts to refer to attainment of either distinction or class (“Alaji, wallahi an baza kafasiti a bikin nan”). 

But, then, old words have always had new meanings in Hausaphone urban language use. For instance, “shege” is literally a bastard in Hausa, but recontextualised to mean “an expert” or “outstanding.” “Mugu” (bad) became an adjective for extremities (“mugun kyau”, extreme beauty). “Arne” (pagan) transformed into contemporary “bro” (kai arne, yaya dai/yo, bro, wazzup?). “Kwaro” (insect) translates into a tenacious, usually studious person. For southern Nigerians, “Aboki” is an imagined insult referring to any northerner, whether Hausa or not, rather than “friend,” its actual meaning. 

Hausa digital natives utilise the unconventionality of the social media they inhabit to create neologisms that often reflect hidden, dark, or altered meanings, frequently dealing with in-group lexicons. After trawling through various sites and TikTok videos, I was able to gather approximately 35 neologisms and incorporate them into a paper I am still working on. 

Looking at these digital coinages and the transformation of words, I was struck by the fact that many of them refer to bawdy or sexually suggestive language along the entire sexual preference spectrum. They tend to be more common in social networks (e.g., Facebook, WhatsApp, Telegram, Signal), where interactions are mainly conversational, than in visual social media (e.g., TikTok, Instagram). The reason is that visuality often identifies the person easily, and in Kano, an Islamicate state in northern Nigeria, this could lead to prosecution on moral grounds. On social networking sites, users often use aliases instead of their real names. Such anonymity gives them the freedom to express their thoughts and use these neologisms in their correct grammatical sense. The sentences are meaningful only to in-group members, within or outside the online communities. 

Examples include “Malam Zakari da almajirai biyu”, referring to the male reproductive organs. “Kaya” (load, baggage) referring to trophy (girl, money, etc), “tarkon alƙali” (judge’s trap/jailbait) for pedophilic behaviour, royal rumble (orgy) and murfi (cover) referring to lesbian activity.

As I noted, over 70% of the neologisms in my collection were bawdy and sexually slanted. Their creators chose the anonymity of online communities not only to create new coinages but also to perpetuate them, without any fear of social labelling or prosecution. Some of these words will gradually become part of conventional social usage, along with their attendant meanings. There is no stopping them. Their very existence highlights another way social media is influencing our culture, language, and traditions. 

But, what do you think – good, bad, indifferent? Whatever your feeling, what can we do about it? Hausa is not the only language facing this, though. A recent book by Adam Aleksic, Algospeak: How Social Media Is Transforming the Future of Language” (July 15, 2025), reveals the international nature of this phenomenon through “algorithmic speech”. As the blurb indicates:

“From ‘brainrot’ memes and incel slang to the trend of adding ‘-core’ to different influencer aesthetics, the internet has ushered in an unprecedented linguistic upheaval. We’re entering an entirely new era of etymology, marked by the invisible forces that drive social media algorithms. Thankfully, Algospeak is here to explain. As a professional linguist, Adam Aleksic understands the gravity of language and its use: he knows how it has evolved and changed, how it reflects society, and how, in its everyday usage, we carry centuries of human history on our tongues…New slang phrases emerge and go viral overnight. Accents are shaped or erased on YouTube. Grammatical rules, loopholes, and patterns surface and transform language as we know it. Our interactions, social norms, and habits—both online and in person—shift into something completely different.”

No, I don’t have “eCopy” to Acibilistically share. You gotta buy the original print copy if you are interested in the way in which social media usage transforms contemporary language. I can give you the cover of the book for free, though!

By Muhammad Sulaiman

In a historic academic achievement, Dr. Zaidu Jibril Muhammad, a lecturer at Sule Lamido University (SLUK), Kafin Hausa, has become the first African recipient of the prestigious King Abdullah Bin Abdulaziz International Award for Translation.

Dr. Zaidu, who lectures in the Department of Arabic, Faculty of Humanities, clinched the 2025 award for his Hausa translation of the Arabic literary masterpiece Maqāmāt al-Ḥarīrī, published under the title Dandalin Hikimomi. The Prize’s Board of Trustees praised the translation for its scholarly depth and cultural resonance, calling it a significant contribution to African scholarship and global cross-cultural understanding.

Born on May 15, 1985, in Shungurum village, Birnin Kudu Local Government Area of Jigawa State, Dr. Zaidu holds a Ph.D. in Arabic Language among other qualifications.

Dr. Zaidu is also a prolific author, with four major Hausa translations of classical Arabic works. In addition to Dandalin Hikimomi, his works include Dandalin Dabaru (from Maqāmāt Badī‘ al-Zamān al-Hamadhānī), Bakandamai Bakwai(from Al-Mu‘allaqāt al-Sab‘a), and a Hausa version of a widely used Arabic academic guide for university students. He has also published fifteen academic articles in national and international journals.

Currently serving as a Lecturer I and a member of the International Union of Arabic Language, Dr. Zaidu’s groundbreaking achievement has been described as a landmark not just for Nigeria but for the entire African continent.

By Hadiza Abdulkadir

Nigerian scholar Professor Abdalla Uba Adamu has officially announced the publication of his new book, Hausa Cinema of Northern Nigeria: Cultural Imperialism and Censorship, a landmark work that explores the development, politics, and aesthetics of Hausa-language film across West Africa.

Published by Bloomsbury, the book is the product of over twenty years of research spanning multiple countries and academic disciplines. Rather than focusing solely on the popular commercial industry known as “Kannywood,” Adamu takes a broader approach, examining Hausa cinema in its many forms—including diaspora productions, documentaries, art films, and digital series.

“This is not just about Kannywood,” Adamu explained. “It’s about Hausa cultural expression wherever it exists, rooted in Islamicate values and media flows across the Global South.”

Completed in 2010, the manuscript faced delays and was almost shelved. However, a 2023 conference presentation and a meal hosted by Dr. Muhsin Ibrahim, where Adamu jokingly called the large waina “one terabyte,” in Cologne, Germany, reignited interest, leading to its acceptance and revision. 

The final version, praised by scholars such as Graham Furniss and Brian Larkin, will be released in July 2025.

Though priced at $130, Adamu plans to publish a locally accessible companion book titled Kannywood: A Brief Introduction later this year in Kano. It will be tailored for readers interested in a concise, less theoretical overview.

With this announcement, Hausa cinema gains its most comprehensive and scholarly treatment, firmly placing it in the global conversation about media and culture.

By Prof. Abdalla Uba Adamu

As we celebrate the World Book and Copyright Day (the UNESCO, not UK version) on 23rd April 2025, and even though it is targeted at children and youth, let’s reflect; after all, we were once children and youth. A historical excavation of our reading habits shows how lucky we were.

Hausa folks over 50 have always lamented the death of reading culture among contemporary Hausa youth. Such old fogies always hark back to the days of reading, mainly English language authors: James Hadley Chase, Denise Robins, Jacqueline Susann, Frederick Forsyth, Nick Carter, Stephen King, Robert Ludlum, Harold Robbins, Ayn Rand, Wilbur Smith, etc. Almost always English. Always British or American. The novels written by these authors, I would argue, laid solid foundations for their knowledge, command and mastery of the English language. 

And the comics. Tintin (actually, Tan-Tan), Asterix, Mad Magazine, Marvel comics (Spiderman, Fantastic Four, Thor, X-Men, etc). The entire comics of London’s Fleet Street. Evoking memories of Valiant, Thunder, Eagle, Commando, Cor!!, Buster, Tiger, Battle. Even football comics (even though I don’t particularly like football at all), such as Roy of the Rovers. The novels, the comics and the TV shows (Star Trek, Space 1999, Man from U.N.C.L.E., Man from Atlantis, Perry Mason, etc.), to be frank, laid the foundation of what I am today. Not much from Africa, though. But the little we had was superb as well. These included Lance Spearman’s African Film, Fearless Fang’s Boom, and a romantic tear-jerker, Joy.  

All were readily available at the Post Office in Kano and major supermarkets of Leventis and Kingsway. The latter in particular became a must-visit place for me in the 1970s. Nothing, absolutely nothing, beats the wonderful smell of fresh books being stacked on their shelves. And it wasn’t just books. I scrimped and saved pennies and shillings until I had enough to purchase my first vinyl record album – Rare Earth’s Get Ready in 1972, three years after it was released in 1969, when I first heard a single version on the radio. 

This was what defined reading culture, at least for those of us in the urban centres who grew up with it. And even if one can’t afford fresh new books and comics from Leventis and Kingsway stores, there are many places in Kano centred around Plaza in Fage, Coca Cola Roundabout, and even the main Post Office frontage itself, where hundreds of second-hand books are sold, even up to now. 

Exchanging books and discussing their plots, characters, and titles set the tone of conversations with friends. The most popular pulp fiction writer, of course, was René Lodge Brabazon Raymond, most popularly known as James Hadley Chase. Interestingly, his novels were written in the 1930s and later, painting an often-depressing picture of his setting (mainly the United States, even though he was British). Titles like Tiger By the Tail, Tell It to the Birds, Just a Matter of Time, Knock, Knock! Who’s There? There is a Hippy on the Highway that evokes our hastily copied Americanism. The garish covers, almost always graced by a long-legged sultry female model, made many truly judge the book by its cover. 

These foreign novels existed alongside African novels, particularly those published by Heinemann since 1969. The Heinemann African Writers Series produced a massive variety of novels, almost 225, many by people from the eastern part of Nigeria. For most of us, though, their postcolonial themes seemed too intellectual. Further, they were made part of the set reading for those offering literature, so again, many who want to read a novel just for pleasure rather than pan-African political philosophy simply avoided them. 

The struggle for the souls—and pockets—of school children in the 1970s continued in efforts to dislodge James Hadley Chase. In 1977, Macmillan Publishers decided to publish a low-cost paperback series under what they called the Pacesetters Series. These were published from 1979 to 1988 and became massively popular. I remember seeing one of the earliest, The Undesirable Element by Mohammad Sule from Kano, published in 1977, while we were students at ABU. 

When Sule finished the novel (which he wrote while a student at the now Rumfa College Kano), he initially took the manuscript to the Northern Nigeria Publishing Company (NNPC) in Zaria, which rejected it because it was in English. Luckily, Macmillan was in partnership with NNPC and the MD, a Briton, asked his wife to evaluate it. She did it positively and recommended it to Macmillan London, who were just about to start their Pacesetter series. See providence. If NNPC had accepted it, they would have created a large pool of English language novelists in northern Nigeria

For Baby Boomers (1946-1964) and Generation X (1965 to 1979), the Structural Adjustment Program (SAP) of 1986 severely affected their reading culture in one way: the books just dried up, whether foreign or local. Foreign became too expensive, local became too repetitive and static. We simply went back to the old classics and read them again and again. It was Robert Ludlum re-read (especially The Parsifal Mosaic) for me. 

All this was for ƴan boko. What about Hausa novels or reading materials? There are very few. By the 1980s, all the classics had been read, and no new ones were coming out. These included Magana Jari Ce, Ilya Ɗan Maiƙarfi, Gogan Naka, Nagari Na Kowa, Sihirtaccen Gari, Dau Fataken Dare, and a whole bunch of plays. Writing and publishing was very strenuous. Publishers could only publish if the books were to be made part of the set reading for WAEC, which limits the writer’s imagination and creativity. 

Then Hafsat AbdulWaheed came along with So, Aljannar Duniya in 1980. The first published Hausa language novel. The first by a woman from northern Nigeria. Plotting the classic Hausa marriage situation. A revolution was ignited in Hausa language fiction, leading to Mills and Boons style romantic fiction or Littattafan Soyayya. In less than five years, both male and female writers had emerged with stories to tell. Writers’ collectives were formed. The printing presses of party politics made it easier to self-publish. So, the writers ignored the snotty hoity-toity “big” publishers, especially NNPC (although NNPC can PRINT your book for payment, as they did with Balaraba Ramat’s early novels).  

In less than five years, the emergent authors have published more volumes than Heinemann (225) and Pacesetters (130). This made Hausa the most voracious reading public in Nigeria. Prof. Graham Furniss of the SOAS London even published a bibliography of the genre, including a whole website based at SOAS. When they became too much for the Kano State public culture, for that was where they flourished, a censorship board was created in 2001 to curb them. When that did not work, the Kano State government burned them in 2007 to cleanse the youth of the books. A harsher censorship regime debilitated them even more, throwing them out of business. The Hausa reading culture died. 

Then the Smartphone came in 2007—the then-Kano state Governor publicly burned Hausa books the same year. The same year, a harsher censorship regime was instituted in Kano that made life hell for the creative industries (Maryam Hiyana, anyone?). The iPhone, while not the first smartphone (Blackberry, anyone?), nevertheless revolutionised communication in its innovative approach to design. Clone copies with Android operating systems cemented the mass appeal of the smartphone. Eventually, it became commodified. 

Then, in 2013, Hausa novelists had their epiphany. They realised that with Facebook bubbling away, they could write their novels and escape censorship. Sure, no money, but they would be sharing their ideas. Things then blossomed from there. They created hundreds of Facebook pages for Hausa novels. When they became technologically proficient or engaged those who were, they created blogs sharing Hausa novels and creating massive readership throughout the Hausaphone world. For instance, Hafsat Hausa Novels (H²) had 471,000 members last time I checked. 

Then they discovered Wattpad, which had been in existence since 2006. They moved on the site with massive gusto, creating novels in three presentation modes – Hausa, English and Enghausa. Mainly by women. The migration online redefines “reading culture” if it is seen as engagement with text. Wattpad’s metrics alone convincingly show that the Hausa reading culture has been revived. For instance, Jewel by Maymunatu Bukar had 1.1 million reads. Thus, E-books and online literary content became increasingly popular, and social media can be used to share and discuss these resources

And let’s not ignore social networks and social media posts and COMMENTS. Agreements, disagreements (including insults typical of Arewa Social Media), expanded explanations – all are READING, and far livelier than just reading a book on your own. But again, social media gives us the opportunity to discuss – have a debate – about the books we like/hate (Goodreads, anyone?). 

“Reading culture” is a dynamic and evolving concept that encompasses more than the mere act of reading. It is an intricate web of practices, values, and institutional structures that defines how individuals and communities interact with texts. Whether viewed through a sociological, historical, or digital lens, understanding reading culture involves recognising the interplay between technology, policy, and the deeply personal ways that texts influence and reflect who we are.

I therefore argue that reading social media is very much part of today’s reading culture. It is a re-invention of reading culture. It may differ from traditional literary reading in depth, tone, and purpose, but it still involves interpretation, meaning-making, and cultural exchange. In any event, all the books, comics, and TV shows you so favoured are now digitally available (I have sourced all of these that defined my youth).

As reading culture adapts to the digital age, social media becomes an important arena for literacy and engagement in all spheres. Hey, you might even find the rest of the James Hadley Chase books you missed (you know he published 98, right?). 

Happy World Book and Acibilisian Day to y’all.

By Sa’id Sa’ad

“Silence is really golden. For many years, I have respected you as a great actress, but after listening to you speak for once, I lost all respect for you. Silence is, indeed, golden.” 

These were the exact words shared by a fan after watching one of the popular Kannywood actresses’ podcasts.

Recently, a podcast went viral in which four Kannywood actresses sat, warming their chairs, sharing opinions about relationships. While many criticise the podcast, I find myself wondering just how ‘golden silence really is.’

From Talk with Feezy by northern Nigerian artist Feezy to the highly criticised The Social Spotlight by Kannywood actress Nafisa Abdullahi, podcasts are slowly becoming the North’s new thing. Famous faces with thousands of followers are tapping into this audio-visual world and, irrespective of the content, are reaching a wide audience thanks to their massive followings.

Podcasting is the new cool in the North. Content creators, entertainers, film producers, actors, actresses and wannabe influencers are all jumping on this new wave. Everyone’s got something to say. But the unifying factor is they are all saying it in Hausa. This not only makes it content by creators from northern Nigeria but also for northern Nigeria and the broader Hausa-speaking population.

Now, let’s not be mistaken. Podcasting isn’t exactly new. Like most things, it just arrived in the North late. Young audiences are now tuning in, eager to consume original opinions from faces they admire beneath the thousands of Instagram followers. 

But here comes the twist. While popular faces trend with podcasts that often miss the mark, there’s a whole storm of lesser-known creators. Just as hungry. Just as passionate. Diving into podcasting, hoping to go viral. Few get it right. Many get it wrong, and most are just aiming to create controversy. 

It’s great that young creators are speaking up. It’s refreshing to see new northern voices adding their two cents to conversations about relationships, religion, family, entertainment, and society. But even at that, when done poorly, this new podcast culture is more dangerous than beneficial. 

I’m an avid fan of vodcasts, particularly those produced by Nigerians. I also strongly support consuming content from Northern Nigeria. However, just because it’s from the North doesn’t mean our standards should be low. We owe it to ourselves to demand quality.

Upon close observation, it’s clear that many of these podcasts bring ‘more face’ and ‘less value.’ In the first few minutes of an episode, you can already tell the host isn’t fully prepared. They ramble. They say empty phrases. And you’re left wondering: What am I supposed to take away from this? These podcasts often fail to provide value, and let me remind you, that’s the very foundation of podcasting: Value.

It’s a strange thing. Really. The lights are bright, the makeup is on point, and the guests are ready. The studio setup is perfect. Yet, after all that effort, the conversation feels empty. It leaves you craving more, but in a bad way.

This reflects the current trend in both public and private Hausa-speaking media, where a designated show for Kannywood stars is often featured. These shows rarely extend beyond inviting the stars for views and likes, failing to address the critical questions of why these shows exist in the first place.

But this isn’t just happening among famous creators. A new wave of young creators has emerged; unfortunately, many of them, without doing their homework, are merely copying the same format used by the stars, eager to replicate the same model: 

Create podcast → Talk carelessly → Create controversy → Get views and likes.

While this model keeps some people in the limelight, it doesn’t do the North any favours. It’s as if we’re holding a mirror to the region’s weaknesses and saying, ‘Here, look at us, this is what we’ve got.’ It’s reinforcing the negative stereotype that we can’t produce quality. 

Whether we like it or not, the digital presence of these creators who act as our representatives shapes how the world perceives us.

But let’s not ignore the few non-popular creators producing quality content in Hausa for the region. Many of these are tech-driven podcasts that, although still growing, offer substantial value. Unfortunately, these high-quality contributions are often overshadowed by the more glamorous but shallow content produced by popular stars or emergent ones desperate to trend. 

The question we must ask ourselves is: Which popular Hausa-speaking podcast from northern Nigeria truly offers real value to its audience? How much of the value is visible? Is the content truly for the audience or just for the producers? What narratives are being sold, and can we, in terms of quality, truly compete with podcasts from other regions in the country?

Until we get it right and have the right people behind the mics, with the right knowledge and intentions, these creators will continue to podcast about northern Nigeria’s weaknesses for likes. The unfortunate truth is that this will only serve to bury our efforts to challenge negative stereotypes six feet under. 

Ultimately, every creator has the right to produce what they want. In this case, the power is in the hands of the audience. 

You and I decide what should be popular.

Sa’id Sa’ad is a Nigerian writer and journalist currently residing in Germany. He is the author of the podcast-play “Gangare”. He won the Peace Panel Short Story Prize in 2018 and the NFC Essay Prize that same year. He presently works with the German broadcaster Deutsche Welle. 

By Bashir Uba Ibrahim, Ph.D. 

Onomastics is the study of names and the naming of objects, places, and things. Its two main branches are anthroponymy and toponymy. While the former is concerned with individual proper names, family names, or surnames, the latter is interested in studying the motivations behind the proper names of places. This article is interested in toponymy—changing the names of places. Thus, it aims to synthesise the nexus between onomastics and history in naming places and how some circumstances trigger their penultimate changes. 

One of the impetuses behind this article is a Facebook post by Dr. Abdullahi Dahiru, a physician and public commentator, regarding the renaming of “Kunchi” Local Government to “Ghari.” In his post, he attributes this change to a distortion of history, citing Prof. Tijjani Naniya’s views on the etymology of “Kunchi” as historically linked to the bravery of its people. 

As a fortress town established to shield Kano from the external aggression of Damagaram, which sporadically attacked Kano in ancient times, the people of Kunchi successfully obliterated and defeated Damagaram infinitum. Thus, they were tagged by the Kano people as “Kun ci”, meaning “you have won”. As time passed, the phrase blended and metamorphosed to “Kunchi”. Henceforth, the town is called “Kunchi”, according to Prof. Naniya, cited by Dr. Abdullahi Dahiru. Therefore, the semantic change of the word was purely motivated by an extralinguistic factor, as the hardship and backwardness faced by the people of Kunchi were onomastically attributed to the pejorative nomenclature of the word in Hausa.

This scenario is called semantic and morphological change through blending in linguistics, a situation whereby the structure and meaning of the word change over time. Many types of semantic changes exist, including Broadening, Amelioration, Semantic Reclamation, and Pejoration.

The fourth one, “pejoration”, is where a semantic change of the word “kun ci” to “kunchi” falls. According to John (2000: 55), “pejoration is when the word’s meaning changes from positive to negative”. It usually occurs due to the extralinguistic factor or associating it with the taboo, as the name “kunchi” in Hausa is pejoratively associated with the taboo or something negative. 

Meanwhile, the stigma that the name “kunchi” pejoratively carries in Hausa and the negative stereotype it connotes make the people of the area opt to change the name of their local government. This will be a significant setback to the town’s history because, as time goes on, the upcoming generation from there will not know the history of their forefathers and their bravery in warfare.

On the other hand, semantic anomalies—those who believe there is no relationship between a word and what it stands for—triumph over analogists, who argue that word meaning represents what it stands for. Thus, the historical and semantic imports of the word “kun ci,” which was subsequently transformed to “Kunchi,” were not only changed but also its whole structure and form were replaced, displaced, and dislocated.

Finally, this is not the first time a place or city name has changed. Historically, we have seen how some places or cities’ names change due to varied circumstances. For instance, Mumbai, the capital of India, was formerly known as Bombay. But when the nationalist party Shiv Sena rose to power in 1995, it changed Bombay’s name to Mumbai, citing that the former name carries relics of British colonial legacy. 

Similarly, Istanbul, the capital of Turkey, was formerly known as Constantinople for hundreds of years. It was renamed Istanbul in 1930 after the Republic of Turkey was created. Therefore, changing place names is normal, depending on the circumstances and historical events that motivated them.

NB:

Dr. Raji Bello draws my attention that the case of the historical change of the name of “Kunchi” to “Gari” is similar to Lynchburg, Virginia, Black American people whose nomenclature of their city etymologically derived from the historical event of their racial subjugation and maltreatment and want the name of their town change.

Dr. Bashir Uba Ibrahim wrote from the Department of English and Literary Studies, Sule Lamido University Kafin Hausa, Jigawa State.