Northern Nigeria

By Abubakar Muhammad

Crime is a prominent feature of the city. The mitigation of crime and other social vices is a responsibility that falls not only on the government. The health of society is a responsibility that spans multiple dimensions, from authorities with direct power to families and residents of the community as a whole. The social health of the city is also the work of architects and planners. 

Physical planning is an important factor in influencing the social health of society and its inhabitants. Respected voices in urban planning note how a great urban environment, in terms of design and social services, can enhance people’s quality of life and foster a sense of community. In this piece, I set out to use Zauren Mallam Aminu Kano as a social repair tool and a planning theory for combating crime and other social ills in our society. 

We have recently heard the gruesome murder of an entire family in Kano, first in Tudun Yola and then in Ɗorayi, by the same alleged criminals. Cities are characterised by petty and violent crimes. The job of residents and governments is to implement policies that prevent crime to ensure the safety of inhabitants and the prosperity of the city. Sustainable urbanism involves governments at various levels, as well as city residents. 

I was particularly happy weeks ago when I learned that communities around Dala have mobilised to construct a police station around Kuka Bulukiya cemetery to combat persistent phone snatching that has cost countless lives of innocent passersby. The idea of constructing security outposts in crime hotspots has been a productive strategy for combating crime. It is not only about fighting crime; it also replaces crime with security and constant human presence and activity. It not only prevents crime and protects lives but also brings life and economic activity to beleaguered areas.

My friend once took me to an area of the ancient city to pay my condolences. It was a long time ago I cannot remember the name of the neighbourhood. Those who know Kano intimately can piece together snippets from my narration to figure out the area. I can vaguely say that the area was around Mandawari, Yar Mai-Shinkafi, Gyaranya, Baƙin Ruwa, or Gwauran Dutse. We walked through the alleys after the condolence and appeared at the Aminu Kano Way. 

The neighbourhood has a shelter christened Zauren Mallam Aminu Kano. It is an open pavilion in the heart of the neighbourhood. I was intrigued not only by the discovery but also by the place’s name and social function. This was the first time I had ever heard of the place, or any shelter named Zauren Mallam Aminu Kano in the city. I began to think about the connection between the place and the famed radical politician. 

I did not ask the naming history behind the shelter, but my imagination wagered that this must be the spot where Mallam Aminu Kano hung out with friends and conducted his public life. It must be the local context where he started his political career, a gathering place for the nightly schooling and political organising. My guess was supported by my assumption that the place is located within the ancient city, and not far from his initial dwelling at the Aisami/Sani Mainagge axis. I was intrigued by the place for its great potential to build a community.

The Zauren Mallam Aminu Kano is a mini square and public space for the community. It enables the residents to perform social and religious functions. Residents of the neighbourhood, particularly the elderly and retirees, use the pavilion to hang out. The community uses the open space to perform the funeral salat for the deceased. The main street around the space serves as a collector road, receiving people from nearby alleys and neighbourhoods. Thus, the open space becomes vibrant with life. Residents and visitors use the space to park their vehicles. Around the square, activities sprang up: informal people, vendors, and small entrepreneurs set up stalls offering services, various wares, delicacies like tsire and awara, and other household items that cater to the neighbourhood’s hospitality and social needs. The shelter becomes a living room of the community. My reading is that Zauren Mallam Aminu Kano is an open space that allows residents to do things that they cannot perform in the narrow alleys of their neighbourhood.

Part II

For this reason, Zauren Mallam Aminu Kano stays with me. I want to suggest an expanded version of this space be built in as many places as possible in the ancient city, its suburbs and major towns across the state. This is based on key spatial ideas for sociability and security of communities and neighbourhoods. 

Ancient cities like Kano had been built around their traditional institutions. The city spread out from the Emir’s Palace, surrounded by other civic buildings such as the court and the central mosque, which eventually formed the city centre. Spreading in a radial pattern, subsequent expansions and settlements of the city and major towns followed the same tradition. All roads lead to the city centre. And the civic centre, or city centre, is almost always located in the vicinity of the traditional ruler’s dwelling. Outside the city, the Maigari’s or Dagaci’s house sat at the centre of the settlements.

The best location for the Zauren Mallam Aminu Kano is to look for the ugliest and most dangerous part of the neighbourhood and tear it down to create a large enough open space to build the shelter. This place should be the heartbeat of the area by consolidating basic services in one building: a small local clinic, a school, a library, administrative offices for Mai-unguwa, Dagaci, and security agents, and a conference room for important community meetings and non-partisan civic engagements.

A strong civic component and social life are essential. The idea is to overwhelm crime, blight and unsightly facades. The building can serve as a venue for adult literacy classes, mass education and public orientation centres for social mobilisation and political awareness. As a multipurpose building, the place can host activities such as elections, immunisation campaigns, skills and personal development training for local youth. 

A mosque can be located close to the shelter. Around the mosque, the elderly sit, dine, and eat. It is where they enjoy calm, festive hours by day and night. Zauren Mallam Aminu Kano should be the agora and living room of the community. Clusters of civic buildings, residential and commercial uses can create sociability. This is not new; it is something that needs to be consciously improved upon existing traditions. Several Hausa villages have a santa or tsakar gari, which serves mixed purposes and brings people together. Since the shelter is located near the mosque, it should also serve as an open space for conducting funeral prayers. Commercial activities can be encouraged around the area to provide a more vibrant economic life. In Kano city, many neighbourhoods have ƴar kasuwa within walking distance, allowing residents to make purchases for their daily needs. 

The small clinic located in the centre should offer first-aid services and cater to the health needs of the most vulnerable. It should deliver basic drugs and inexpensive medications, medical advice and other services that might not require a trip to the hospital. Local people with training in medical fields can volunteer to operate the place. They can also request NYSC corps members to be posted there. Funding can come from donations from wealthy residents of the community. People who have retired from active service in various walks of life can participate. Skilled individuals can also ask to set up offices and contribute their services to the community. Community services can serve as a clear benchmark for future political leaders. People can see what potential representatives have contributed to their local communities before they enter politics – what they have done for the people before asking for their votes.  

It would not be a bad idea to allow car owners to park their vehicles in and around the shelter. Community-owned assets, such as donated vehicles for transporting the deceased, a power transformer, and water sources like a borehole, can be sited there. The underlying assumption is that communities would actively work to protect their assets and improve their neighborhood. Their commitment or otherwise to safeguarding their assets is clear proof of their collective responsibility, leadership, accountability and readiness for sustainable development. 

The idea is to use Zauren Mallam Aminu Kano to make the targeted area active and vibrant with human activity. The dwelling of the traditional ruler should be sited there to continue to facilitate administrative functions and liaison with various levels of governments for record-keeping, issuing birth certificates and documents, and other civic engagements. The closest idea to this is Ofishin Wakili, which can be upgraded where they already exist. If built with magnificent architecture, places like this can become historic sites that represent the community and its traditions.  

The building should house an office for joint security agencies, including the police and Hisbah. This is where disputes will first be reported. It will enhance coordination and timely reporting of suspicious activities to support early crime prevention. Emphasis is placed on civil matters and on preventing violent crimes. The activities and involvement of the security should be largely civil and minimal. The point is to increase safety through informal supervision. Security agents, the elderly, and small business operators are public figures who keep an eye on the neighbourhood. Retirees and the elderly also fill the void and silence when others are at work or school. They can alert parents – and the security agents – to what is happening in the neighbourhood. Sustainable urbanism can be achieved by densifying social life in hitherto dark corners without militarising the neighbourhood. The refurbishment of the neighbourhood is a valued alternative to blight, providing security through communal social space. Services and buildings can be distributed according to the community’s needs and resources. The purpose is to chase away the thugs from the heart of the community and bring light to the dark corners and crevices. In the process, services are brought closer to the people. Traditional institutions are involved more closely and meaningfully in public service for their immediate communities.

Stakeholders – government, traditional institutions, and community members – should work together to realise the Zauren Mallam Aminu Kano as a state-supported, neighbourhood-funded civic infrastructure across Kano State. Zauren Mallam Aminu Kano should be conceived as a community and family resources centre for the neighbourhood’s residents. It should be designed as a crime-prevention tool through visibility, social life, and shared spaces that strengthen grassroots governance and access to basic services.  It is also an embodiment of the spatial practice of good neighbourliness, the warmth, and the communal character of the Mutumin Kirki society. 

 Abubakar Muhammad is from Kano, Nigeria. 

By Usman Usman Garba

The rapid growth of online media, especially online newspapers, has significantly changed journalism in Nigeria. 

Today, news travels faster than ever before. With just a smartphone, Nigerians can access local, national and international news within seconds. This digital transformation has helped expose corruption, amplify citizens’ voices and bring government closer to the people.

However, these advantages have also created serious challenges. The unchecked rise of numerous online news platforms, many of which lack professional standards, is gradually eroding the quality, credibility, and value of credible news in Nigeria.

Opening an online news platform has become cheap and easy. Unlike traditional print media and broadcast stations, which require licences, physical offices, and trained professionals, many online platforms operate without clear structures or accountability. As a result, individuals with little or no journalism training now run platforms that publish news without proper editorial control.

Without professional gatekeeping, many stories are published without verification, balance or ethical consideration. Headlines are often poorly written, misleading or dotted with grammatical errors. This situation has weakened journalism standards and reduced public confidence in the media.

One of the biggest problems is the unhealthy competition to publish breaking news. Many online platforms rush to be the first to report incidents, especially during political events, security crises or court proceedings. In this race, accuracy is often sacrificed. Rumours, unverified social media posts and hearsays are turned into news.

Additionally, fake news and misinformation have become common online. False reports about elections, insecurity, government policies and public figures spread widely before they can be corrected. 

Unfortunately, corrections rarely receive the same attention as the original false stories. This has made it difficult for many Nigerians to know what to believe and which media organisations to trust.

Plagiarism is another serious challenge. Many online platforms copy stories from credible newspapers, television stations and news agencies without proper attribution. 

Some only change headlines or rearrange paragraphs. This unethical practice discourages investigative journalism and erodes originality.

Media organisations that invest time and resources in quality reporting often lose traffic and revenue to platforms that simply copy and paste content.

Sensationalism has also become widespread. Shocking headlines, exaggerated claims and emotional language are used to attract clicks.

Stories about scandals, rumours, insults and the private lives of public figures often receive more attention than reports on education, healthcare, insecurity, unemployment and the economy. As a result, serious national issues are pushed aside.

Social media has made this situation worse. Many online platforms now rely heavily on Facebook, X (formerly Twitter), WhatsApp and TikTok for traffic. 

To satisfy social media algorithms, content is designed to trend rather than to inform the public. News is judged by likes, shares and comments and not by accuracy or public interest. In this environment, truth is often sacrificed for popularity.

The impact on public trust is alarming. Many Nigerians now dismiss online reports as “fake news” or “social media stories.” Sadly, this growing distrust also affects credible media organisations that still uphold professional standards.

When trust in the media declines, accountability, transparency and good governance suffer.

Economic pressure also plays a role. Many online platforms struggle financially due to low advertising revenue. Some resort to paid news, political propaganda or sponsored stories disguised as journalism. This further blurs the line between news reporting and public relations, thereby misleading the public.

Despite these challenges, online journalism remains vital to Nigeria’s democracy. Digital platforms have helped expose corruption, promote citizen journalism and cover neglected communities. 

The problem is not online media itself, but the lack of professionalism, regulation and ethical commitment. To protect quality journalism, media owners must invest in training, robust editorial systems, and ethical standards.

Journalists must return to the core principles of their profession: truth, accuracy, balance and fairness. Regulatory bodies and professional organisations, such as the Nigerian Union of Journalists, must be more active in enforcing standards and disciplining offenders.

The government also has a role to play, as the Kano State government did with online media by allocating offices and registering them, but regulation must be handled carefully to avoid threatening press freedom. 

Efforts to fight fake news should focus on promoting professionalism, not silencing critical voices. The public is not exempt from responsibility. Nigerians must learn to verify information before sharing it, especially on Facebook, WhatsApp and other social media platforms. Supporting credible media organisations through readership and subscriptions will also help sustain quality journalism.

In conclusion, the state of news in Nigeria is at a crossroads. If the current trend of unprofessional online platforms continues unchecked, quality journalism will suffer greatly. But if journalists, media owners, regulators, and the public work together, Nigeria’s online media space can still become a powerful force for truth, development and democracy.

Usman Usman writes from Kano via usmangarba100@gmail.com.

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. 

By Garba Sidi

In Nigeria, academic failure is often treated as a life sentence. A poor result can earn a student a damaging label—not serious, not intelligent, or not destined for success. I know this because I lived it. Yet my journey proves that failure, no matter how often it occurs, does not end a person’s future. Giving up does.

After completing SS3, I sat for WAEC, NECO, and JAMB, like millions of Nigerian students whose dreams rest on examination numbers. When my WAEC result was released, I had only three credits—Chemistry, Hausa, and Animal Husbandry. Showing the result to my father was one of the most painful moments of my life. His words, suggesting I might have to repeat SS3, broke my heart. Still, I chose prayer over bitterness.

My JAMB score of 145 further reduced my chances of gaining admission to university. Though ashamed, I showed the result to my father. He advised patience and encouraged me to wait for my NECO result. When NECO came out, I earned seven credits, including English and Mathematics, but failed Physics. At the time, I did not realise how much that single subject would shape my future.

Like many science students, I dreamed of studying Medicine at Bayero University, Kano. I also applied to the College of Education, Gumel, and Hussaini Adamu Polytechnic, Kazaure. With my JAMB score, university admission was impossible. My options narrowed, and disappointment became familiar.

On my uncle’s advice, I enrolled in Remedial Studies at Tafawa Balewa University, Bauchi, hoping to later study Engineering, a course believed to offer better job prospects. I passed the remedial exams and continued attending lectures while preparing for another JAMB. When I failed again, my journey in Bauchi ended abruptly. Without a successful JAMB result, remedial studies could not secure admission.

I returned home discouraged. Applications to the College of Education, Gumel, and Bilyaminu Usman Polytechnic, Hadejia, yielded no results. While friends moved on to universities and colleges, I spent most of 2015 at home, surrounded by self-doubt and silent questions about my worth.

In 2017, I wrote JAMB again and scored 171, meeting the reduced cut-off mark for Sule Lamido University, Kafin Hausa. I was offered admission to study Mathematics and even attended the interview. However, during registration, my admission was withdrawn because I did not have a credit in Physics. It was another painful reminder that failure has consequences—but it does not have to be final.

Once again, family intervention redirected my path. Through my uncle’s connection at the College of Education Gashuwa, affiliated with the University of Maiduguri, I secured admission. I randomly chose Physical Education (PHE), not out of passion, but out of necessity. I was admitted into the preliminary batch with only three weeks left before examinations.

That short period forced a decision: surrender or struggle. I chose to struggle. I attended lectures relentlessly and studied day and night. Of the eight courses I took, I failed only one in my first semester. I cleared it later and completed the programme successfully.

During my studies, I met Haruna Aseeni, a Health Education student. Our friendship began simply—sharing study materials. We stayed connected long after graduation. I later completed my NYSC between July 2023 and June 2024, unsure of what the future held.

Then came a message on a Sunday evening. Haruna informed me that someone was looking for a graduate of Physical Education. A few phone calls later, I was submitting my credentials. After an interview in Dutse, I received an Offer of Appointment as Sports Officer II under the Jigawa State Ministry of Information, Youth, Sports and Culture, and was posted to Hadejia Stadium.

What struck me most was that the opportunity came through someone I once helped academically—not through influence or desperation, but through relationship and character. Even more surprising, my father and uncles later discovered they already knew the official who facilitated the process. Life has a way of connecting efforts in ways we do not expect.

My story is not extraordinary. It is Nigerian. It reflects a system where setbacks are common, opportunities are uneven, and success is rarely linear. But it carries a message young people must hear: failure is not the opposite of success; quitting is.

To students and graduates facing rejection, delay, or disappointment, my advice is simple: do not give up. Respect everyone you meet. Work hard wherever you find yourself. Pray, persevere, and remain humble.

You never know who God will use to change your story.

By Usman Abdullahi Koli

“Tempora mutantur, nos et mutamur in illis.” Times change, and we change with them. Some years arrive with spectacle, with upheaval that demands attention. Others arrive quietly, insistently, reshaping life before their weight is fully understood. 2025 in Nigeria was of the latter. It did not collapse. It did not triumph. It compelled the nation to confront itself.

On a Tuesday morning in early January, before any official pronouncement or statistical briefing, the country was already aware of the season’s challenge. At the motor parks, drivers adjusted fares in silence, anticipating rising fuel costs. From Idumota Market in Lagos to Monday Market in Maiduguri and Sabo Gari Market in Kano, traders shifted prices mid-morning, recalibrating their margins as households silently reshuffled meals and transport plans.

Some Nigerians recounted how they had begun rationing electricity at home and combining trips to reduce petrol expenses. Survival, not aspiration, became the framework of daily life. Everyone began to adjust to the sharp inflationary impact of the new economic regime.

President Bola Ahmed Tinubu had warned that national renewal would be neither fast nor painless. He described it as a painful surgery necessary to recalibrate the economy for future gains. By midyear, the warning had manifested. Inflation, driven by food and energy prices, persisted relentlessly. The naira existed in a state of limbo, neither collapsing completely nor regaining dignity. Salary-dependent citizens faced daily compromise, while speculators adjusted and profited. Official statistics merely confirmed what citizens already knew: adjustment had become endurance.

Yet governance did not stand still. Revenue mobilisation improved. Leakages narrowed. Subnational governments were compelled to confront fiscal realities rather than maintain dependence on the centre. By April, a comprehensive tax reform framework was unveiled, aiming to redefine who pays, how, and to what effect. Properly implemented, it could stabilise finances for decades. Miscommunicated, it risks deepening mistrust. In public policy, substance alone is never sufficient; legitimacy also requires understanding, transparency, and civic consent.

Security offered evidence of the state’s potential when coordinated and intelligence-driven. Operations across Zamfara, Katsina, and Kaduna disrupted entrenched bandit networks. Camps once considered permanent were dismantled and feared commanders neutralised. The significance was less in propaganda and more in the quiet lesson that impunity is not inevitable. Yet highways remained perilous, rural communities exposed, and kidnappings continued. Fear, while less permanent, had not fully dissipated. Structural justice, inclusion, and local legitimacy remain essential for lasting security.

International and regional developments added further complexity to an already strained year. Statements by the current United States President, Donald Trump, asserting that Christians were being targeted in Nigeria and describing the situation as a Christian genocide, drew strong domestic and international reactions, reopening debates about sovereignty, narrative framing, and the external politicisation of Nigeria’s internal security challenges. Almost simultaneously, a reported missile strike in Sokoto, justified as an operation against the so-called Lakurawa terror group, raised serious questions about intelligence credibility, civilian safety, and the expanding theatre of counterterrorism. Within the subregion, Nigeria’s foreign and security policy faced its own test when Nigerian soldiers en route to Portugal were detained in Burkina Faso, a development that followed closely on the heels of an attempted coup plot in the Benin Republic and Nigeria’s military support for the Cotonou government. Together, these events underscored the fragility of regional trust and the growing cost of instability beyond Nigeria’s borders.

The health sector revealed fragility in stark terms. Nationwide strikes by resident doctors, followed by allied health workers, paralysed tertiary hospitals. Emergency rooms were stretched. Laboratories and pharmacies operated at skeletal capacity. Citizens faced delays, avoidable loss, and mounting uncertainty. Professional sacrifice, not institutional strength, sustained the system. No nation aspiring to seriousness can indefinitely rely on individual endurance while postponing structural repair.

Midyear brought a moment of national reflection with the death of former President Muhammadu Buhari. Flags flew at half-mast. Tributes poured from private citizens, politicians, and international observers alike. Yet beneath the ceremonial mourning lay unresolved questions: the legacy of decisions, the costs of policy, and the gaps left in leadership. History rarely closes neatly. It lingers, asking questions long after the ceremonies end.

Politically, the year matured with quiet intensity. Alliances shifted, ambitions hardened. Northern cities, Kano in particular, became symbolic mirrors of broader anxieties. Silence, rather than violence, became the language of anticipation. Even without a formal declaration, Nigerians understood that political calculation was underway, shaping the landscape for future contests.

Amid pressure, civic life persisted. Humour flourished in the streets, on social media, and in private gatherings. Satire became a language of participation, reminding those in authority that power is both observed and interpreted. In a constrained civic space, laughter and critique became inseparable.

By the year’s close, one conclusion is unavoidable. 2025 was not a season of miracles. It was a season of exposure. Governance demonstrated competence and direction in some areas, while revealing gaps in empathy and communication in others. Citizens displayed resilience, but also impatience and a refusal to be sustained by rhetoric alone. Reform is underway. Its success depends on trust, empathy, and the leaders’ capacity to carry the public along honestly.

Nigeria did not fall. But we keep hope alive that the giant will rise. It confronted itself, and comfort proved in short supply. This confrontation, uncomfortable as it was, may yet lay the foundation for a more serious engagement with the demands of nationhood. Nations rarely change because they are persuaded; they change because they are compelled to see themselves clearly.

In this, 2025 may yet prove instructive.

Usman Abdullahi Koli wrote via mernoukoli@gmail.com. 

By Isah Kamisu Madachi

During the 2025 Ramadan fasting period, schools were shut in some states across northern Nigeria. The decision sparked public outrage, with many Nigerians questioning it. The unanimous reason given by authorities was that the heat had become unbearable in the affected states, necessitating the closure of schools. For many people, that was a reasonable excuse, but beneath it, to a keen observer, lay a policy failure that deserved more attention than it received. Northern Nigeria, particularly the North East and North West, sits within a semi-arid belt bordering the Sahara Desert. It has always been hotter than other parts of the country.

What that school closure quietly revealed was the absence of a national or state heat management policy. Nigeria, of course, has policies for floods, droughts, the energy transition, disaster response, climate and health adaptation. However, heat is largely unmanaged. There is no clear policy framework on how schools, workers, farmers, or low-income households should cope with rising temperatures. As a result, heat is not treated as a public policy emergency.

This is not an attempt to relitigate the school’s closure. Rather, it is an effort to call attention to how rising heat is silently pushing Nigerians deeper into poverty, food insecurity, and worsened health conditions. Heat stress is now not just an environmental concern but a development issue that largely affects productivity, education, health, and household income. Unlike floods, heat is not dramatic; it is as deadly as, or even worse than, floods. It creeps into everyday life, drains energy, reduces earning hours, and increases health risks. 

Evidence globally has established a strong link between extreme heat and poverty, particularly in low-income societies. 

For many outdoor workers, earning a livelihood has become increasingly difficult. In some places, work cannot continue after noon due to extreme heat. Those who push through do so at the expense of their health, suffering dehydration, headaches, and heat exhaustion. The result is lost income and rising healthcare costs, which also consume the little savings they manage to earn under the heat.

The education sector also tells a worrying story. Recently, during a visit to the primary school I attended in Bauchi State, I saw how teachers and pupils were struggling under the suffocating heat. The teacher was drenched in sweat. The pupils were distracted, trying to hand-fan themselves with notebooks. Learning was taking place in form, but not in substance. 

If Nigeria is serious about improving educational outcomes, then heat-resilient classrooms should be available to them. Policies must begin to prioritise basic cooling solutions, such as renewable-powered fans and ventilation systems in public schools.

Another backbone of livelihoods—agriculture—is also under serious threat. Rising temperatures stress crops, exacerbate pest and disease problems, shorten growing seasons, and reduce yields. For smallholder farmers, this condition results in lower incomes and food insecurity. Strengthening climate adaptation plans for agriculture is therefore necessary, particularly in areas most vulnerable to heat and erratic rainfall.

Reducing carbon emissions is central to addressing climate change, and Nigeria has a role to play. Governments, industries, energy companies, and individuals all share responsibility. Lifestyle changes, such as reducing reliance on biomass and fossil fuels when cleaner alternatives are available, matter. Access to solar-powered equipment and off-grid electricity can also significantly reduce emissions and improve living conditions.

However, lifestyle change alone is not the solution. Without coordinated policies that expand access to affordable renewable energy, low-income households will continue to rely on unsustainable energy sources. Heat, energy poverty, and health outcomes are connected, but our existing policies often treat them in isolation.

This is where government responsibility sets in. At the federal and local levels, there must be deliberate investment in renewable energy solutions that directly improve people’s daily lives. Solar mini-grids, clean cooking technologies, and low-cost cooling appliances should be treated as public health and poverty alleviation priorities. If heat can shut down schools, reduce productivity, and worsen health outcomes, then it, by all standards, deserves a higher place in Nigeria’s policy agenda.

Nigeria cannot afford to continue reacting to climate impacts only after damage has been done. Rising heat is shaping how we work, learn, farm, and earn. Ignoring it does not make it disappear. It only deepens inequality and exposes the most vulnerable to greater harm. A country serious about development must begin to treat heat as the policy challenge that it truly is.

Isah Kamisu Madachi is a public policy enthusiast and development practitioner. He writes from Abuja and can be reached via isahkamisumadachi@gmail.com.

By Harajana Umar Ragada

The offer felt like a golden ticket. A celebrated Nigerian celebrity was hosting a festival and needed a spoken word documentary. For a talented artist in Northern Nigeria, this was the sought-after break, a chance to step into a national spotlight reserved for the chosen few. She believed in her craft, and she said yes.

The project was defined: two videos, one in Hausa, one in English, featuring her voice and her performance. She submitted her fees, a fair reflection of her skill. The project manager’s reassurance was smooth, hinging on the host’s lofty reputation. “Trust the process,” she was told. And so, she did.

She requested an advance to book studio time. A partial payment was made to her, but it was insufficient and did not cover Abuja’s professional studio rates. She dipped into her own resources to make it work. When the video shoot approached, another surprise: she was to supply her own costume due to “budget constraints.” Professional to her core, she invested in the perfect attire, believing her dedication would be honoured.

Then, the turnaround. After she sent the final recordings, she was called upon that the celebrity’s sister would headline the Hausa version. Her role was being reduced to just the English piece. She objected firmly; this was not their agreement, and her payment was still pending. After tense negotiations, a new, fragile deal was struck: she would be credited as a collaborator, and nothing would be posted without her approval.

On a sunny afternoon, they summoned her to the Art and Craft Village for the shoot. When she arrived, she found them already filming the sister. When she reminded them of their terms, the promises flowed anew: payment after filming, glowing accolades, and the full weight of the celebrity’s influence to boost her career. Placing her trust in that stature one more time, she completed the work.

What followed was a masterclass in creative exploitation. They chipped away at her agreed rate, pleading budgetary limitations. They sold her on a future of unlocked doors and dazzling opportunities, convincing her to accept far less, to trade monetary value for the currency of exposure and credit. She acquiesced, hoping the recognition would be worth it.

Months slipped by without the remaining payment. After persistent appeals, another fraction of the sum arrived. Weary, she let it go, choosing peace over a protracted fight.

Then the video was live. And as she watched, a cold realisation settled in. Every name was listed in the credits… except hers. Her voice filled the piece, but she had been erased completely. Not a mention, not a link, not a trace. The feeling was a hollow mix of betrayal and devaluation; she had been used and then discarded.

This story is not a solitary lament. It is the shared refrain of countless creatives. Like Abdulmajid Gambo Danbaba, a poet from Katsina, who discovered his deeply personal poem “I am Me,” born of his childhood struggles, and proudly posted it on another man’s Facebook page, claiming it as his own. The confrontation was messy, requiring the threat of legal action to force an apology and a takedown.

These are the everyday hazards in the digital marketplace of ideas, where work is copied, credit is stolen, and promises are broken. So, what can be done?

Navigating the Minefield: Wisdom from the Frontlines

We turned to experts to demystify the path from vulnerability to empowerment.

Dr. Ismail Bala, a renowned poet and critic, frames the issue clearly. He defines creative exploitation as using another’s work without payment or permission, and plagiarism as outright theft of authorship. His advice is twofold: vigilance and formalisation. “Copyright your work,” he urges. “And move beyond handshake deals. Any collaboration needs a legal contract, however simple.”

The consequences, he notes, are both emotional and economic; a loss of confidence and a loss of livelihood. While social media democratizes sharing, it also facilitates this theft. The remedy, he states, is a cultural shift toward fundamental respect, acknowledging sources and compensating creators fairly.

Muhammed Bello Buhari, a digital rights activist, frames this not as a mere commercial issue but as a human right. “Your creativity is your voice. To steal it is to strip you of your agency and dignity,” he explains. International law protects the moral and material interests of creators, but the systems are often skewed toward those with power and lawyers.

He highlights the legal grey zone that creatives must navigate. “The law protects your specific expression, not the general idea. Someone can mimic your style without crossing a legal line, which is why documentation is your greatest weapon.”

Buhari champions the “paper trail.” Your drafts, timestamped files, and email records become irrefutable proof of ownership. “That version history is your shield,” he says.

MB Buhari recommends a practical toolkit for every creator:

1. Document Everything: Create a “receipt culture.” Save early drafts, note creation dates, and follow up verbal agreements with a confirming email or message.

2. Mark Your Territory: Use the copyright symbol (©) on your work. It’s a simple but clear signal of ownership.

3. Have the “Terms” Talk: Before sharing work, state clearly how it can be used. A simple text message can form a basic contract.

4. Leverage Community and Platforms: Use the court of public opinion respectfully but firmly. Know how to issue a DMCA takedown notice on social platforms to remove stolen content.

5. Embrace Simple Contracts: Outline collaboration terms, ownership, and credit in writing. “A contract is a seatbelt for your creativity,” Buhari notes.

6. Seek Strength in Numbers: Join creative associations and leverage pro-bono legal networks. There is power in collective advocacy.

The Northern Star: A Community’s Victory

The most powerful chapter in this story is its conclusion. When the spoken word artist was erased, she did not stay silent. She shared her story. And the Northern creative community erupted. They became her amplifiers, her defenders, and her unyielding support system. Through poems, posts, and shared outrage, they applied a pressure that no individual could. Faced with this unified front, the celebrity apologised.

This is the ultimate blueprint. The fight against exploitation is not a solo journey. It is fought by building a community that values integrity over influence, that champions credit over “exposure,” and that stands as a united front against those who would diminish their peers. It is about transforming individual vulnerability into collective, unshakeable strength.

Harajana Umar Ragada wrote via kharajnah@gmail.com.

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.

By Dahiru Kasimu Adamu

Every morning at Shantan Old Garage along Western Bypass, hundreds of young men armed with shovels and hoes descend into metre-deep pits, searching for buried treasure. But they are not hunting for gold or ancient artefacts, they are digging for scrap iron.

The abandoned garage, once a bustling hub for roadside mechanics, has become an unlikely source of livelihood for youth aged 15 to 40. As traditional labour opportunities have dwindled, these young scavengers have discovered that the ground beneath the old garage contains valuable iron scraps left behind when the site was operational.

“We thank Allah for this opportunity,” said Modi Sanusi, a scavenger in his late twenties. “Just this morning, scavenging materials worth over N125,000 were sold, all from this ground.”

The work is gruelling and dangerous, but profitable. Scavengers can earn between N20,000 and N40,000 daily, depending on their finds—a significant sum in an economy where formal employment remains scarce. Among those who have embraced this unconventional livelihood are former Tsangaya pupils who once begged for food.

Seventeen-year-old Kabiru explained how the earnings have transformed his life: “We earn income, buy food, give some to our parents, and save.”

The phenomenon is not confined to Shantan. Reports indicate that scrap metal collection has become one of Nigeria’s “millennium jobs,” with thousands of youth now reportedly earning substantial incomes from the trade.

But the work comes at a cost. Sharp objects buried in the soil cause frequent injuries, and landslides have resulted in fractures. Muhammad, another scavenger, recalled sustaining a leg fracture when earth collapsed on him. “After I recovered, I came back in the field as I can’t leave this work,” he said.

Health experts have raised alarm about additional risks. Buried iron from old vehicles could be contaminated with lead or other toxic chemicals. Open wounds from injuries risk infection, particularly given the lack of basic first aid facilities at the site.

Despite these hazards, the scavengers remain undeterred. Observers say the phenomenon highlights both the resilience of Nigerian youth and the urgent need for job creation and safety regulations. Advocates call for government intervention through new strategies and laws to regulate the business, as well as leadership within scavenging communities to organise safety campaigns.

For now, the digging continues at Shantan Old Garage. As unemployment persists and metal prices remain attractive, more youth are likely to join the ranks of those turning Sokoto’s buried past into their economic future—one shovelful at a time.

By Ibrahim Aliyu Gurin

What is more terrifying than violence? It is the sound of someone calling for help, with no one responding. That cry, unanswered, is the quiet horror that haunts our communities.

Last week in Kano, a family was killed in broad daylight. Neighbours reportedly heard the screams but stayed indoors. Outrage spread on social media. How could people hear such suffering and do nothing? How could an entire community remain silent while lives were being taken right next door?

At first, the silence felt unforgivable. Then I remembered something my Media and Society lecturer, Binta Suleiman Gaya, once said: crime is rarely about criminals alone. It is often a mirror of the society that allows it. Suddenly, the tragedy began to make painful sense.

I thought of my own experience. We grew up in a different Nigeria. Then, whenever discipline crossed into anger in our house, our neighbour was always the first to intervene. Once her name was mentioned,  “Hajja Mamma Yidam! Yidam!” (Rescue me), she would rush out immediately, pleading on our behalf. Sometimes we would deliberately call her name, knowing she would come to our rescue. That was how our society functioned. Not because everyone was perfect, but because everyone was involved.

We grew up in Nigeria, where even if a neighbour was beating a child, people would rush out to ask questions. Elders would intervene. Women would shout across fences. Youths would gather instinctively. No cry was ignored. No pain was considered private. That society shaped our humanity.

Today, a person can scream until their voice disappears into death, and doors remain locked. People now live only metres apart, yet are emotionally separated by fear. In Media and Society,  this condition is described as “alienation”, which is the gradual breakdown of social connection and communal responsibility.

Modern media culture has accelerated this separation. Through phones, television and social platforms, we are exposed to violence such as daily killings, kidnappings, and accidents, which are endlessly replayed. Human suffering now competes for attention in timelines and headlines.

Over time, this constant exposure creates “desensitisation”. What once shocked us now barely interrupts our scrolling. Tragedy becomes routine. Death becomes familiar. Media and Society argues that when violence becomes normalised in the media, society unconsciously absorbs that normalisation.

Alongside this is the rise of individualism. Survival has become personal. Safety has become private. The collective spirit that once defined African communities has been replaced with the logic of “mind your business.”  So when danger appears, people retreat indoors, but not always out of wickedness, but because society has trained them to think first of self, not community.

The course also explains the bystander effect, a psychological phenomenon in which individuals fail to act in emergencies because responsibility feels shared. Everyone assumes someone else will intervene. In moments like the Kano tragedy, everyone heard, and everyone waited.

Fear worsens this silence. Media reports of mob justice, wrongful arrests and police brutality have created deep public distrust. Many citizens now fear becoming suspects more than becoming helpers. The result is a society paralysed.

Media and Society helped me understand that insecurity is not only about criminals and weapons. It is also about broken trust, weakened communal values and a media environment that has reshaped human behaviour.

Our old society relied on communal vigilance. When danger came, the community itself became the first responder. Today, citizens wait for institutions that often arrive too late. The killers in Kano did not act alone. They were aided by fear and protected by our silence. 

The government must rebuild trust between citizens and security agencies. Community policing must be strengthened. Media institutions must go beyond reporting bloodshed and begin promoting empathy, social responsibility and communal vigilance. Religious and traditional leaders must revive the values that once made indifference shameful.

Beyond policies lies humanity. Every life lost affects us all. Speak up, protect your neighbours, and restore the community we once had.

We pray for the souls of those who lost their lives in Kano. May their families find strength, and may we as a society learn to act before it is too late. Let their cries not be in vain.

Ibrahim Aliyu Gurin wrote via ibrahimaliyu5023@yahoo.com.