Muslims

By Abdulhamid Abdullahi Aliyu

Recent signals from Washington suggest a growing impatience with Nigeria’s internal complexities, especially as they relate to religion, security, and political leadership. At the centre of this emerging posture is a troubling tendency to compress Nigeria’s layered crises into externally convenient labels—labels that risk doing more harm than good.

One of the clearest flashpoints in this evolving narrative is the renewed attention to former Kano State governor Rabiu Musa Kwankwaso. His name, along with those of Fulani-affiliated organisations and, by implication, Nigeria’s Muslim political class, has begun to feature in American policy conversations framed around religious freedom and accountability. What appears, at first glance, as principled concern deserves closer scrutiny.

Nigeria’s security breakdown is undeniable. Insurgency, banditry, farmer–herder violence, and organised criminal networks have torn through communities across the country. But these tragedies have never respected religious boundaries. Muslims and Christians, northerners and southerners, rural farmers and urban traders have all paid the price. To reframe this national trauma primarily as a story of religious persecution is to flatten reality into something politically useful but analytically false.

This framing did not emerge organically. It has been cultivated through persistent lobbying, selective reporting, and advocacy-driven briefs circulated within Western policy and faith-based circles. Many of these narratives rely on contested data sets and ideologically motivated interpretations that have been challenged by journalists and security analysts familiar with Nigeria’s terrain. Yet repetition has given them traction.

Under Donald Trump, the United States has shown a greater willingness to convert these narratives into policy instruments. Nigeria’s earlier designation as a “Country of Particular Concern” over alleged religious persecution, and the signals accompanying its reconsideration, reinforced the impression that Washington had settled on a moral script that leaves little room for nuance.

What is especially alarming is how this posture now intersects with Nigeria’s domestic political timeline. The proposal of punitive measures against figures like Kwankwaso—who has no public record of religious extremism—raises uncomfortable questions about motive and timing. Sanctions, visa restrictions, or terror designations do not occur in a vacuum; they shape reputations, constrain political options, and influence electoral perceptions.

Even more dangerous is the elastic use of terms such as “Fulani militia.” The Fulani are not a monolith, nor are they a security organisation. They are a vast, diverse population spread across West and Central Africa, encompassing professionals, farmers, scholars, politicians, and pastoralists. To collapse this diversity into a security label is not accountability—it is ethnic profiling with far-reaching consequences.

Those who defend this approach often argue that allowing clerics or religiously identified politicians into democratic space risks sanctifying power. That concern is not without merit. In plural societies, when political authority borrows the language of divine legitimacy, dissent can be recast as moral deviance. But that argument cuts both ways. External actors who cloak geopolitical interests in moral absolutism risk exporting the very instability they claim to oppose.

Nigeria’s democracy, imperfect as it is, rests on pluralism, negotiation, and the acceptance of politics as a human—rather than sacred—enterprise. When foreign policy instruments treat Nigerian political actors as symbols in a global religious drama, they undermine this fragile equilibrium. Worse still, they embolden local extremists who thrive on polarisation and grievance.

None of this is to argue against international engagement or concern for human rights. On the contrary, Nigeria benefits from cooperation with partners such as the United States in intelligence sharing, capacity building, and counterterrorism. But partnership must be grounded in evidence, context, and restraint—not in sweeping classifications shaped by advocacy pressure or domestic American politics.

If Washington’s objective is stability in West Africa, then the path forward lies in engagement rather than labelling, dialogue rather than designation. Nigeria’s challenges are internal, complex, and deeply rooted. They cannot be solved by reducing political figures to caricatures or entire communities to security threats.

Kwankwaso’s politics, like that of any public figure, should be judged by Nigerians through debate, scrutiny, and the ballot. External political labelling, however well-intentioned, risks distorting that process and deepening divisions within an already strained federation.

In the end, what Nigeria requires from its partners is not moral theatre but sober cooperation. Fairness, evidence, and respect for internal democratic processes remain the only sustainable foundations for international engagement.

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

By Abdulhamid Abdullahi Aliyu

A Hausa proverb warns that you cannot run at full speed while scratching an itch. The saying captures, with striking simplicity, the dilemma now surrounding Sheikh Isa Ali Pantami as conversations about his political ambitions gain momentum.

Public life demands clarity of role and consistency of purpose. When an individual seeks to occupy two morally and structurally conflicting spaces simultaneously, momentum is lost, and credibility is strained. This is the core tension in Pantami’s current trajectory: the attempt to remain a preacher with clerical authority while simultaneously stepping into partisan politics.

The problem is not ambition itself. It is role conflict. Clerical authority depends on moral certainty and spiritual distance from power, while politics thrives on negotiation, compromise, and moral ambiguity. Attempting to inhabit both worlds simultaneously risks weakening the integrity of each.

This tension becomes even more consequential in a plural society like Nigeria, where religion carries deep emotional authority and political power must remain anchored in constitutional legitimacy. Once religious influence is injected into partisan competition, power risks acquiring a sacred character. Political disagreement can then be reframed, subtly or overtly, as moral failure or spiritual deviation rather than a contest of ideas and interests.

Some have argued, including respected commentators like Jaafar Jaafar, that religious clerics should avoid politics altogether because political space is inherently compromised by bargaining, corruption and ethical trade-offs. Others counter with a seemingly reasonable question: if the aim is to sanitise politics, why not allow upright clerics like Pantami to participate?

That question, however, misunderstands the core concern. The issue is not whether a cleric is personally virtuous. It is about the separation of religion and the state. Democracy relies on pluralism, persuasion and accountability. When religious authority enters partisan politics, votes may be influenced not by policy debate, but by guilt, fear, or claims of divine sanction. That is a dangerous precedent in any diverse society.

The concern deepens when the individual seeking political office has, in the past, described politics itself as immoral or ungodly. Such a record invites legitimate questions of coherence. Has politics suddenly become virtuous, or has it merely become useful? Citizens are entitled to ask not out of prejudice, but out of democratic caution.

More troubling still are historical associations with ideological currents that have openly viewed democratic participation not as a means of strengthening institutions, but as a strategy to hollow them out from within — the well-known shiga daga ciki a gyara argument. In societies that have suffered from extremism and institutional fragility, such histories cannot be brushed aside or dismissed as irrelevant.

None of this is about excluding religion from public life. Faith has always shaped values, ethics and social responsibility in Nigeria. But there is a difference between moral inspiration and political authority. When religion becomes a substitute for constitutional legitimacy, the democratic project itself is weakened.

Politics, by its nature, is a flawed human enterprise. It requires compromise, negotiation and accountability to citizens, not to spiritual hierarchies. Clerical authority, on the other hand, rests on moral clarity and trust. Mixing the two without a clear break risks eroding both.

If Professor Pantami intends to pursue politics, the burden before him is not merely electoral. It is moral and institutional. He must offer clarity, openly reckon with past positions, and demonstrate consistency over time. Nigerians are not asking for perfection. They are asking for coherence.

In the end, democracy survives not on sacred claims, but on transparent choices, accountable leadership and the acceptance that political authority derives from citizens, not sanctity. That distinction must remain clear — for the sake of both faith and the republic.

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

By Shamwil (Justice)

It all began in Sabon Gari Market, Kano, inside our small but busy pharmaceutical shop, Kuka Medicals. That afternoon was bright and dusty, filled with the usual noise of traders calling out prices and customers bargaining for goods. 

I was behind the counter, arranging boxes of medicines, when she walked in, Christiana. I never imagined that moment would change the rest of my life. She was dressed simply, yet there was something about her that captured attention instantly. Her presence was calm, graceful, and confident. 

When our manager called me to write her sales invoice, I didn’t think much of it. But as I wrote her name on the receipt and looked up, our eyes met for the first time. A strange spark passed between us, silent yet powerful, one that words could never describe.

“What’s your name?” she asked softly. “Shamwil”, I answered. Her voice was clear and warm, the kind that stays in your mind long after you’ve heard it. I told her, and she repeated it slowly, as if she wanted to remember it forever. Then I asked for hers, and she said, “Christiana.” The name itself felt like poetry when she said it.

We spoke briefly about medicines, antibiotics, syrups, and how counterfeit drugs were becoming a problem in the market. I was amazed by how much she knew. She talked with the precision of a trained pharmacist, mentioning drug names, compositions, and even the companies that produced them. Our manager watched her with admiration, nodding in respect. That day, I realised she was not only beautiful but also incredibly brilliant.

When she finished shopping, she smiled, waved at me, and left. That simple wave stayed with me for days. Her scent lingered in the air, soft, pure, and unforgettable. That night, I found myself thinking about her voice and the calm expression in her eyes. I didn’t realise then, but a new chapter of my life had just begun.

Weeks passed before I heard from her again. One evening, my phone rang with an unknown number. I picked it up, and there it was, that same gentle voice. “You didn’t expect me to call, did you?” she said, laughing softly. That first call lasted for hours. From that day on, Christiana became a part of my daily life. We talked every day, laughed together, and shared stories that slowly tied our hearts closer. What began as a friendship soon turned into real, deep, and pure love.

Christiana was unlike anyone I had ever known. She had a beauty that didn’t depend on makeup and a confidence that didn’t need pride. Her skin was smooth and glowing, her height perfect, her movements graceful like flowing water. Her voice was calm and musical, and her pointed nose gave her face an angelic glow. Everything about her was elegant and natural. She was the kind of woman who didn’t need to try to be special; she simply was.

Our love grew stronger with each passing day. We called each other every morning and night, exchanged sweet messages, and dreamed about the future. Sometimes she visited me at the shop, bringing food or simply sitting beside me while we talked about life. Time always flew whenever she was around. She made everything around me feel peaceful and alive.

But love, as beautiful as it was, came with its battles. When her parents found out about us, their reaction was harsh and painful. To them, I was not good enough. I was a poor Hausa Muslim boy, and she was their only daughter, an Igbo Christian from a wealthy family. They couldn’t accept our love. They called her names, scolded her, and forbade her from seeing me again. Yet Christiana refused to give up. She told them love has no tribe, no religion, and no boundary. Her father stopped speaking to her for months, but she remained strong, fearless, and loyal.

Christiana’s love was the purest I’d ever known. She cared for me when I was sick, worried whenever I didn’t answer her calls, and even risked sneaking out at night just to see me for a few minutes. We would stroll quietly under the streetlights of Sabon Gari, talking about our dreams, the home we’d build, the children we’d raise, and the life we’d live together. I believed we had forever. I believed nothing could come between us. But life has a way of breaking even the strongest hearts. 

I never thought Christiana could die for my love. The news came like thunder in a clear sky. Death took her suddenly, without warning, without mercy. The moment I heard it, I felt something inside me collapse. The world went silent. My hands went cold. I couldn’t breathe. The love of my life was gone, just like that.

Even now, I can still hear her laughter in my mind, smell her perfume in the air, and see her smile in my dreams. Sometimes, I wake up in the middle of the night thinking she’s still alive, that she’ll call, that she’ll visit, that I’ll see her walk through the shop door again. But every morning reminds me that she is gone, forever.

Christiana didn’t just leave me; she took a part of me with her. She left behind love, memories, and silence, the kind of silence that breaks a man from the inside. Love can be the sweetest thing on earth, but it can also be the most painful. Christiana was both my blessing and my heartbreak. She was the light that entered my life, and the darkness that refused to leave when she passed away! 

I will never stop speaking and penning about you, Christiana. History will be so kind to you!  

Shamwil (Justice) wrote via ibrahimshamawilu@gmail.com.

By Abubakar Idris 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

By Isyaka Laminu Badamasi

As Muslims, we are encouraged to support the vulnerable among us during the holy month of Ramadan, as acts of charity during this sacred period are multiplied in reward. Ramadan is a time devoted to ibadah (worship), compassion, and the pursuit of spiritual salvation. Both the Qur’an and the Hadith emphasise the importance of helping those in need, particularly during this blessed month.

Zakat, by its very concept, is an Islamic strategy for poverty alleviation and empowerment. It is designed to enhance economic well-being, improve livelihoods, significantly reduce the number of people living in poverty, and strategically increase the number of economically independent individuals. If this divine system is fully adopted and properly incorporated into our socio-economic structures, it can pave the way for a more prosperous, stable, and secure society. This principle is well supported by Islamic teachings, and more information can be obtained from the Zakat and Endowment Units within Shariah Commissions across Muslim-majority states.

As an observer—and someone who has had the opportunity to relate and work with people who serve as members of committees distributing Ramadan palliatives, Sadaqat, Zakat and other palliative programs —a thought often comes to mind during these exercises. The distribution packages usually target vulnerable individuals such as orphans, widows, persons with disabilities, the elderly, internally displaced persons, and those struggling to survive amid the multidimensional poverty affecting many communities in this part of the world.

While this gesture is noble and commendable, I strongly believe that some of these beneficiaries, with the right support, could become economically self-reliant and eventually leave the long queues for palliative collections—queues that, in some unfortunate cases, have even led to injuries or deaths. We can all remember the stampedes during palliative distributions across the country. 

Considering the hundreds of millions, or even billions, of Naira spent annually on Ramadan palliatives by wealthy individuals, corporate organisations, politicians, and governments — which is commendable and should be sustained — it may be worthwhile to redirect part of these resources, or allocate a specific portion toward empowerment initiatives.

For example, a modest sum of N10,000 or N20,000 can be enough to help some women start small income-generating activities. Interestingly, many of the food packages distributed during Ramadan or other palliative programs are often worth more than that amount. (I am not referring to those sharing cooked food or smaller packages) If such resources or separate allocation were converted into empowerment opportunities, they could promote sustainable development rather than temporary relief through the routine distribution of food items. Many professional entrepreneurs and social workers can attest to the long-term benefits of such an approach.

At Initiatives for Sustainable Development (I4SD), we are preparing to pilot this strategy by supporting a small group of vulnerable women through green-skills economic empowerment programs. Our aim is to create a practical model that Governments, philanthropists, corporate organisations, NGOs, and well-meaning individuals can replicate. We welcome professional support, partnerships, and collaboration to help actualise this vision for a more sustainable future—one filled with dignity, happiness, and social tranquillity.

ALLAH YA karbi ibadun mu, amin.

Isyaka Laminu Badamasi wrote via makwalla82@gmail.com.

By Hadiza Abdulkadir

The Kano State Hisbah Board has concluded arrangements to commence enforcement against female passengers who sit beside male tricycle drivers in Kano State, in a move it says is aimed at promoting morality in society.

In a statement issued by its Director of Public Enlightenment, Auwalu Ado Sheshe, the Board said the operation would be carried out in collaboration with associations of tricycle riders and owners across the state.

The directive specifically targets situations where women ride in close proximity to drivers who are not their maharams while using commercial tricycles, popularly known as Adaidaita Sahu. The Board described the measure as part of efforts to sanitize the transport sector and prevent actions that could attract the displeasure of Allah (SWT).

It called on all tricycle operators to comply with the new regulation to avoid sanctions, warning that enforcement would begin imminently.

Female passengers were also urged to adhere to the directive, which the Board said is intended to safeguard their dignity and that of their families.

The Hisbah Board reaffirmed its commitment to ensuring a morally upright society guided by Islamic teachings, stressing that it is fully prepared to enforce the measure across the state.

By Balkisu Aminu Aliyu

Ramadan is the ninth month of the Islamic Calendar, a sacred month during which the Quran was revealed, a time of spiritual reflection, purification, and heightened devotion.

A month of abundant blessings, forgiveness, and a strengthening of faith. Across the Muslim world, Ramadan is marked by fasting from dawn to sunset, intensified prayers, and acts of charity. It is a pillar of Islam that teaches patience, gratitude, and empathy. 

It is a time to purify the heart, practice self-discipline and strengthen one’s relationship with the Almighty. However, conversation is less about spiritual abundance and more about stark scarcity and low income.

2026 Ramadan is one of the upcoming Ramadans, while the prices of some essential commodities are falling in some parts of the country; however, many less privileged people are struggling to manage Ramadan due to low income.

“Some people can no longer take full responsibility for their families,” confides a 45-year-old woman in Gidan Sanda area of Sokoto, who asked to remain anonymous, her voice tinged with worry. “Most husbands are struggling financially because of the high level of poverty. This could stop them from providing enough food, especially during sahur and iftar.”

Her lament echoes in the words of Abu Musa, a motorcycle rider whose concern stretches beyond the fast itself to the Eid al-Fitr celebration that follows. “I don’t think I can feed my children properly, even though food prices have dropped from last year. I have no resources to meet their needs. How can I buy them new clothes for Eid?” he asks, his question hanging heavily in the air.

For families like his, Ramadan’s twin pressures, sufficient nourishment for fasting and the social expectations of Eid, feel like an immense weight.

The crisis is both urban and rural. Aliyu Kabir, a young man from the area, expressed, “People all over the town and villages are battling extreme poverty.”

This deprivation carries a deep social sting. Community reports suggest that countless parents cannot afford proper clothing for their children. In a season of communal gatherings and celebration, this need can lead to shame and embarrassment for young ones, who may mistakenly feel neglected by their parents, not understanding that poverty itself is the barrier.

At his roadside mechanic workshop along Abdullahi Fodiyo road, Malam Husaini watches the traffic of life go by, his hope pinned on a simple prayer. “It’s tradition for food prices to shoot up during Ramadan,” he observes, “We are praying to Allah to ease the condition for us.” His fear is common: that any market gains will be erased by the annual Ramadan price surge, pushing basic staples out of reach.

Amid this apprehension, the timeless teachings of Islam offer both a critique and a solution. A Hadith narrated by Abu Huraira is profoundly relevant: the Prophet Muhammad (SAW) said, “Whoever feeds a fasting person will have a reward like that of the person who observed the fast, without decreasing the reward of the latter.”

This principle transforms Ramadan from a private act of worship into a powerful societal covenant. It is a sacred month in which the fortunate’s empathy must translate into sustenance for the struggling. Assisting the needy is not just charity; it is a spiritual investment, a purification of wealth, and a direct conduit to divine mercy.

Therefore, as the 2026 Ramadan approaches, the call from Sokoto’s backstreets is clear. It is a call for the wealthy, business owners, and those in positions of power, including government and political office holders, to remember the core communal spirit of this holy time. To do more. To support the vulnerable not as an afterthought, but as a central, highly recommended act of faith.

For in the end, the true test of this Ramadan may not only be in the stomachs that remain empty but in the hands that remain closed. The blessings of the month are abundant, but they are meant to be shared, ensuring that every believer, rich or poor, can turn their heart toward the divine without the crushing distraction of hunger or shame.

By Abdullahi Abubakar Lamido

This week marks a historic milestone for Islamic social finance in Nigeria. For the first time, the Association of Zakat and Waqf Operators in Nigeria (AZAWON) has declared a National Zakat and Waqf Week, running from January 30th to the following weekend. Across the country, more than 70 member organisations are participating through various programmes. The goal is simple but urgent: to educate, enlighten, and reawaken Muslims to the power and relevance of zakat and waqf in today’s world.

In Gombe State, the Zakah and Waqf Foundation is leading a series of activities during the week, including khutbahs, public lectures, zakat disbursement programmes, advocacy visits, and radio and television engagements. One of the key events was an invited guest Friday khutbah I delivered at Fuad Lababidi Mosque, carrying a message many communities desperately need to hear: that zakat and waqf are not just religious rituals but economic systems designed to build strong, self-reliant societies.

A central theme of the sermon was that Islam does not accept poverty as destiny, nor hunger as a permanent condition. Allah says, “Take from their wealth a charity by which you purify them and cause them to grow” (Qur’an 9:103), and He reminds us, “The example of those who spend their wealth in the way of Allah is like a seed that grows seven ears; in every ear are a hundred grains” (Qur’an 2:261). 

The verses above show that giving in Islam is not a loss but rather a source of growth, purification, and multiplication. Islam built a community where the wealthy bear responsibility for the vulnerable, the strong uplift the weak, and wealth circulates rather than remaining locked in a few hands. Two of the greatest tools for achieving this are zakat and waqf.

Many people today see zakat only as short-term relief — food packs, cash support, or emergency help. While these are important, zakat in its full vision is far greater. It is a poverty-reduction system, a wealth-redistribution mechanism, and a tool for economic empowerment. When properly managed, zakat can fund small businesses for the poor, provide tools and equipment for tradespeople, support education and skill development, and help recipients become earners. In other words, zakat is meant to move people from dependency to productivity. 

Globally, experts estimate that billions of dollars in zakat are paid annually by Muslims, and if organised professionally and invested productively, this wealth could significantly reduce poverty across the Muslim world.

If zakat is the fuel of social protection, waqf is the engine of long-term development. Waqf, or Islamic endowment, is a form of continuous charity where an asset is dedicated for the sake of Allah and its benefits are used for the public good. Historically, waqf funded universities and schools, hospitals and clinics, roads, bridges, and water systems, orphan care and social welfare, as well as libraries and centres of knowledge. 

For centuries, Muslim civilisation ran on waqf. In places like the Ottoman Empire, vast portions of public services, including education and healthcare, were financed through endowments rather than government budgets. In many classical Muslim cities, it was possible for a person to be born in a waqf-supported hospital, educated in a waqf-funded school, work in a waqf-funded market, and even be buried using waqf land — all without costing the state.

The Nigerian reality today presents serious challenges: youth unemployment, underfunded schools, poor healthcare access, and widespread poverty. Yet Islam has already placed in our hands the tools to respond. The khutbah stressed that we must stop seeing development as the government’s responsibility alone. Islamic civilisation flourished not only because of governments but also because of community-driven institutions like zakat and waqf.

The message echoed across the nation. In Abuja, Alhabibiyyah Islamic Society, through its Zakat and Waqf Unit, organised a major programme to mark its 5th Zakat and Waqf Day and the 15th Public Zakat Disbursement on 31st January 2026. The event drew national attention, with the National Chairman of AZAWON, Malam Muhammad Lawal Maidoki (represented by Honourable Balarabe Shehu Kakale), delivering the keynote address. A high-level panel discussion followed on the theme “Zakat, Waqf and the New Tax Regime,” where I served as a panellist alongside Taiwo Oyedele, Chairman of the Presidential Fiscal Policy and Tax Reforms Committee (represented), Hajiya Adama of Al-Ikhlas Waqf Trust, Borno, and Barrister Dele Oye, Founder of Dele Oye & Associates. My contribution once again emphasised the strategic developmental and civilisational roles of zakat and waqf, highlighting practical ways these instruments can be used to address our numerous socioeconomic challenges in a structured, sustainable manner.

The implications are clear. Zakat institutions must move toward professional management, proper data systems, and empowerment-based programmes that help beneficiaries start businesses and become self-reliant. Waqf must also evolve beyond its limited perception. Instead of restricting waqf to graveyards and mosques, communities can establish rental properties, shopping complexes, farms and orchards, schools, and clinics with income-generating arms. The profits can then fund education, healthcare, scholarships, and social welfare on a permanent basis. Families can dedicate houses or land as waqf, mosques can initiate community waqf projects, businesspeople can create corporate waqf funds, and professionals can contribute their expertise in management and governance.

The National Zakat and Waqf Week is therefore more than a ceremonial event; it is a wake-up call. If Muslims in Nigeria pay zakat correctly and channel it productively, establish and manage waqf professionally, and build partnerships between scholars, business leaders, and experts, then by Allah’s permission, we can see reduced poverty, more jobs for youth, better schools and hospitals, and stronger, more dignified communities. 

The revival of zakat and waqf is not just about charity; it is a strategy for economic revival and social stability. As emphasised in the khutbah and in the Abuja panel discussion, empowering the Muslim community will not happen through speeches alone, but through planning, management, transparency, and trust. The tools are already in our hands. The question is whether we will use them.

Amir Lamido, PhD, wrote from Abuja, Nigeria. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

Reviewed by

Rexford Asamoah Adu

radu@smail.uni-koeln.de

By Professor Abdussamad Umar Jibia

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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