Lifestyle

By Khadijat Abdulrasheed

A short play on Peer Pressure, Courage, Confidence, and Modesty.

CHARACTERS:

 1. Amina: Hijabi girl, shy but spiritually strong. Calm and polite.

 2. Toke: Trendy, confident girl who loves teasing others. Loud and playful.

 3. Zee: A follower. Often supports Toke but watches and thinks deeply.

 4. Teacher Fatima: A teacher who is Kind, firm, and respected.

SCENE 1: School Corridor (After Break)

[The school bell rings. Students return from break. Some are laughing, others are walking in groups. Amina walks in quietly, her hijab well-arranged. Toke and Zee stroll in together, looking fashionable.]

TOKE

(laughing loudly)

Ha! See our aunty again. Amina, the hijab ambassador! You no dey ever gree show small swag?

ZEE

Her own swag na hijab and long skirt. Babe, this is 2025 o, not 1925!

TOKE

(pretending to whisper)

Na only God go help her. Fashion don pass her by.

AMINA

At least I cover myself the way Allah wants. That’s my absolute confidence.

TOKE

Confidence ke? You dey hide beauty under a scarf. If I get your fine face, I go use am blow on IG! You go just dey hear likes everywhere.

AMINA

But if beauty is only for likes… what happens when you lose followers?

ZEE

She get point o.

TOKE

Abeg joor. I no get time for all this hijabi wisdom. Let’s go jare.

[Toke and Zee walk off. Amina walks the other way with a peaceful look.]

SCENE 2: Classroom, Next Day

[Students are chatting. Teacher Fatima walks in. The class becomes quiet.]

TEACHER FATIMA

Good morning, class.

STUDENTS

Good morning, ma.

TEACHER FATIMA

Today, I want to talk to you about something important, which is Dignity in Modesty.

(She pauses)

Modesty is not weakness. It’s not for the old. It’s not backwardness.

It is honour and it is strength. Prophet Muhammad (SAW) said Modesty is part of faith.

Even when people laugh at you… be like Maryam (AS). She was mocked, but she remained pure and firm.

We dress modestly, not because we are ashamed of our beauty but because we are grateful for it.

[Amina listens with a soft smile. Toke shifts uncomfortably. Zee watches them both.]

SCENE 3: Corridor After Class

[The students come out. Amina is by her locker. Toke hesitates, then walks up to her.]

TOKE

Uhm… Amina.

AMINA

(looks up, smiling)

Yes?

TOKE

About yesterday… I was just catching cruise, but… You really dey try sha.

AMINA

It’s not me. It is Allah who gives strength.

TOKE

(chuckles)

I wish I could get your kind courage. Me, I dey fear people’s opinion die.

AMINA

You can ask Allah for strength, too. He listens.

ZEE

Maybe courage is not about talking loudly. It may be about standing firm.

[They all walk off slowly. Peaceful music fades in.]

SCENE 4: Two Weeks Later, School Debate Competition

[The school is holding a debate. Topic: “True Confidence From Appearance or Inner Values?” Amina and Toke are in the same group. The hall is packed. Teacher Fatima is in the audience.]

TOKE

(nervously looking at Amina)

I have never joined anything like this before.

AMINA

You will do well. Just speak the truth from your heart.

[Toke steps up, clearing her throat. She speaks slowly.]

TOKE

Before, I thought confidence was how you walk, dress, and trend online.

But I met someone who never followed the crowd… yet she stands taller than all of us. She wears her scarf with pride… and doesn’t need to shout to be heard.

That kind of confidence…

Comes from knowing who you are, not who people want you to be.

[The audience claps. Amina looks down shyly. Zee claps too, smiling proudly.]

SCENE 5: Corridor, After School

[Toke, Amina, and Zee walk together. Toke now wears a scarf, not a full hijab, but modest.]

ZEE

Wonders shall never end. Our slay queen don join hijab squad.

TOKE

(laughs)

But honestly, I feel freer and more comfortable.

AMINA

That’s because obedience to Allah removes the burden of impressing people.

ZEE

And between peer pressure and modesty… I think we know who really won.

TOKE

Modesty won because it gave me peace. Not pressure.

[Teacher Fatima walks by slowly and overhears. She stops and smiles.]

TEACHER FATIMA

When a heart chooses Allah over people, that heart has already won.

(she looks at them all)

May Allah keep your steps firm. Always.

ALL THREE GIRLS

Ameen.

[They walk off together, smiling. This time, not as different girls, but as sisters.]

✨ THE END

MORAL MESSAGE:

Modesty is not a cage. It is not something that locks you away or hides your beauty in shame. It is an honour, a beautiful shield that protects your dignity, your heart and your purpose. It is a quiet strength that says, I know my worth and I choose to honour it the way my Creator wants. True confidence is not found in the approval of the crowd, not in likes, not in views, and not in trends. Crowds change, opinions shift, but Allah’s pleasure never changes. When He is pleased with you, that is the highest success. Peer pressure is loud, it laughs, it whispers, and it tries to make you feel small for not joining the crowd. But modesty doesn’t need to shout. It walks calmly through the noise, stands firm, and in the end… it lasts longer.

By Aisha Musa Auyo

The second story that inspired this reflection is the death of an acquaintance. She was the HR of a company that once offered me a job as an editor. We had exchanged emails, and I went there in person to explain why I couldn’t take up the role. That first visit also turned out to be my last. The company’s owner is a friend, so it was easy to discuss things openly.

After hearing me out, she understood my situation as a young mother. She said she had once been in my shoes and offered some warm advice, assuring me that the company would always welcome me if I were ready in the future. As I was about to leave, she asked about the fragrance I was wearing. She said, “The whole office is filled with your scent. It’s so calming.”

I explained that it wasn’t a regular perfume but Turaren Wuta (incense) and humra. She smiled and said she was familiar with them but had never come across such heavenly scents before. I promised to send her some to try.

It was a casual conversation, but I took it to heart. I packed black and white humra with some incense and gave them to my driver for delivery, as I was travelling at the time. Days turned into weeks, with excuse after excuse from him. When I called her, she said she never got his call, and even if she wasn’t around, he could have left the package at the office.

Back from my trip, I retrieved the parcel and handed it to another driver. Again, excuses. Frustrated, I shared my ordeal with a family member. She dismissed my worry: “You’re overreacting. This woman has probably forgotten about the incense. She doesn’t owe you anything. Why stress yourself over this?”

But deep down, I couldn’t let it go. Something urged me on. I said, “Whatever it takes, I’ll do this delivery myself, I insisted. The family member teased me, calling me stubborn, “Aisha kina da naci wallahi, kin damu kowa a kan abin da ba shi da mahimmanci”. I said na ji. It felt as though everything, including the universe, was determined to stop me from sending that gift.

Finally, when I demanded the second driver return the parcel so I could deliver it personally, he apologised and promised to take it that week. Two days later, she sent me a message, thanking me warmly. She said, “It was worth the wait.” I apologised for the delay, and that was the last time we spoke.

This week, I received the news of her death. She had been battling a heart condition. I remembered how she once mentioned wanting to lose weight for health reasons. My heart sank. I prayed for her soul and felt profoundly grateful that I had managed to give her something she wanted before her passing. Suddenly, I understood why my instincts had been so insistent.

The lesson is clear: never postpone kindness. Please do it now, because tomorrow is never promised.

Aisha Musa Auyo is a doctoral researcher in educational psychology. A wife, a mother, a homemaker, a caterer, a parenting, and a relationship coach. She can be reached via aishamuauyo@live.co.uk.

By Usman Abdullahi Koli, ANIPR

Some lives are measured in years, others in titles, and some in possessions. The rarest and most enduring lives are measured in the hearts they touch and the hope they restore. Dr Bala Maijama’a Wunti belongs firmly in that rare place. His journey has been one of resilience and quiet strength, of rising from hardship to become a fountain of generosity whose waters reach far beyond the place where they spring.

Born on 8th August 1966, his earliest years were marked by a loss that would shape the rest of his life. Losing both parents as a child meant entering the world with an emptiness most could never imagine. Those days were not kind; survival was his only option. There were no easy comforts, no safety nets, only the will to push forward and the dream that tomorrow could be better.

Instead of allowing hardship to harden him, it softened him in extraordinary ways. The hunger he knew became a hunger to feed others. The loneliness he endured became a desire to stand by those who had no one to stand by. The obstacles he faced became a determination to clear the paths for others. He did not allow pain to turn into bitterness; he transformed it into kindness.

Over the years, giving has become so deeply ingrained in his life that it no longer feels like charity; it feels like breathing. He has lifted burdens that would have crushed families, stepped in quietly where hope was fading, and turned despair into relief for people who may never know his face but will always remember his help. For him, giving is not a grand event; it is the natural rhythm of his days.

Only yesterday, on the eve of his birthday, he paid the full registration fees for Bauchi State indigenous Law students across Law Schools in Nigeria and added incentives to support their journey. For those young men and women, it was more than a payment. It was a belief in their dreams and a reminder that someone cares enough to invest in their future. Acts like this are not exceptions in his life; they are the pattern.

His foundation, Wunti Alkhair, is an extension of his own values. It reaches into communities, lifts the sick from their sickbeds by clearing medical bills, opens doors of opportunity for young people to acquire skills, and creates moments of dignity where they seemed lost. It strengthens faith by building and restoring places of worship, not as monuments of wealth but as sanctuaries of hope.

What makes him remarkable is not just the scale of what he gives but the sincerity with which he provides it. There is no fanfare, no calculation, no search for applause. Many of those who have felt his kindness will never meet him, yet they carry a piece of him in their stories, in their survival, and in their renewed strength to face life again.

As we celebrate his birthday, we celebrate far more than a date. We honour a man whose life is proof that greatness is not in what we take but in what we give. A man who rose through the storms of his own childhood to become a shelter for others. A man who, in a world too often cold and self-serving, has chosen to be warm and selfless.

May Allah grant him long life, good health, and the strength to keep shaping lives for the better. May his journey remind us all that no matter where we start, we can choose to live in a way that makes the world a little softer, a little fairer, and a little kinder.

Your life is not only a blessing to those who know you but to many who never will, and that is the highest form of legacy.

Usman Abdullahi Koli wrote via mernoukoli@gmail.com.

By Aisha Musa Auyo

When you can be kind and helpful, do it immediately. Don’t procrastinate or wait for the “right time.” You may not live to see that time, or the person you want to help may not. The point of power is always now.

I’m inspired to share this because two recent incidents made me reflect deeply. One was the death of a close relative, the other, the passing of an acquaintance I only met once but stayed connected with through social media.

In the first incident, an aunt of mine came from another town for her monthly hospital appointment. She usually arrived a day before to avoid being late. That evening, after visiting some relatives, she spotted a shawarma shop and sighed: “Zan so na ci shawarma ko da sau ɗaya ne a rayuwata” (“I would love to taste shawarma at least once in my life”).

My cousin, who was driving, ignored her words and sped past. I pleaded with him to go back, but he insisted the shop was closed and wouldn’t open until 7 p.m., which is true. My aunt looked disappointed.

Later at home, I begged him again to get me shawarma bread so I could prepare it for her. He brushed it off, saying he was tired, and reminded me she’d be leaving early the next morning. “You can always make it for her next month,” he said. But my heart wouldn’t allow me to postpone it.

Eventually, he bought the bread, and I stayed up late preparing the fillings, finishing by midnight. I set my alarm for 4 a.m., woke up, rolled, and grilled the shawarma. By 5 a.m., it was ready. When I handed it to her, she was overjoyed. She couldn’t believe I went to such lengths to fulfil her simple wish. She prayed for me with a smile, and we said our goodbyes.

Later that day, she called to say she had arrived home safely and that my shawarma exceeded her expectations. She even saved some to take home. Though I joked, it must have been cold by then. She prayed again for me before hanging up the phone.

A few days later, she passed away.

I was in shock. Just last week, she was with us, longing for shawarma. I wept, but deep down, I thanked Allah that I didn’t delay. That shawarma became her first and last.

The lesson is clear: never delay an act of kindness. Tomorrow is not promised for you or for them.

Aisha Musa Auyo is a doctoral researcher in Educational Psychology. A wife, a mother, a homemaker, a caterer, a parenting and relationship coach. She can be reached via aishamuauyo@live.co.uk.

By Abubakar Suleiman

“I am sorry, the brain of your child has been insulted.” Those were the words of a friend who is also a medical doctor after reviewing the EEG result of my late daughter, Rahma, three years ago. He continued, “Abubakar, you have a case in your hands, Allah Ya baka ikon cin jarabawa.”

The phrase “brain being insulted” was unfamiliar to me then. I had to start browsing to be sure that the words weren’t what I feared. Alas, it turned out to be what I thought.

Being a twin, Rahma came into the world weak after her twin sister, Rayhana. And she was put in an incubator to resuscitate her. Before the EEG investigation, Rahma had jaundice that was detected when she was just seven days old.

Upon arrival at the pediatric clinic, after her vitals were taken and a series of tests conducted, she was hospitalised. Phototherapy and an exchange blood transfusion were carried out. And that marked the beginning of a pilgrimage, ranging from one consultant paediatrician to another neurologist, then a physiotherapist throughout her 3 years, 2 months and 1 week of existence.

“Hypertonia.” The word a doctor muttered after we were discharged from the hospital drove me to the internet. Slowly, I became an overnight ‘neurologist’ so much so that whenever we find ourselves in the hospital, the doctors were so surprised by how well I understood some medical concepts. Knowing that hypertonia is a form of cerebral palsy sent chills down my spine. What could have led to this? Loss of oxygen during birth? The jaundice that led to the exchange blood transfusion? Abi na all join? إلى الله المشتكى 

Cerebral palsy rendered Rahma almost helpless. She could not sit, talk, walk or fall asleep with ease all her life. She doesn’t eat any kind of food. Feeding her required tact. Nutritionists’ aid was sought. Her neck control was only partial. We could only try to improve her quality of life with therapeutic interventions and the support of a caregiver. 

While her twin sister, Rayhana, was energetic and quickly enrolled in school, Rahma was mostly on controlled drugs to help her sleep. From phenobarbital, clonazepam, phenytoin, diazepam, to all sorts of medications depending on her weight and other medical variables, as noticed by the doctor. Zamzam water and ruqya weren’t exempted.

Her smile and laughter were expensive. But whenever it appeared, it melted hearts. She shared many features of my late Dad. She is hairy and, in many ways, more uniquely beautiful than her siblings. Her ill health exposed me to the limitations of modern medicine, the high level of professionalism of some doctors and nurses, and, of course, the unruly and unprofessional attitude of others. It also made me renegotiate many priorities in life.

Sicknesses like cerebral palsy drain one psychologically and financially. It pushes one to the boundaries of imaan. In the mix of all these were suggestions, positive and negative. I heard whispers that my ‘Izala’ is becoming too much since I am not willing to try some traditional concoctions or so-called Islamic medicine (whatever that means). Again, I am also not given to superstitions. But alhamdulillah for a strong wife who never wavered in giving her best for Rahma and her siblings. Her imaan was unshaken. It was exhausting, but her resolve was steel-like.

To helplessly watch your child in pain or a medical crisis hits differently. It requires imaan, admonition and strong mental stamina. Whenever Rahma convulsed or cried out due to exhilarating pains, aside from Hasbunallahu wa ni’imal wakeel, all I could tell her was: 

‎اصبري يا رحمة فإن موعدك الجنة إن شاء الله. 

“Be patient, Rahma, your final abode is paradise, InshaAllah.” Even though she doesn’t hear me, I find solace in uttering those words.

My family and friends did everything they could to make things easy for me. Not to mention that the emotional, moral,and even financial support from them would amount to being economical with the situation. I was showered with love and admonition during Rahma’s trial and after her death. 

Death. When your time is not up, you will not die. Rahma was hospitalised countless times, so I no longer informed relatives, friends or family. It became a routine. Her medical conditions were sometimes complicated and severe, so I often prepared myself for the announcement of her death when receiving some phone calls. But she bounced back. However, when it was time to depart the world, she bade us farewell peacefully in her sleep. It was indeed a bumpy ride and a heavy trail. Alhamdulillaah.

I am optimistic that Rahma has found peace inshaAllah. I pray Allah grants her Jannatul Firdaus. May Allah comfort all parents with children having special needs.

By Khairat Sulaiman

Globally, across different cultures, parents, especially mothers, are known for their unconditional strength, love, and countless sacrifices. From conception to childbirth to raising a child, mothers make innumerable sacrifices, and while some of these choices may not always be in the best interest of the child, they often stem from a place of love and concern. Yet as time passes, a subtle shift unfolds. The caregiver becomes the one who needs care, particularly in Africa, the Middle East, and Asia, where elderly homes are uncommon.

This partial role reversal is particularly complex when dealing with African mothers, whose identities have long been shaped by cultural values, religious beliefs, and deeply rooted notions of motherhood. To correct, guide, or suggest new ways of thinking often feels like a violation of cultural norms and everything they’ve ever believed in. But the truth is, just as we evolve into different stages of adulthood, our mothers are evolving too. One major transition is menopause.

Many women begin their journey into womanhood with fears, myths and half-truths. Until recently, parents and guardians often shied away from conversations around reproductive health and menstruation. 

The body undergoes a host of changes, from an increase in the size of particular body parts to hormonal fluctuations and emotional rollercoasters. She begins to adapt to this new normal, each month bringing a different experience, all of which she’s expected to bear gracefully and quietly. And as with all things that begin, there must also be an end. The end of menstruation is menopause.

Menopause isn’t just the quiet departure of menstruation. It marks the biological full stop to a woman’s fertility, typically arriving in her late 40s or 50s. Menopause brings hot flashes, mood swings, weight gain, sleep disturbances, hair thinning, memory fog, and a decline in oestrogen levels, which impacts everything from skin elasticity and bone density to a sense of identity. 

In many African societies, where motherhood defines a woman’s value, the end of fertility can feel like “the end of usefulness” or “an expiration date”. It’s an intensely physical, emotional, and psychological shift. Many mothers enter this phase in silence. 

Studies have shown that only a minority of women explicitly discuss menopause with their children, so it remains largely unspoken and unacknowledged, especially in conservative African settings. As a result, few children know how to help their mothers navigate this transition, and understanding these sudden personality changes can be both confusing and painful. It’s also difficult for mothers to acknowledge that they, too, need support.

As the first daughter, my mother’s menopause affected my life as profoundly as it did hers. The mood swings, the tears over seemingly trivial things, the constant irritation, I didn’t know how to manage. So, I misread it as hostility and dislike, and I withdrew. When it was time to choose where I would study, I picked somewhere far away, hoping distance would shield me from what I was too young to understand, but looking back now, I realise how much she must’ve been going through physically, emotionally, and mentally. 

Menopause wasn’t just a phase for my mother; it was a transformation, one that demanded compassion, not avoidance. I wish I had been able to see that then. I wish I had asked more questions, offered more hugs, and stayed present instead of pulling away.

As our parents age and evolve, it is crucial to create a relationship of mutual growth and understanding. It’s essential to lead with empathy rather than confrontation. Her reactions are often shaped by unspoken trauma, generational expectations, and physical changes beyond her control. So, meet her emotions with calm curiosity instead of matching frustration. Preserve her dignity using language that empowers rather than instructs. 

Gently introduce new ideas like therapy, rest, or lifestyle adjustments by sharing relatable stories or easing her in with familiar examples. Bear in mind that these suggestions might not sit well with her, but patience, consistency, and a little diplomacy could work magic. Normalise open conversations about menopause and ageing, just as we would with menstruation, to help her feel less isolated. Above all, women love compliments and support, so continue to affirm her worth beyond her role as a mother; remind her she is still loved, beautiful, needed, and valuable, just as she is.

Khairat can be reached via khairatsuleh@gmail.com.

By Haroon Aremu Abiodun

It all began like any other viral moment on Nigerian social media, but then it took a turn. Popular TikTok sensation Hamzat Habeeb Adelaja, popularly known as Peller, shocked followers recently with a post that seemed almost too generous to be true. He was hiring a cameraman for a monthly salary of ₦500,000. The news spread like wildfire, and in no time, graduates, yes, university graduates, trooped in for interviews, hoping to clinch the role under the young entertainer’s banner.

But beneath the glitz of that social media post lies a stark irony, a brutal reflection of Nigeria’s current socioeconomic reality: a secondary school certificate holder interviewing degree holders for a position in the gig economy. Is this a triumph of hustle over education or a symptom of a failing system?

This scenario has ignited widespread controversy. Should someone with Peller’s academic background employ graduates? Is he flaunting success in a way that undermines the value of formal education? Or is he, in his own unorthodox way, contributing to job creation in a country where unemployment is a ticking time bomb?

Regardless of where you stand, one truth remains: Nigeria’s youths are not only unemployed, they are disillusioned.

But, beneath the glamour, is Peller’s youth the key to his controversial rise? At age 20, can Peller truly shoulder the weight of fame, fortune, and the emotional toll that comes with being in the public eye? Fame is a double-edged sword, and wealth earned in the public space, especially in a country like Nigeria, where social values matter, can either elevate or destroy a brand.

Some have attributed his behaviour to immaturity, a lack of exposure, or poor guidance. Others question the roles played by his management and inner circle. Are they enabling his excesses or helping him stay grounded?

Peller’s youth and maturity seem to be dancing to different tunes at times in sync, at other moments, sharply distinct. While his age brings the energy, creativity, and audacity that fuel his rise, it may also limit the depth of judgment that comes with lived experience. Despite his fame and financial success, one thing remains true: maturity isn’t measured by wealth or followers. 

He may be richer or more popular than his advisers, but that doesn’t make guidance obsolete. In fact, the higher one climbs, the more essential wise counsel becomes. No matter our age or status, we all need mentors, correction, and continued learning because growth, like fame, should never outpace wisdom.

This is not Peller’s first brush with public criticism. During the heated JAMB controversy months ago, he was branded a poor role model. Critics say he misuses his influence. Admirers say he is just being himself. But the question is not just what Peller does, it’s what he represents.

When individuals like Peller become the aspiration of thousands of young people, what message are we sending? That fame, regardless of how it’s earned, trumps knowledge, experience, and decorum?

One might ask, is this a systemic failure or a personal flaw? But the deeper question is this: Can we really blame Peller for being a product of a broken system? Or should we point fingers at the society that created him, a society where education is devalued and unemployment drives graduates to accept roles from entertainers with no formal qualifications?

This is a national dilemma. Young people are no longer looking to engineers, doctors, or scholars as role models. They now look to influencers, many of whom may lack the maturity or training to handle such responsibility.

This isn’t just about Peller; it’s about perception, power, and public influence.

The Brand at Risk: PR Implications

From a public relations perspective, Peller’s every move is now under a magnifying glass. As a brand, his current trajectory presents both opportunity and risk. He is loved by many but also watched with scrutiny by an equal number. His brand power lies in his authenticity, but even that must be managed with intentionality because one viral moment can either grow his brand or ruin it.

In a society where cultural norms still dictate public perception, Peller must understand that his brand isn’t just about content; it’s about conduct. His platform gives him power, and with that comes responsibility.

PR experts warn that failing to manage this carefully could result in brand erosion, reduced partnerships, and a gradual loss of public trust. A sustainable career in entertainment requires more than charisma—it demands discipline.

Beyond the Buzz: What should Peller do? It’s easy to dismiss these concerns as envy or moral policing, but that would be a mistake. Peller is a Nigerian pride, a self-made entertainer who carved a niche and created employment. That in itself is commendable. But with influence comes expectation. With status comes scrutiny.

This article is not to tear Peller down. It is to offer a lens of accountability, reflection, and growth. The same media that celebrates must also question, not out of hate, but out of hope that Nigeria’s influencers will see themselves not just as entertainers, but as leaders in a generation gasping for direction.

Peller can choose to be more. He can use his platform to elevate the values of integrity, hard work, and education, even as he continues to thrive in entertainment. He can show that success does not require disrespect, and that influence is not a license for irresponsibility.

Whether he likes it or not, Peller is not just a content creator. He’s a movement. And movements, when misdirected, can lose their magic or worse, mislead millions.

Final Thought

Peller’s story is still unfolding. He is talented, young, and full of potential. This is not a final verdict, but a cautionary tale. The camera is rolling, the nation is watching.

The real question is: What will Peller do next?

Haroon Aremu Abiodun, An Author, public Affairs Analyst. He wrote in via exponentumera@gmail.com

By Muhammad Umar Shehu

Parental care is slowly disappearing in today’s Nigeria, and the consequences of this are evident. The family used to be the first point of training where values were shaped and morals were taught. Now, many homes are broken by the absence of emotional, physical or financial support. 

Parents are either too busy chasing survival or have surrendered their roles to the internet, peer groups and street culture. And the result is right in front of us. Young people with no sense of direction, crime becoming a normal path, and a country overwhelmed by insecurity.

A child not guided at home is more likely to find purpose in the wrong places. We are now dealing with the consequences of that neglect. From cultism to kidnapping, cyber fraud to political thuggery, we are raising a generation that is desperate, angry and emotionally abandoned. You cannot discuss national security without addressing family failure. Every bandit and every drug addict started as someone’s child.

At the same time, some parents do too much of the wrong kind of parenting. They shelter their kids from reality, provide for everything but discipline nothing and expect the schools to build what they have not started. Some parents no longer listen to their children. They demand excellence without showing concern for mental or emotional well-being. That is why depression is rising among young people. That is why suicide, addiction and social vices keep growing silently.

It is true that we no longer have the strong community system that once helped raise children. But there are still ways to rebuild. The society needs to encourage good parenting by example, not just by words or scolding. We need honest conversations between parents and children. We need schools to include real-life education, not just grades, but responsibility, empathy and values. We need religious and traditional leaders to focus less on miracles and more on morality and family life.

It is easy to blame the government, but even if they build roads and power, we will still collapse as a nation if we do not raise humans with a conscience. No law can replace the love and discipline of a present parent. And no society can grow when its children are lost.

If we want to fix this country, we must go back to our roots. Parents need to be present, not just physically, but also emotionally and morally. Being a parent is not just about giving birth or paying school fees. It is about being a guide, a mentor and a strong emotional backbone. Let us not expect society to raise the children we refused to raise. If the home fails, everything else will.

This country needs healing, and it starts in the family.

Muhammad Umar Shehu wrote from Gombe via umarmuhammadshehu2@gmail.com.

By Lawal Dahiru Mamman

A senior colleague once shared a thought that has stayed with me for years. While discussing the burdens of parenthood, he described how fathers would go to great lengths to provide for their children, often at the expense of their own comfort. 

He explained that for every penny earned, the first question in a father’s mind is, “What do the children need?” That struck a chord. With each passing day, as I grow older, I find myself reflecting on how my father silently sacrificed to ensure our needs were met. 

These memories linger like a background hum in my consciousness. What becomes clearer with time is that we often miss what is right in front of us. We benefit from the comfort, the food, the shelter, the school fees, and the security,without giving much thought to the man behind it all. 

It is the classic case of not seeing the elephant in the room or, as the saying goes, not seeing the wood for the trees. It is no surprise, then, that some people have questioned why there seem to be more songs, poems, and films celebrating mothers than those appreciating fathers. 

While we may lack precise statistics to prove this imbalance, popular culture seems to confirm the observation. From the nursery rhyme “Who sat and watched my infant head…” titled “My Mother,” many of us were introduced to the emotional pull of maternal devotion. 

Over time, several explanations have emerged for this artistic focus. Mothers are often perceived as more emotionally accessible. The mother-child bond, portrayed as warm, nurturing, and unconditional, lends itself easily to emotional expression in music, film, and poetry.

Cultural symbolism also plays a role. Across different societies, mothers are often regarded as the emotional anchors of the family. This perception makes them natural muses for stories about love, sacrifice, and resilience. 

Moreover, many creatives draw from personal experience, with some having been raised primarily by their mothers. And then there is the reality of audience connection — people often relate more universally to stories about mothers. 

All of that said, as we commemorate Father’s Day, it is crucial — now more than ever — to reflect on and appreciate the often-unnoticed contributions that fathers make. While mothers are frequently, and rightly, celebrated for their warmth and care, many fathers quietly go about their roles with little attention or applause.

Providing for the family remains one of the most visible expressions of a father’s love. Fathers work tirelessly to ensure there is food on the table, school fees are paid, and their children live comfortably. As children, we may take these things for granted. 

It is only with maturity that we begin to realise the depth of their commitment. Fathers often do all this without asking for recognition. Their sacrifices are quiet and enduring — a form of love that speaks less and does more. 

This year’s Father’s Day, like those before it, may have come and gone without noise or public fanfare. But even in the silence, we must recognise the strength of men who daily put their families ahead of themselves. They go without, just so we never lack. 

They deny themselves small luxuries so their children can feel seen, equal, and included. That is not just love — it is selflessness in its purest form. Many of us, growing up, may have perceived our fathers as distant or overly strict. 

But now, we realise that those long hours spent away from home, the constant budgeting, the unspoken worries — they were all signs of a love that often hid behind responsibility. Fathers may not always wear their emotions on their sleeves, but their love is steadfast and deep.

Times have changed, and we now see more women contributing financially to their homes, a development that deserves celebration. Still, it is important not to diminish the sacrifices and emotional labour of fathers. This is not a contest about who does more. 

Instead, it is a moment to reflect on all that fathers do — without complaint, without applause, and often without being asked. If there is such a thing as an unsung hero, the average father fits that description. They show up. 

They stay. They build. And they keep going. So, to every father, stepfather, guardian, and father figure — thank you. Thank you for your sacrifices. Thank you for the quiet strength you bring into our lives. 

Thank you for the roads you walk, so that we can dream. You are the solid foundations upon which we rise. May your love, sacrifice, and strength never go unnoticed again.

Lawal Dahiru Mamman writes from Abuja and can be reached via: dahirulawal90@gmail.com.

By Saifullahi Attahir

In life, every valuable thing has a cost, and a price must be paid. As the saying goes, nothing good comes free. This is true in almost all walks of life.

Looking at human history from time immemorial, man has always cherished being known, popular, heard, and respected. This is one of the powerful factors behind the human search for power, influence and riches. And to be fair to the modern age, this is not a new thing in human history.

But in our insatiable search for popularity and prestige, we must be mindful of what we are trading in exchange for. This article offers some advice on how a celebrity can navigate life without much temptation from his newly acquired status.

As billionaire Microsoft founder Bill Gates stated, success is a lousy friend. It deprives many of the original energy, enthusiasm, discipline, hard-working spirit, and humility that catapulted them to success in the first place. Successful people easily become complacent and trapped in their orbit of self-entitlement.

Once a man becomes successful, a binge of arrogance and self-entitlement starts appearing. He begins to stop listening to experts, observing and learning, and soon, he stops improving. Over the long run, unknown to him, those attitudes he had abandoned are the fabric behind his success. 

One thing we should all know: every man who was on a path to utilise his talent, produce something magnificent, and become successful, whether in sports, leadership, business, entertainment, professionalism, music, writing, or any creative talent, must have met with a bunch of critics.

From the day you become a celebrity, your activities will no longer be secret: your outfits, marital affairs, social life, assets, family, and movements. You will bid farewell to some level of privacy, and life will never be the same again. 

Many people are not prepared for this stage of their lives. Many great men, especially celebrities, were lost in this ocean of deception and falsehood. You would now focus more on pleasing people: good outfits, even at the cost of debt, new skin, costly living just to show off, and new fake friends.

On another dimension, the kind of social pressure met is unimaginable: constant calls, constant meetings, constant online presence, just to satisfy your fans or followers. This demand is so consuming that many celebrities hardly cope with it. Stories of celebrities taking drugs and injections are not a new thing. Few celebrities sleep without the aid of pills. Many celebrities lost the battle to alcohol and toxic heroin and were unable to find peace. 

A popular Hausa songwriter, Aminuddeen Ladan Ala, once described how difficult it was to become a celebrity in his famous album “Shahara”. Only phone calls were enough to drain your energy, plus the number of expectations by loved ones seeking your attention. Many celebrities would become friends with highly influential people whose offers they can’t easily turn down. You would be invited at any hour without much consideration for your schedules and health, and turning such invitations down would be described as arrogant to your fans and followers.

This is more common among those who made it in life at a very young age. The majority of these young celebrities squander their fortune. They return to square zero without proper guidance, discipline or genuine counselling. Many celebrities become depressed, psychotic, and destitute.

Well-grounded and sustainable success requires a solid foundation of time, perseverance, and smart decisions. Unfortunately, many celebrities, especially in the music, sports, and entertainment industries, lack such foundations, hence the many sorrowful celebrity stories. Uncountable stories of suicide, crime, divorce, and bankruptcy are always in the papers.

Although I’m not much of a football fan, I always admire the lifestyle of one player called Lionel Messi. Messi was among the greatest and most successful football players of all time, a record breaker in many aspects, but still one of the most humble people on earth. Lionel Messi has all it takes to be arrogant and showy, but he was disciplined enough to maintain his zeal, energy, humility, and enthusiasm. This principle has helped him throughout his football career. He didn’t allow his initial success to distract him from achieving more. 

This attitude of self-entitlement has destroyed many players. Just after a season or two of trophies and achievements, they began to disobey, fight, and become distracted by amusement and glitter. Many celebrities started to lose focus on their primary goals; they became carried away by displaying their newly built homes, newly bought luxury cars, newly made friends, or newly made beautiful girlfriends.

These celebrities become attention seekers on social media platforms. They always engage in trivial issues and display wealth or status, adding to their load of enemies. They have forgotten that their primary goal was to hone more of their talents, score more goals, produce more beautiful songs, deliver more as leaders, maintain their positions in class, and profit more as business individuals.

Another destructive attitude of some celebrities was engaging in a competitive war with their rival colleagues. After being recognised by their followers, they began to install software to envy anyone trying to catch up with them. They subscribed to slander and a war of words to denigrate their rivals to maintain their status. Smart champions never engage in such an attitude; they recognise their God-given talent as a favour from their Lord and offer gratefulness by being humble and respecting their positions even if time changes and they lose their status to the new generation.

Smart celebrities respect others below them; they never act in desperation for money or status; they are philanthropists with their wealth; they are less pompous and showy; they invest and diversify their sources of income; they still make time for their families and core friends; and they always have learning minds and listening ears.

We seek Allah’s guidance in every step of our journey, Ameen.

Saifullahi Attahir is the President of the National Association of Jigawa State Medical Students (NAJIMS) National Body, and he wrote this piece from Federal University Dutse. He can be contacted via saifullahiattahir93@gmail.com.