By Fatima Ishaq Muhammad
Kano, the city of ancient walls, now bears a heavy burden of the haunting presence of women and children who line its streets, begging for survival. From Sabon Gari to Kofar Ruwa, from traffic lights to mosque entrances, their stretched palms have become a renowned yet disturbing sight, painting a picture of poverty, moral negligence, and broken systems.
What was first considered a social crack has now widened into a full-blown crisis. Most of these street beggars are displaced women, widows, divorcees, and children.
Some as young as four roam the streets daily in search of food, coins, or sympathy. For the women, it’s often the last resort after being abandoned or driven from rural homes. For the children, it’s a stolen childhood, spent in sun-scorched rags rather than classrooms.
The roots of this problem run deep, encompassing widespread poverty, displacement from conflicts in the Northeast, the collapse of social welfare structures, and the controversial Almajiri system, all of which contribute to the cycle.
While religious and cultural values once nurtured compassion and communal responsibility, they have been distorted over time to excuse neglect and indifference.
Government efforts, while numerous in announcements, remain largely cosmetic. Street begging has been “banned” multiple times in Kano State, but the bans vanish as quickly as they are declared.
Relocation schemes and rehabilitation centres are often poorly managed or underfunded, leading many beggars to eventually return to the streets, as it is the only place they know.
Even worse, some of these children are exploited, trafficked, or “hired” to pose as beggars in a growing underground network. Women, too, face harassment, sexual violence, and daily humiliation.
The streets that should offer opportunity are now a stage for public suffering, and this suffering is becoming normalised.
The situation is more than a humanitarian concern; it is a social and security time bomb. The longer these vulnerable groups remain on the streets, the more likely they are to fall into crime, radicalisation, or permanent poverty. And as the city’s population grows, so does the danger of institutional failure.
But all hope is not lost. With the right political will, inclusive policies, and collaboration between government, religious institutions, and civil society, change is possible.
Empowering women with skills and microloans, integrating Almajiri children into formal education, investing in social welfare, and offering proper shelter to displaced families are realistic solutions not just dreams.
Kano must reclaim its dignity. The crying voices on its streets are not just those of beggars; they are those of citizens, future leaders, mothers, and children with untapped potential. Ignoring them is no longer an option. As the city grows, so should its compassion and responsibility.
Until we act, the story of Kano will not be written in its history books or palaces, but on the tired faces of women and children who call its streets home.
Fatima Ishaq Muhammad wrote via fatimaishaq021@gmail.com.
