Northern Nigeria

By Uzair Adam 

The Federal High Court in Kano has ruled that the Federal Road Safety Corps (FRSC) has no legal authority to carry out enforcement operations on roads under the control of the Kano State Government or its local government councils.

In a judgment delivered on Thursday, Justice M. S. Shuaibu held that the commission acted beyond its statutory powers when its personnel stopped, questioned and delayed motorists on township roads in Kano in July 2025.

The suit was instituted by Kano-based lawyer, Abba Hikima, who challenged the legality of the commission’s operations on state roads, arguing that FRSC officials violated his fundamental rights by demanding his driver’s licence and interrogating him despite the absence of any traffic offence.

The court agreed with the applicant, ruling that the actions of the FRSC officers violated the rights to personal liberty and freedom of movement as guaranteed under Sections 35 and 41 of the 1999 Constitution.

Justice Shuaibu granted all the major reliefs sought by Hikima, including a perpetual injunction restraining FRSC personnel from stopping, harassing or interfering with motorists on Kano State roads without lawful authority.

The court also ordered the commission to publish a public apology in a national newspaper and awarded the applicant N800,000 as damages and litigation costs.

The dispute arose in July 2025 after FRSC operatives mounted checkpoints on township roads within Kano metropolis, where they stopped motorists to demand driver’s licences and question them even when no primary traffic offence had been committed.

Hikima maintained that the FRSC’s powers are limited to federal highways and do not extend to roads under state or local jurisdiction, a position the court upheld in its judgment.

By Maimuna Katuka Aliyu

Trachoma is more than an eye infection. It is a quiet destroyer of sight and dignity, affecting millions of vulnerable people around the world—especially in places where clean water is scarce, healthcare is distant, and poverty runs deep.

Caused by the bacterium “Chlamydia trachomatis”, trachoma spreads through direct contact with infected eye or nose secretions, as well as indirectly through contaminated items. In overcrowded communities where basic sanitation is poor, the disease thrives.

But this is not a new threat. Trachoma has haunted humanity for centuries. As far back as 1500 BC, ancient Egyptian scrolls described eye diseases that closely resemble it. In the 19th century, outbreaks became widespread in densely populated areas.

By the 20th century, global efforts to fight it began taking shape, especially with the intervention of the World Health Organization (WHO) and other health bodies. Today, trachoma remains one of the world’s leading causes of preventable blindness.

And the burden it places on affected communities is staggering. For individuals, the disease often begins with repeated infections. Over time, the eyelids turn inward in a condition called trichiasis, causing the lashes to scrape against the cornea.

The result is chronic pain and, eventually, blindness. For families, the impact is just as devastating. When a parent loses their vision, their ability to work and care for their children suffers. When a child goes blind, their education is interrupted, and their future becomes uncertain.

Across entire communities, this loss of productivity and well-being adds up to high economic and social costs. The stigma can be equally painful. In many places, those affected by trachoma are isolated or ridiculed—stripped of confidence and dignity.

But there is hope. Trachoma is preventable. It is also treatable, especially when detected early. And that is why the role of government is so vital.

National and local authorities must lead the fight with robust public health campaigns—promoting hygiene, encouraging regular eye checkups, and ensuring that children grow up with clean faces and clean water.

Clinics must be established in underserved areas, and healthcare workers must be trained to identify and treat the disease effectively. Collaboration is also key. By partnering with international organizations such as the WHO and the Carter Center, governments can access resources, share knowledge, and scale up proven interventions.

Yet governments alone cannot eliminate trachoma. Communities must also rise to the task. We need individuals who speak up—advocating for improved sanitation, better access to care, and education for all.

We need families and neighbours who support those affected instead of shaming them. And we need young people who take the lead in hygiene campaigns, who believe that blindness from trachoma is one injustice we can—and must—end.

The fight against trachoma is a shared responsibility. It is not just about medicine. It is about dignity. It is about giving people the chance to see their children grow, to live and work with pride, and to be seen—not for their illness—but for their worth.

The path to eliminating trachoma is clear. What is needed now is the will to walk it together—governments, communities, and every one of us who believes in a future where no one loses their sight to a disease that should already be history.

‎By Fatih Lawal-Garu  

‎Across Nigeria today, an allegation can become a death sentence long before any investigation begins. Increasingly, crowds, not courts, decide who lives and who dies. Whether the accusation is theft, blasphemy, kidnapping, or even a perceived cultural offence, many Nigerians are willing to dispense instant “justice,” replacing the rule of law with the rule of the mob.  

‎On December 28, 2025, filmmaker Don Pedro Obaseki was abducted, beaten, stripped naked, and publicly paraded through the streets of Benin City over allegations that he had insulted the Oba of Benin while abroad. He survived the ordeal and later filed a ₦500 million fundamental rights suit, which he withdrew after receiving a public apology. Barely three months later, on March 19, 2026, during the Alue-Do Festival in Ozoro, Delta State, viral videos showed coordinated sexual assaults on women. Large groups of men chased, groped, and tore the clothes of women in broad daylight under the guise of an ancient fertility rite. In Maraban Jos, Kaduna State, an Islamiyya school teacher named Ummulkhair was lynched and burnt alive after being accused of kidnapping a child. Four years earlier, Deborah Samuel Yakubu, a student of Shehu Shagari College of Education in Sokoto, was beaten, stoned, and burnt alive by fellow students over allegations of blasphemy.  

‎These incidents reveal that mob violence is neither regional nor confined to a single grievance. It cuts across Nigeria’s geopolitical zones, religions, cultures, ethnicities, and genders. Crowds arrogate to themselves the powers of the police, the courts, and the executioner without evidence, due process, or regard for human life. Amnesty International documented 555 victims of mob violence between 2012 and 2023, averaging about 55 deaths annually.

A Daily Trust editorial reported that between June and December 2025 alone, 60 people were killed while 20 others were brutally assaulted by mobs. From January 2026 to date, another 27 people have reportedly lost their lives to jungle justice. These victims were not killed by bandits, terrorists, armed robbers, or even security agencies. They were ordinary Nigerians killed by fellow Nigerians over allegations of theft, kidnapping, blasphemy, cultural violations, ethnic prejudice, unverified suspicions, and deliberate mischief.  

‎There was a time when the cry of “thief!” prompted citizens to alert the police. Today, shouts of “Ole,” “gbomo gbomo,” or “barawo” often signal the beginning of a public execution. Within minutes, a crowd gathers, accusations replace evidence, and an alleged offender is beaten, stoned, or burnt alive. The rise of jungle justice reflects a growing loss of confidence in Nigeria’s criminal justice system. Many citizens believe suspects handed over to the police will regain their freedom through bribery, political influence, or endless judicial delays. Although these concerns are genuine, they cannot justify abandoning the law. Ironically, many Nigerians now fear jungle justice almost as much as they fear criminals or even state policing. A misunderstanding or mistaken identity can be enough to trigger a murderous crowd.  

‎Equally disturbing is the erosion of human dignity. Jungle justice has become less about punishing alleged offenders than humiliating them. Victims are stripped naked, tortured, filmed, mocked, and sometimes burnt alive while spectators cheer or record videos. The spectacle suggests that many participants are motivated not merely by anger but by an opportunity to humiliate another human being. Social media has become an accomplice to this violence. Videos of lynchings and public humiliation are often recorded, shared, and circulated within minutes, turning human suffering into entertainment. Rather than provoking outrage, such videos frequently attract applause, jokes, or calls for even harsher punishment, encouraging copycat violence and further normalising mob justice.  

‎‎The mob is also deeply hypocritical. Petty thieves often help lynch suspected thieves. Political thugs, extortionists, and habitual lawbreakers suddenly become defenders of public morality. Those whose daily lives violate the law frequently present themselves as its most passionate enforcers. Jungle justice, therefore, is often less about justice than the intoxicating feeling of exercising unchecked power. Crowds also create a dangerous sense of anonymity. Individuals who would never assault another person on their own often participate in extreme violence once responsibility is diluted among hundreds of people. Protected by numbers, ordinary people can become willing participants in acts they would otherwise condemn.  

‎This hypocrisy reflects a broader national habit of rationalising wrongdoing. Nigerians often seek excuses for actions they already wish to commit. Ask a Yahoo boy why he engages in cybercrime, and he may invoke colonial exploitation or slavery. Ask a voter why he sells his vote, and he may describe it as his chance to “eat from the national cake.” Ask a supporter of jungle justice why he approves of mob executions, and he will likely argue that the suspect would simply bribe the police and walk free. While these grievances expose genuine institutional failures, they cannot excuse criminality or justify replacing the justice system with mob rule. Corruption in public institutions should inspire reform, not lawlessness.  

‎Fear sustains this culture. Witnesses seldom identify perpetrators because they fear violent reprisals. Authorities, meanwhile, often conduct weak investigations that end without meaningful prosecutions. This silence emboldens future attacks and creates the impression that mob violence carries little or no consequence. The long-term consequences extend beyond the victims themselves. Every lynching weakens confidence in state institutions, deepens public fear, and normalises violence as a legitimate means of resolving disputes. Communities become less trusting, public spaces feel increasingly unsafe, and every stranger becomes vulnerable to suspicion.  

‎Nigeria’s Constitution guarantees the right to life, fair hearing, and protection from cruel, inhuman, or degrading treatment. No citizen or crowd possesses the legal authority to arrest, prosecute, convict, and execute another person. The criminal justice system is founded upon the presumption of innocence until guilt is proven beyond a reasonable doubt. It is better that guilty persons occasionally escape punishment than that innocent people are condemned without trial. Nigeria cannot build a just society upon instant punishment and collective vengeance. Restoring public confidence in the police and the judiciary, ensuring swift and impartial justice, prosecuting those responsible for mob violence, and rejecting vigilantism are essential to reversing this dangerous trend.  

‎Until jungle justice is condemned not only in speeches but also through consistent enforcement of the law, the cry of “thief!” will continue to signify not the pursuit of justice, but the beginning of another preventable tragedy. When a crowd becomes judge, jury, and executioner, no Nigerian is truly safe, not even those cheering from the sidelines. 

Fatih Lawal-Garu is a Mass Communication graduate from Bayero University, Kano, and writes at ibnkamilgaru1@gmail.com.

By Abubakar Idris Misau

At first glance, the words “Deserting” and “Desertification” sound almost identical and, taken together, seem to make no sense; ironically, however, especially as intended here, they are the antagonists who jointly tell us what we must do to save life on Earth. Sorry, let me explain.

It was my elementary school Maths teacher who first taught me that multiplying two negative numbers yields a positive result. I had to concede later that this isn’t a conspiracy. If it were, it would never have been corroborated by our English teacher. The two core-subjects’ teachers were staunch enemies [I mean, non-friends]; yet the latter said there’s a similar rule in linguistics and semantics about what is called the “double negatives”.

Since deserting literally means abandoning something, it seems negative. By contrast, desertification, the process by which fertile, productive land becomes arid and desolate, is so dangerous that it no doubt qualifies as another negative. Following the arithmetic-linguistic logic of double negatives, therefore, “deserting”, as used in this piece, becomes an honourable cause. Simply put, deserting desertification does not mean running away from what one needs to care for, but rather abandoning our harmful habits that are turning our green, fertile lands into dry, lifeless deserts. In other words, desertification is a call to action to change how we treat the surface of our dear mother Earth.

Come to think of it, Mother Earth is the only mother whose children are hell-bent on turning her barren, out of greed. We do this by double-dealing, on the one hand with the mother and on the other with her enemies. It seems to me as though we love coming to her in the morning, saying “Oh, Mama, give us today our daily bread”, and then going behind her back and setting the bakery on fire at night! I mean, it’s no different when the so-called most intelligent species, numbering up to 8 billion, dedicates its intellect to deforestation, overgrazing, poor agronomic practices, open-pit mining, and other unsustainable land-use practices that strip land of vegetation, exhaust soil nutrients, and disrupt the water cycle; all while expecting the mother to keep providing us with every ecosystem service as if nothing happened. But it is simply an “inevitable consequence of nature” [to borrow from Prof. Brian Cox] that when we stretch dryland ecosystems to their breaking points, they turn into arid wastelands – read: deserts – or, more appropriately, “sandlands”.

As a matter of fact, whichever way one sees the bad guy, the truth is that Mr Desertification hardly ever acts alone. In the Sahelian ecological region of Northern Nigeria and other regions globally, he almost always works with Madam Earth’s children to damage her reproductive organs. Now, that’s a bad revelation. Meanwhile, the good news is that not all her children are the same. Some good Samaritans have even been working to extinguish the fire, in which case they deserve some support; some conspire against her out of ignorance, in which case they can do with some education; and so on – hence this call to action.

Here, forgive me for introducing the Greek philosopher Aristotle. It was his idea that writers, in fulfilling their duty, should try to structure arguments around the three fundamental pillars [modes] of persuasion, the rhetorical triangle: Ethos, Pathos, and Logos. Ethos concerns the communicator’s credibility; Pathos, the audience’s emotions; and Logos, the logical reasoning contained in the presentation.

Long story short, since this writer is not an authority on the subject in question, he ought not to suggest any social behavioural change straight out of his moro-moro head. He is simply to convey the message of the world’s most credible Who’s Who on the issue: namely, the United Nations Convention to Combat Desertification (UNCCD).

According to the UNCCD, humanity destroys about 10, 20, 30, 40, 50 …100 million hectares of productive land every year. The first time I read this, I was shocked. I knew that we cleared up to 10 million hectares of forest land annually, but I didn’t know that we were destroying the rangelands, grasslands, and so on at that rate. For perspective, damaging 100 million hectares of land annually is equivalent to losing the whole of Egypt. Or, better still, destroying the equivalent of four football fields every second. Most probably, this message would make more sense to us if the changes were happening right before our eyes. Imagine two countries playing a game in the ongoing World Cup, only for the stadium to turn into a total desert in a second. The World Cup would likely be asked to give way for an emergency UNCCD Summit.

In fact, there is no doubting it, the more land we allow to desert encroachment, the more likely we are to go to war with each other. That is why, in 2020, during a UN Security Council meeting to discuss ‘Maintenance of international peace and security: the humanitarian impact of environmental degradation and peace and security’, Ibrahim Thiaw, Executive Secretary of UNCCD, said: “In arid lands, such as in Africa’s Sahel region, violence often erupts over competition for access to depleted land and scarce water resources.” He then went on to outline three factors that are adding fuel to the fire: over-dependence on natural resources by rural dwellers; shrinking resources due to land degradation, drought, and climate change; and high population density.

All of these are self-evident. In Northern Nigeria, the conflict between farmers and herders over scarce natural resources is a vivid case of that. It’s also common knowledge that Lake Chad has lost up to [a staggering] 90% of its surface area since the 1960s, shrinking from 26,000 km² in 1963 to as low as <1,500 km² in 2018 when the United Nations Environment Programme (UNEP) published the story “Tale of a disappearing lake”. These affect millions of people.

There is no question whatsoever: drylands are the closest bus stops to deserts and are therefore the major victims of desertification. Now, let’s go back to Bonn to collect some statistics from the UNCCD again. Covering up to 41% of the earth’s land surface, mainly in developing countries of Africa and Asia, drylands are home to more than 2 billion people. And because more than 70% and 20% of them are rangelands and grasslands, respectively, half of the world’s livestock and up to 44% of crops are produced from drylands. How essential are they?

Meanwhile, right now, as scientists say, up to 40% of the world’s land is already degraded, directly affecting over 3.2 billion people. Also, land degradation and droughts cost the global community an estimated eye-watering $878 billion every single year. Isn’t that a lot of money to squander on making the earth look like the surface of Mars, huh?! For me, turning the green planet into another red planet is a cold, dry, bitter joke.

As the Roman Philosopher-Emperor Marcus Aurelius put it 18 centuries ago, “You can commit injustice by doing nothing”. Indeed, this is an issue on which neutrality is complicity. It now makes more sense to me what one of my mentors once told me, for which I must quote him verbatim: “Mr Idris”, he said, “you see, doing nothing is such an expensive hobby…” Suffice it to say that if we continue to ignore this crisis, the financial and physical hangover will be brutal. Well, it actually already is.

I don’t want to go into a discussion of the need for governments and big corporations to invest $1 billion a day until 2030 to meet global land restoration targets, which, in fact, is precisely required. I know it might sound like a hefty price tag, but it is actually the ultimate buy-one-get-one-free deal. We know for a fact that for every $1 invested in healthy land, the economic return ranges from $7 to $30. It turns out that, under this realistic assumption, saving the planet is highly profitable.

While not everything can be detailed in an article this short, addressing desertification isn’t rocket science. We know how to do it well enough. The solution simply requires a massive shift. We first need to address deforestation and work toward restoring already degraded lands. Farmers need to switch to smart agricultural methods that protect the soil. If we can save rainwater and give the soil periodic holidays to “fallow”, we definitely can stop the deserts from winning. I tell you all these because I have a modest understanding of the basics. After all, I am a development practitioner who envisioned a climate-resilient, food-secure sub-Saharan Africa and whose work and current focus span sustainable land-use practices, assisted natural regeneration, and agroforestry and livelihood systems in Nigeria.  

In 1994, the UN General Assembly established the UNCCD and declared June 17 as the World Day to Combat Desertification and Drought. Since then, June 17 has been commemorated to raise awareness of solutions to land degradation, drought, and desertification. The theme for this year, 2026, is “Rangeland: Recognise. Respect. Restore.” As this writer presumes we all know what rangelands are, it’s fair to allow relevant MDAs, such as the Ministries of Agriculture, Environment, and Livestock, and initiatives such as the African-led Great Green Wall Initiative, to deliver their mandates in peace. At the same time, we equally do our parts as individuals and as groups.

Therefore, the choice before us is simple, yet likely embarrassing depending on how we manage it. We can either continue on our current path, in which case we will watch our favourite green spaces turn to dust, or we can take a stand today to save life on land. Because if we don’t desert our destructive habits right now, the desert is going to move in and claim our dessert (dessert, not desert). My ancestors would say, “Dabara ta rage wa mai shiga rijiya.”

There I lie.

Abubakar Idris Misau, a Forestry and Wildlife graduate from the University of Maiduguri, writes from Akure, Southwest, Nigeria. He is reachable via email abubakar.consult@gmail.com.

By Muhsin Ibrahim

The interview with Professor Tijjani Naniya on Arise News that I shared on Facebook yesterday continues to generate more (wild) reactions. At the time of posting this, more than 1100 comments had been made. This is far more than my previous posts or, generally, above-average social media posts.

Of those comments, many are expletives. I deleted a few, but I chose to leave almost all the subsequent ones, including those containing abuse and insults. Why?

I want people, especially the thoughtful among us, to see who the faces behind the Hausa Zallah agitation are and what many of them represent.

Those comments contradict several core Hausa socio-cultural ideologies codified by scholars such as Kirk-Green (1974), Alhassan et al. (1982), and Adamu (2001). I wonder where those so-called Hausa Zalla folks got them. If they were genuinely “Hausa Zallah”, they should demonstrate the cherished Hausa values.

Equally, go see how erstwhile Hausa “enemies” are defending the Hausa Zallah ideology. Naniya did not blame southeasterners for our growing insecurity or disunity. Rather, he traced the etymology of the term “Hausa-Fulani” to them. This is debatable, but it should be based on knowledge rather than insults.

When the Hausa Zallah staged a protest in Berlin, they displayed pictures of Nnamdi Kanu and called for his release. Why? So, even if Naniya associated the agitation with the Southeast, he might not be wrong. We should dig deeper to find the connection because it exists.

Folks asked for my opinion on all this. I have no problem with people identifying as Hausa, Fulani, or both. Actually, it’s bag governance that is fuelling all this hogwash. Identity politics is not a case in places where people live in peace and property.

In my neighbourhood in Cologne, there is a mosque, a church, and a mandir (a Hindu temple) within shouting distance. I have lived here for five years. I have never witnessed ANY problems between followers of these religions.

For me, we should unite against bandits, terrorists and corrupt politicians. They do not fight for or represent any particular ethnicity, religion or region. They are our real enemies, not your friend, colleague or neighbour who did not choose to be born Hausa, Fulani, Igbo, Yoruba, you name it.

When bandits or terrorists strike, they often do not distinguish between victims. They kidnap or kill them all. When a politician steals our money, it affects our roads, schools, hospitals, and more.

Wake up. Think and do the right thing.

Muhsin Ibrahim can be reached via muhsin2008@gmail.com.

By Ibraheem A. Waziri

Moses E. Ochonu, Boko Haram: The Past of the Present Upheaval, University of California Press, Oakland, 2026.

There are books that inform, books that provoke, and, rarer still, books that compel you to interrogate not merely their subject but the assumptions through which it has long been misread. Moses E. Ochonu’s Boko Haram: The Past of the Present Upheaval belongs, in large measure, to this last category. It is a serious, learned, and often illuminating work. It is also, at a foundational level, a work that mistakes genealogy for inheritance. In a region where the stakes of historical narrative are measured in mass graves rather than academic citations, that error deserves honest reckoning.

Let me be clear from the outset: Ochonu is no lightweight, and no serious reviewer should pretend otherwise. His central argument, that Boko Haram did not emerge in a historical vacuum but must be situated within a long tradition of Islamic reform, dissidence, and theological contestation in Northern Nigeria, is not only defensible but necessary. His four-phase map of postcolonial Muslim dissidence, from Sheikh Abubakar Gumi’s pragmatic shiga a gyara (enter to reform) politics, through the revolutionary “Islam Only” radicalism of the 1980s, to the Salafi fence-sitting of the 1990s, to the full-blown jihadism of Muhammad Yusuf, is genuinely useful. His insistence that Boko Haram be studied as a rational, calculating actor rather than dismissed as inexplicable barbarism reflects an intellectual courage sorely needed in the debate. All of this deserves acknowledgement. 

But respect for a scholar’s craft does not require silence about where it occasionally leads him astray. After sustained engagement with this book, I find that Ochonu’s historical genealogy – meticulous and intellectually compelling as it is – ultimately commits the cardinal error of confusing proximity with equivalence. That the Fodiawa jihad and Boko Haram invoke similar texts, deploy similar vocabulary, and emerge from overlapping cultural landscapes does not make them participants in the same civilisational project. Resemblance is not identity. And a genealogy is emphatically not a pedigree.

The fact that Boko Haram claims Dan Fodio does not mean Dan Fodio claims Boko Haram. Throughout history, movements of radically different character have invoked the same ancestors. Revolutionary France invoked Rome. Such invocation tells us about the claimant; it tells us nothing reliable about the legacy claimed.

The Missing Dimension: What the Genealogy Leaves Out

Ochonu’s framework operates almost entirely along the axis of theological and political dissidence, the reformist impulse, the grievance against corrupt rulers, and the appeal to textual authority. What it leaves almost entirely out of view is the civilisational dimension of Northern Nigerian history: the long, patient, and extraordinarily durable process by which the Hausa-speaking world built not only political orders but also moral architectures, shared systems of meaning, obligation, hierarchy, and dignity that survived dynasties, empires, conquest, and colonial transformation alike.

That moral architecture did not originate with Dan Fodio. It was already ancient when the Fodiawa arrived. The old Hausa city-states and the Kanem-Bornu, which Ochonu himself acknowledges as a sophisticated Islamic civilisation predating Sokoto by centuries, had already created the conditions for a complex society organised around recognisable concepts of hierarchy, obligation, and social responsibility. The Fodiawa did not create this order. They found it, deepened it, gave it sharper Islamic articulation, and codified it in law and administrative structures. This is the real achievement of the nineteenth-century jihad, not that it overthrew the existing order, but that it built upon and consolidated what was already there. The Caliphate succeeded because it was, in the deepest sense, continuous with the civilisation it reformed.

At the centre of that civilisation lies a concept absent from every reformist movement Ochonu analyses, whether in the Fodiawa corpus, the MSSN anthems, or a single Boko Haram sermon. It is the concept that the late Anthony H. M. Kirk-Greene famously described in his landmark essay, “Mutumin Kirki: The Concept of Good Person in Hausa.” Mutumin Kirki, The Good Person, is the civilisational ideal at the heart of Hausa moral order.

The Mutumin Kirki ideal captures something no purely theological analysis can adequately convey: that social legitimacy in Hausa society derives not from ideological purity or reformist credentials, but from kirki, the cluster of virtues encompassing mutunci (dignity), kunya (shame as a moral conscience), responsibility, restraint, and recognition of one’s obligations within the social order. The framework placed duties on Sarakuna and Malamai alike, gave meaning to the roles of Attajirai and ordinary farmers, and even extended its logic to those society defined as marginal. Everyone knew where they stood. Everyone knew what was expected. Dignity required discipline. Power required restraint. And knowledge without wisdom was understood to be incomplete, even dangerous.

Colonialism, for all its violence and extractive logic, largely preserved the structure within which this framework operated. Indirect rule in Northern Nigeria worked precisely because the existing institutions already possessed legitimacy. The Emirates, the Alkali courts, and the hierarchies of office were incorporated into, and in some respects reinforced within, the colonial administrative framework. The resulting order was imperfect, as every historical product is. But it remained broadly legible to the moral universe the Kirki framework had constructed over centuries. In this sense, each successive political order, from Kanem-Bornu to the Sokoto Caliphate to colonial administration, can be understood as a successive tenant of the same civilisational operating system, adapting it, straining it, but ultimately operating within its logic.

The Verdict: Why Boko Haram Is Different, Categorically

Against this backdrop, the comparison between Boko Haram and the Dan Fodio jihad does not merely strain; it collapses. The Fodiawa jihad, whatever its human costs, was oriented towards institution-building. It produced a legal system, an administrative hierarchy, an educational network, a scholarly tradition, a literary culture, and a deepened moral framework that placed obligations on rulers and ruled alike. It expanded the universe of the Mutumin Kirki ideal; it did not attack it.

Boko Haram has done the exact opposite, systematically. It has attacked schools, murdered scholars, destroyed markets, abducted children, and reduced entire communities to rubble. It has not built a single institution that a future generation will inherit with gratitude. It has not produced a single scholar whose work will outlast the insurgency. It has not deepened the social hierarchies in which dignity and obligation are mutually reinforcing; it has weaponised those on the margins of society and enslaved those it was supposed to protect. Whatever else this represents, it is a direct assault on the civilisational operating system that both Kanem-Bornu and the Sokoto Caliphate spent centuries constructing.

Ochonu acknowledges this divergence; he explicitly notes that Boko Haram’s positions “directly contradict major aspects of the Fodiawa reformist creed and statecraft.” Yet within his framework, these divergences occupy a subordinate position. Structurally and rhetorically, the main assertion is the connection. And it is that connection, Boko Haram as participant in Northern Nigeria’s reformist DNA, that lingers in the mind and provides precisely the legitimacy Boko Haram’s ideologues have always craved. This is not a small risk. It is the central vulnerability of an otherwise admirable intellectual project.

Those of us who have observed Northern Nigerian politics, society, and intellectual life across decades, including pundits and commentators who know this civilisation not only from the archive but from the inside, find this framing, however sophisticated its execution, essentially uninitiated. It reads like the work of someone who has mastered the grammar of Northern Nigerian Islamic history with enormous care but has not quite absorbed its spirit: the civilisational confidence, the deep institutional memory, and the quiet but unmistakable recognition shared by virtually every segment of Northern Nigerian society not affiliated with Boko Haram that this movement does not belong to the tradition it claims. It is not reform. It is rupture, a specifically anti-civilisational rupture that the region’s history has not witnessed in any comparable form.

A movement may quote the same texts as its predecessors and still negate them. The Dan Fodio movement built what endured. Boko Haram destroys what was built. That distinction is not a footnote to the history of Northern Nigeria. It is the history of Northern Nigeria.

Final Reckoning: The Question History Is Actually Asking

Ochonu’s book asks: Where did Boko Haram come from? It is a vital question, and the book answers it with real skill. But the deeper question, the one the civilisational history of this region most insistently raises, is: What does Boko Haram’s existence reveal about the resilience of the moral architecture it attacks?

The long view of Northern Nigerian history suggests this: the Kirki operating system has survived before. It survived the disorder preceding the Fodiawa jihad. It survived the internal rebellions of the post-jihadi Caliphate period. It survived British conquest and the dismantling of the Sokoto political order. It survived the postcolonial state’s repeated failures to honour the obligations the Caliphate tradition placed on rulers. It did so because it is not merely a political arrangement or a theological position. It is a civilisational inheritance, embedded in culture, language, social practice, and moral imagination, that no single insurgency, however violent, has yet to erase.

Moses Ochonu has given us an important, serious, and deeply researched book. He has expanded our understanding of the landscape in which Boko Haram emerged, and he has done so with intellectual integrity. But genealogy, to repeat, is not pedigree. The real story of Northern Nigeria is not the story of rebellion. It is the story of civilisation, the long, patient construction of a moral society anchored in dignity, responsibility, learning, and character. Measured against that standard, Boko Haram appears not as the culmination of Northern Nigerian history but as its most violent recent attempt at self-erasure.

And on that measure, the verdict of civilisation itself remains, as it has always been, clear: this is not our inheritance. This is our wound.

By Muhammad Abubakar

A renowned mathematician and infectious disease modeller, Professor Abba B. Gumel, has been elected President-Elect of the Society for Mathematical Biology (SMB), becoming the first African to attain the prestigious position.

The announcement was celebrated by academics and researchers across the world, including Dr Salihu Sabiu Musa, who described the achievement as a major milestone for mathematical biology and African scholarship.

The Society for Mathematical Biology is one of the world’s leading professional organisations dedicated to advancing research and education at the intersection of mathematics and the life sciences.

Professor Gumel is internationally recognised for his pioneering contributions to infectious disease modelling, particularly in the study of epidemics and public health challenges. His work has influenced scientific understanding of disease transmission and informed public health responses globally.

According to Dr Musa, Professor Gumel’s election reflects his outstanding scholarship, leadership, and commitment to mentoring students and early-career researchers. He noted that the professor has inspired and supported countless scientists worldwide through his research and academic guidance.

Scholars have described the development as a significant achievement for Africa, highlighting the growing global impact of African researchers in science, technology, engineering, and mathematics.

Professor Gumel is expected to help shape the future direction of mathematical biology as the field continues to play an increasingly important role in addressing global health and environmental challenges.

By Munir Aliyu Kabuga

It is indeed disheartening, though sadly not surprising. A nation’s commitment to the welfare and security of its citizens is often measured by how it responds when its finest men and women make the ultimate sacrifice in service to their country.

The deaths of senior military officers in the fight against terrorism, including Brigadier General Uba and Brigadier General Momoh, and many more, remain painful reminders of the enormous sacrifices being made daily by members of the Armed Forces. These officers dedicated their lives to defending Nigeria against insurgency and insecurity, yet many Nigerians were left with the feeling that the national response to their deaths did not adequately reflect the magnitude of their service and sacrifice.

Beyond official statements of condemnation and condolences, many citizens expected a more robust and visible response—one that would demonstrate an unwavering resolve to bring the perpetrators to justice and intensify efforts to defeat the forces of terror. Such losses should serve not merely as moments of mourning but as catalysts for decisive action against those who continue to threaten the nation’s peace, security, and unity.

It is against this backdrop that concerns are being expressed regarding the death of General Rabe Abubakar. If the loss of serving generals did not elicit the level of response many Nigerians had hoped for, it is understandable why some fear that the passing of a retired general may receive even less attention from the authorities.

Ultimately, the greatest tribute to fallen heroes is not found in words of sympathy alone, but in concrete actions that strengthen national security, honour their sacrifices, and ensure that those responsible for such acts are relentlessly pursued and brought to justice.

The manner in which some military personnel have been treated, both in life and in death, is bound to have consequences for morale within the Armed Forces and for the willingness of future generations to enlist. It is only natural for a young citizen to think twice about joining the military when those who devote their lives to the service of the nation sometimes appear abandoned at their most vulnerable moments.

Why would one not hesitate when brave men and women give their all in defence of their country, only to face the prospect of falling into the hands of ruthless and barbaric terrorists? The courage required to wear the uniform is immense, but that courage must be matched by an unwavering national commitment to protect, support, and honour those who serve.

There is something profoundly troubling about the thought of a nation that entrusted a man with its uniform, bestowed upon him rank and responsibility, benefited from his years of sacrifice, celebrated his retirement, and yet seemed unable to guarantee his safety when he needed it most.

Today, we mourn General Rabe Abubakar.

He served his nation with honour, dedication, and distinction. His passing has reignited important questions about how a country values those who dedicate their lives to its service and security. It challenges us to reflect on whether we have done enough—not only to honour our heroes after their deaths, but also to safeguard them while they are alive.

This is more than a eulogy; it is a call to reflection. It is a reminder that the true measure of a nation’s gratitude to its heroes lies not merely in ceremonial tributes or eloquent speeches, but in its enduring commitment to their welfare, dignity, and security, both during and after their years of service.

May Allah forgive General Rabe Abubakar’s shortcomings, expand his grave, and grant him Aljannatul Firdaus. May He comfort his family, grant patience and strength, and bless them with peace and security, ameen. May Allah grant him eternal rest and comfort those he left behind, ameen.

By Muhammad Muhammad Salisu Esq.

As Nigeria approaches the 2027 elections, the alliance between the Kwankwasiyya and Obidient movements is attracting significant attention. On paper, it looks like a powerful partnership. Kwankwasiyya has a strong following in Kano and much of the North, while the Obidient movement enjoys significant support among young people and urban voters, especially in the South.

Together, they could become a formidable political force. But there is a problem.

Both movements have increasingly developed a reputation for attacking critics, insulting opponents, and treating disagreement as betrayal. Politics is a game of persuasion, not intimidation. A movement that insults everyone outside its camp may excite its loyal supporters, but it will struggle to attract the undecided voters needed to win national elections.

The situation worsened when some Kwankwasiyya supporters recently made comments perceived as disrespectful toward the late Sir Ahmadu Bello, the Sardauna of Sokoto. For many Northerners, the Sardauna is not just a historical figure. He is regarded as one of the architects of modern Northern Nigeria, a leader who championed education, institution building, economic development, and regional unity.

Attacking such a widely respected figure is politically damaging. It alienates many Northerners who might otherwise be sympathetic to the movement and raises questions about the judgment of those involved.

This is why Senator Rabiu Musa Kwankwaso needs to clearly distance himself from such attacks. In politics, silence is often interpreted as approval. A simple and firm defence of the Sardauna’s legacy would reassure many people that the movement respects Northern history and values.

The larger lesson is straightforward. No political movement can build a successful national coalition through insults, bullying, hostility, or attacks on respected historical figures. Winning elections requires discipline, maturity, tolerance, and respect for people who hold different opinions.

The Kwankwasiyya-Obidient alliance has the potential to become a serious national alternative. But potential alone is not enough. If both movements continue down the path of intolerance and political hostility, they risk pushing away the very voters they need.

The choice before Kwankwasiyya is simple: either grow into a movement capable of governing Nigeria or remain trapped in a cycle of unnecessary controversies and self-inflicted political wounds.

In the end, political movements are remembered not for how loudly their supporters shout, but for the wisdom, discipline, and judgment they display when it matters most.

Muhammad Muhammad Salisu Esq. wrote via muhammad.writes01@gmail.com.

By Abdussamad Umar Jibia

On May 15, 2026, 39 school children and seven teachers were abducted from three schools in Oyo State. Since then, the incidence has been the major headline in Nigerian traditional and social media.

This is not the first time criminals have stormed a school and abducted school children and teachers. The first known mass abduction of school children in Nigeria occurred in 2014 at Government Girls Secondary School, Chibok, in Borno state. It was followed by a series of similar abductions in different states of the North. This is the first time such a mass abduction has taken place in Southern Nigeria. Hence, the storm.

One piece of information that has been circulated is that the bandits have demanded the implementation of Shariah in the South West as a condition for the release of the children and their teachers. This is something I have found difficult to believe from my knowledge of bandits and their operations.

First and foremost, we have to distinguish among the different types of criminals who operate in Northern Nigeria. Boko Haram, which originated from the North East and later integrated with ISWAP (Islamic State of West Africa), claims to be fighting for Islam and has religion as part of its agenda, just like similar groups around the globe. Boko Haram/ISWAP mainly operates in the North East.

However, the bandits, as they are popularly called, who originated from the North West and are mainly of Fulani extraction, have nothing to do with religion, do not advocate it, and, in fact, most of them do not pray five times a day like Muslims do and cannot even recite the opening chapter of the Qur’an. This group, sometimes referred to as Fulani herdsmen to avoid ethnic profiling, is the group said to have abducted the Oyo pupils.

The bandits are not a single group. They are different groups, each with its leader, who live in the forest and are believed to have their informants in townships. The informants gather detailed information about their potential victims before striking. This is well known to anyone living in Northern Nigeria.

As a person who hails from the western part of Katsina State, I am one of the earliest victims of banditry. For example, in August 2016, my maternal uncle, who is the Imam of his village, was killed by bandits who shot him 11 times, injured his 10-year-old son and raped two of his daughters. In addition, more than 300 cows were rustled from the village. We reported the matter to the Katsina State Commissioner of Police, but nothing was done. 

Two months later, the government announced amnesty for all the bandits in Katsina State. The suspects were brought to the village with Police escort, and the villagers were told they must forgive them because they were “their brothers”. In all of these, religion was not mentioned. It was never an issue because the bandits were not a religious people.

After the amnesty, banditry continued as usual until 2019, when the Federal Government under Buhari asked all the state Governors to enter into peace agreements with the bandits in their states. The vividly uncomfortable Katsina State Governor held meetings with bandit leaders across the affected local governments of Sabuwa, Dandume, Faskari, Safana, Dan Musa, Kankara, Batsari and Jibia. The meetings took place in the forest under heavy security and before press cameras. The military support in the escort of the Governor was enough to crush all the bandits. Ironically, the Government decided to beg them. Videos of some of the meetings are still available online.

It is noteworthy that all the bandit leaders who attended those meetings were Fulani; they were all Nigerians, and none of them was religious. No one talked about religion, and the only complaint from most of them was that some of their gang members were in police custody and should be released. 

It is also not a Hausa-versus-Fulani affair. Some of the early victims of banditry were Fulani who refused to join banditry and refused to give their support to it. There are still many rural Fulani communities in the North West who are against banditry and do not harbour bandits. 

Now, at what point did banditry begin to be associated with religion? Different possibilities.

The Zionist entity

One of the biggest mistakes made by the General Ibrahim Babangida administration was normalising diplomatic ties with the Zionist occupation called Israel. Zionists are believed to be behind some of the crimes committed in the Northern part of Nigeria. 

The former deputy speaker of the House of Reps, Alhaji Abdullahi Wase, alleged that 300 youths from the Christian majority state of Plateau were given training in Israel and that four containers of arms were brought in by an Israeli security company to a politician’s house in Plateau state.

Alhaji Abdullahi Wase called for an investigation by the government. The investigation was not conducted. It is thus not out of place if Zionists, through some hirelings, introduced religion into the discussion of banditry in order to cause further internal crisis or use their American boys to attack innocent Muslims in Nigeria.

Sheikh Ahmad Gummi

The involvement of Dr Ahmad Gummi with bandits leaves more questions than answers. Gummi is an Islamic scholar who views issues from an Islamic perspective. Did he ever tell the bandits to shift their focus to religion rather than remain common criminals? I have no answer to this question. Only the Government and Sheikh Gummi have.

Elements in the Tinubu administration

A young Islamic scholar, Sheikh Munir Koza, once claimed that he was among the many influential young Islamic scholars invited to a meeting by some defence officials of the Tinubu government not long after the Government took over. With a financial reward, they were asked to emphasise three things in their preaching. 

One. That banditry by Fulani groups is justified because Fulani have been subjected to neglect and injustice over a long period. 

Two. Call on the government to engage in dialogue with bandits and offer them political appointments. 

Three. The Governors of Zamfara and Katsina are wrong to have set up security outfits to confront bandits. 

According to Sheikh Koza, he was the only person who expressed his disagreement at the first meeting and was thus not invited to subsequent meetings.

If Sheikh Koza’s claim is true, it means there are bandits’ sympathisers in the Tinubu Government. One would ask, is Mr President not aware? Did he appoint them because he believes insecurity is a Northern Nigerian affair, and he has thus appointed Northerners to go and eat themselves? Now that it has spread to the South, is he ready to make amendments?

Or, who actually introduced religion into it?

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