Northern Nigeria

By Khairat Sulaiman

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Khairat can be reached via khairatsuleh@gmail.com.

By Tahir Mahmood Saleh

In Barden Barade, a remote village tucked within Sokoto State’s dry plains, something extraordinary happened a fewweeks ago — light returned. But not just light from a bulb. This was light that brought hope, dignity, and the promise of life.

For the past five years, the village’s only primary healthcare centre stood in silence — its doors locked, its wards dark, its beds removed. At night, when labour pains started, expectant mothers were rushed out of the village in desperation, sometimes travelling over 20 kilometres in search of care. Others gave birth on the floor of the abandoned hospital, aided only by midwives holding phone torches between their teeth.

“Many of us feared we wouldn’t survive childbirth,” said Maryam Abubakar, a mother of four. “My last child was born on a mat, with only the light of a small phone. The nurse kept shifting the torch with her mouth. I cried not from pain, but fear.” That fear is no more.

CREACC-NG, a Nigerian non-profit organisation championing community resilience and climate justice, launched the HealthVoltaic Initiative in Barden Barade. The initiative brings solar-powered energy systems to rural health centres cut off from the national grid.

With support from community stakeholders and generous partners, the team installed: A HealthVoltaic solar generator, Roof-mounted solar panels, medical equipment, including Doppler fetal monitors and digital thermometers, Rechargeable lights and fans, Beds and basic emergency supplies

For the first time in years, delivery rooms once sealed and abandoned were reopened. Midwives walked proudly into wards now lit by solar energy. Mothers now lie on beds, not mats. The hospital, which never operated at night, now runs 24/7.

“No woman will give birth in the dark again,” declared Umma Muhammad, the hospital’s Officer in Charge. “No more using torchlight with our mouths. No more mothers losing their lives because of light. This is a new beginning.” At the unveiling ceremony, Alhaji Mamman, the traditional leader of Barden Barade, stood with tears in his eyes.

“For years, we begged for help. We watched our women suffer. Today, we have light — not just in bulbs, but in our hearts,” he said as he formally launched the HealthVoltaic system. “This is one of the greatest things to happen to our community.”

The community turned out in large numbers. Women ululated. Children danced around the solar panels. The Ward Development Committee (WDC) members, who serve as custodians of the hospital’s welfare, pledged to supervise and protect the solar generator and ensure the project is sustained.

“We’ve waited so long. Now it’s here, we won’t let it fail,” said Malam Nura, a member of the WDC. “This energy system is for our mothers, our babies, and our future.” The transformation at Barden Barade is only the beginning.

CREACC-NG hopes to expand the HealthVoltaic Initiative to hundreds of off-grid rural health facilities across Nigeria. In a country where one woman dies every 13 minutes during childbirth, and where over 55% of primary healthcare centres have no electricity, the need is both urgent and immense.

“This is not just about power,” said CREACC-NG’s Project Lead. “It’s about restoring dignity to rural healthcare. It’s about saying no woman should die giving life — simply because there’s no light.” The HealthVoltaic Initiative aligns with Sustainable Development Goals 3 (Health) and 7 (Clean Energy) and presents a practical, low-cost, high-impact solution that is community-owned, climate-smart, and scalable.

But to take this movement beyond Barden Barade, funding is needed. Grants, private sector partnerships, and donor support can help replicate this success in other underserved communities — places where light is still a luxury, and delivery rooms are still covered in shadow.

Barden Barade was once a forgotten village, its hospital a symbol of abandonment. Today, it’s a beacon of what’s possible when communities believe, when organisations act, and when the world chooses to care. As the sun set on the day of the launch, the lights inside the hospital remained on — glowing quietly, confidently, like a promise kept. And in that light, babies cried, midwives smiled, and hope was reborn.

By Abdulrahman Sani

I went to Sudan to study Arabic. That was the beginning, simple and deliberate. But in truth, Arabic was only the surface. Sudan offered more than language. It stirred old questions I had carried with me since adolescence. Questions about memory, exile, and what remains after collapse.

My first encounter with the Sokoto Caliphate’s legacy wasn’t through archives or oral traditions. It was through theatre. I was in secondary school when I read Attahiru by Ahmad Yerima. The image of the Caliph fleeing colonial forces, defiant to the end, burned itself into my mind. I didn’t fully understand the politics then, but I felt the tragedy. That single text became a spark.

Later, I found the writings of Dr. Usman Bugaje, measured and searching. And then came Muhammad Shareef, the African American founder of Jamaa’at Danfodio in the United States, whom I had the pleasure of interviewing [here: https://youtu.be/_5Uj1S0lXQM?si=1BpJ9vusnW2HqWf4]. His writings were rich, wide-ranging, and full of overlooked geographies. It was through him that I first read about Maiurno, a small village in Sudan that held the echoes of Sokoto’s fall.

The very idea of it intrigued me. Remnants of the Caliphate had not only survived but also resettled, rebuilt, and renamed. I wanted to know what happened after Burmi. I wanted to know what exile looked like, generations later.

I mentioned this to my friend Malam Hassan, and soon after, we were on our way — me, him, and our guide. Before Maiurno, I spent some time in a Hausa village in Sudan. The familiarity was immediate. I saw areas named after Illela, heard idioms that sounded like home. It was as though Sokoto had sent a whisper into the desert, and it had echoed back in Sudanese tones.

Maiurno came into view quietly, without ceremony—a flat, sun-beaten village, carrying itself without fanfare. But history rarely announces itself. You feel it in the silences.

We made our way to the Sultan’s palace early in the morning. As we approached, an elderly man greeted me in Fulfulde. I hesitated, then responded in Arabic, admitting I didn’t understand. It was one of those quiet humiliations. A Fulani, abroad, unable to answer in the language of his own people. He smiled politely and said nothing.

We waited. There were others before us, people from another town in Sudan who had come to report a case. In the meantime, I noticed the crocodiles. Yes, crocodiles. They lay in their enclosure like royal guards, unmoving. It felt surreal but somehow fitting. The Sultan was no mere figurehead. He was the acknowledged leader of Hausa and Fulani communities in Sudan, a man of both presence and authority.

When he finally emerged, he received the guests before us. He listened without interruption or impatience. Then he settled their matter with a wisdom that didn’t need to explain itself. That kind of clarity is rare.

Then he turned to me.

I told him why I had come. I said I was interested in the Fodiyawa manuscripts said to be preserved in Sudan. He nodded with understanding, but explained that the key lay with the Sardauna of Maiurno, a scholar of great standing who, ironically, had travelled to Nigeria, my own country.

The Sultan was fluent in Hausa, Arabic, and Fulfulde. He spoke with the calm rhythm of someone used to being listened to. He smiled and said, “I know in Sokoto your Fulfulde doesn’t go beyond Balinjam.” It was said lightly, but it landed with accuracy.

He spoke of his relative, Professor Mukoshay, the author of the Fulani-Hausa dictionary. Then, briefly about Hayat ibn Sa‘id, a name that deserves more telling than time allowed. Before long, I realised I should be recording this. I asked his permission. He agreed with grace.

He began narrating how their ancestors had come to Maiurno after the fall of the Caliphate, how they had built their homes, mosques, and memory on Sudanese soil, and how they still kept contact with their families in Nigeria. He spoke too of the Jamaa’at Danfodio in America with quiet admiration, amused by how history had found new shapes and tongues.

After the conversation, he did something unexpected. He asked, gently, for my contact. I gave it. We shook hands, and I took my leave.

What struck me wasn’t just the story. It was the clarity with which he carried it. My visit to Maiurno took place in 2019. At the time, the country was in a fragile transitional moment, unsure of what lay ahead. But even then, the Sultan stood out–quiet, composed, and principled. In later years, during the war with the RSF militia, I would hear that he remained steadfast and stood with the state when others hesitated. The president himself visited to thank him.

Maiurno wasn’t just a trip. It was a quiet, necessary crossing, from curiosity to memory, from story to place. The Sokoto Caliphate may have fallen in Burmi, but it lives on. In names. In speech. In places like Maiurno, where its sons still remember.

Abdulrahman Sani can be reached via X: @philosopeace.

By Hadiza Abdulkadir

Nigerian spoken word artist and poet, Maryam Bukar Hassan, has been appointed the first United Nations Global Advocate for Peace, marking a historic milestone for both the artist and the continent.

Known for her evocative poetry and powerful performances, Hassan, often called “Alhanislam” by her fans, has gained international recognition for using her voice to address pressing social issues. Her latest appointment underscores the UN’s commitment to engaging young voices in the global peacebuilding process.

In her new role, Hassan is expected to lead campaigns that inspire dialogue, promote conflict resolution, and amplify youth perspectives on peace. Her message, rooted in empathy and resilience, has resonated with many around the world.

“Peace is not a silence you force into people’s mouths… It is not the absence of war; it is the presence of understanding,” she says in her latest poem — a reflection of the conviction she brings to her advocacy.

With conflict and crisis affecting millions globally, especially young people, Hassan’s appointment comes at a critical time. Her voice offers not just representation, but a rallying call for hope and healing.

By Zayyad I. Muhammad 

Bauchi is one of the few states, perhaps the only one, in northern Nigeria that has consistently upheld a politics rooted in independence. The people of Bauchi are known for their distinct political culture: no candidate, political party, or ideology can be imposed on them. Incumbency holds little sway, and public or political office holders often fail to win elections.

From the days of the Northern Elements Progressive Union (NEPU) in the First Republic, to the politics of the Second Republic, and even the cult-like support for Muhammadu Buhari in more recent times, Bauchi has carved out a political identity that is both unique and enduring.

A review of Bauchi’s electoral history, particularly in gubernatorial contests, reveals a striking pattern of political independence that many analysts regard as unmatched in Nigeria. 

For instance:

In 1979, they elected Tatari Ali as Governor under the National Party of Nigeria (NPN) against their kinsman within the North East, in the person of Alhaji Ibrahim Waziri of the GNPP.

In 1992, they elected Alhaji Dahiru Mohammed Deba as Governor, alongside Alh Ibrahim Tofa of NRC, against the popular candidature of MKO Abiola 

Somehow in 1999, after a rerun election, PDP managed to win, and Adamu Mu’azu got elected as Governor, but later lost the bid to win senatorial elections after serving for 8 years as Governor. 

In 2007, Mal. Isa Yuguda won as Governor under ANPP against the incumbent PDP when Yar’Adua was president. 

In 2011, the state aligned with the opposition APC to produce Mohammed Abdullahi Abubakar as Governor, but lost his re-election bid despite being the sitting governor to the Present Governor Bala Mohammed of the PDP.

This pattern speaks volumes:

Abuja or any ‘interest’ cannot and has never dictated the governor’s emergence in Bauchi state. Imposing candidates rarely work. Incumbency does not guarantee re-election. High-profile public and political office holders have little impact. Governors have lost re-election, senatorial bids, and attempts to anoint successors in several Cases. The swinging nature of Bauchi politics is one of its most intriguing features

Equally remarkable is the background of those elected. Since 1999, Bauchi governors have consistently emerged from modest or unexpected circumstances- ‘Zero level, so to speak. Governors Adamu Mu’azu, Isa Yuguda, Mohammed Abubakar, and the present Bala Mohammed all came from zero disposition, meaning they did not hold a position or office for at least two years during the election period. This trend illustrates the state’s openness to merit and its resistance to political imposition.

Looking ahead to the 2027 elections, it appears to be the state with the highest number of contestants so far. 

1. Mohammed Auwal Jatau – the current Deputy Governor of Bauchi State

2. Muhammad Ali Pate – the current Minister of Health

3. Dr. Nura Manu Soro – Ex-Finance Commissioner and President Tinubu campaign Coordinator. 

4. Ambassador Yusuf Tuggar, current minister of foreign affairs. 

5. ⁠Senator Shehu Buba, a serving senator from the APC 

6. ⁠Alhaji Bala Wunti, former MD of NAPIMS

7. ⁠RTD Air Marshal Sadiq, former APC gubernatorial candidate 

8. ⁠Senator Halliru Jika, former senator 

9. ⁠Dr. MUSA Babayo, former chairman of TETFUND 

10. ⁠Senator Dahuwa Kaila, a serving senator, among numerous others. 

With such a lineup and Bauchi’s long history of voter independence, the 2027 elections promise to be as competitive and unpredictable as ever.

Bauchi’s politics remain firmly anchored in progressive and populist traditions. Candidates without a clear vision or strong grassroots connection are regularly rejected at the polls, and 2027 is likely to uphold that tradition.

Only time will tell.

Zayyad I. Muhammad writes from Abuja via zaymohd@yahoo.com.

By Khairat Suleiman

Physical attractiveness is recognised as one of the strongest societal currencies, with research suggesting it fosters confidence and can translate into personal and professional success for many women. 

A 2023 study from the Journal of Social Psychology found that attractive individuals are perceived as more competent in initial social interactions, particularly in image-driven industries, which can be especially relevant in contexts like that of the Hausa/Fulani parts of Northern Nigeria, where cultural norms often emphasise appearance in social and marital roles. However, this focus can overshadow the importance of education, skills, and intellectual growth.

Consider the 2022 case of 5-year-old Hanifa from Kano State, who was tragically murdered by her head teacher tragically murdered. Her death sparked temporary outrage on social media, with behavioural psychologists attributing much of the reaction to her good looks, as noted in various analyses. This example, while digressive, highlights how attractiveness influences societal perceptions, even in tragic contexts.

While beauty can open doors, overemphasising it often has consequences. A 2025 LinkedIn report highlighted that women with advanced skills in fields such as technology, finance, or leadership earn 20-30% more than those relying on appearance-based roles, which often have shorter career spans. Investing in intellectual and professional growth not only leads to personal fulfilment but also challenges societal expectations, with confidence from career milestones being just as enduring, if not more, than that from physical enhancements.

Social media plays a vital role in promoting beauty standards over career-focused content. A 2024 analysis of TikTok content revealed that posts about Brazilian Butt Lifts (BBLs), Botox, and skin bleaching receive millions of views, often outpacing career-focused content. Influencers promote these aesthetic procedures by sharing recovery tips and glowing results, which normalise and glamorise them. 

Meanwhile, women sharing career advice, skill-building tips, or educational opportunities are underrepresented, with a search for “career growth for women” on Instagram yielding fewer than 10% of the results compared to “beauty tips.” This imbalance creates a feedback loop, bombarding young women with messages prioritising looks over substance.

In the Hausa/Fulani parts of Northern Nigeria, career women face additional challenges due to stereotypes that suggest women’s value lies primarily in their appearance, undermining their professional and intellectual capabilities and hindering progress toward gender equality. An example is a female broadcaster from an international radio station who was ‘praised’ for her beauty while her professional qualities were ignored, with viewers even bullying and discrediting other broadcasters with equally laudable professional qualities for not meeting the ‘attractiveness’ standards. These stereotypes are rooted in cultural norms, thus often confining women to domestic roles and limiting their participation in many life-changing activities.

We need to amplify platforms and role models that celebrate diverse definitions of success. We need more women sharing skill-building resources, career tips, or educational opportunities, rather than BBLs, Botox, aphrodisiacs, and skin bleaching, which have surged in popularity. Self-care isn’t inherently harmful; the key is balance. Looking good should complement, not overshadow, a woman’s intelligence and abilities.

Khairat Suleiman can be reached via khairatsuleh@gmail.com.

By Prof. Abdalla Uba Adamu 

Let me start with a context. It happened on June 27, 2024, Gabon’s Show on YouTube.

“Zarmalulu no work” was an expression uttered by TikTok influencer Sayyada Sadiya Haruna, describing the state of her marriage to another TikToker, Abubakar Ibrahim, a Hausa Rapper based in Kano, northern Nigeria, and known by the stage name G-Fresh Alamin. She used the expression during her interview with Hadiza Aliyu Gabon, a Kannywood (Hausa cinema of northern Nigeria) film actress, in an episode of Gabon’s YouTube Show, “Gabon,” on June 27, 2024. Haruna used the expression to inform Gabon and her viewers that G-Fresh was impotent on their wedding night, using ‘Zarmalulu’ as a social code for his non-performing reproductive organ.   

The expression, which quickly became a meme referring to the male sexual organ and its (dis)abilities, became a trending term in Hausaphone social media counterculture, and G-Fresh, usually full of swagger and macho posturing, was highly ridiculed and his swagger deflated, as it were. In this process, Haruna has provided males with an easy way of explaining their erectile dysfunction to either their partners or their healthcare provider in a less embarrassing and amusing way. The use of the term openly reveals a growing vocabulary of erotic neologisms in Hausa social media and reflects the emergence of what I refer to as Hausa digital counterculture.

This media incidence – which received massive views, significantly improving Gabon’s financial standing – reflects one of the fascinating aspects of language development within the context of media anthropology. I am pretty sure that Margaret Mead, the doyen of cultural anthropologists, would have welcomed social media and its potential in studying digital natives. Safer, too. With the increasing creation of conventional and alternative communities on social media, a new discipline has emerged to enable people to study others without the necessity of being in the same physical space and time with them. So, what exactly is “media anthropology”? 

Media anthropology is the ethnographic and critical study of how media—especially digital and social media—are embedded in the cultural, social, political, and economic lives of people. It is a subfield of anthropology that examines how people create, utilise, interpret, and are influenced by media in their daily lives. It blends the traditional ethnographic methods of anthropology—such as participant observation and in-depth interviews—with the analysis of media technologies and content.

My initial focus was on Hausa literature and its transformations – from physical print to online publishing, then to the film industry – encompassing feature films and distribution through tapes, CDs, DVDs, and YouTube series. I then moved on to music, from griot wordsmiths to rap and hip hop. It was all pretty exciting. Then, social media made its entrance and created multiple new entries into the field. 

As a media anthropologist, I immerse myself in communities—both online and offline—to understand how people engage with digital media. For this study, I focused primarily on Facebook as a social network. Hundreds of communities were created on Facebook—mainly by young people—that discuss a wide range of topics, providing a rich source of data concerning youth subcultures and how social networks offer a subversive template for creating new identities and expressions. 

As I swing from one community to another – using Robert Kozinet’s Netnographic methods – I began to notice a new pattern of language usage among young Hausa online digital natives. Then I started gathering new words and expressions that offer alternative meanings to their conventional ones. For the most part, they tended to be innocuous, while hiding a deeper, often darker meaning, and are essentially communicated to ingroup members of the communities. Quite rapidly enough, some of the words began to take on a new urban lexicon on their own. 

A typical example is “capacity,” an innocuous word that means exactly what it says: maximum production or containment. Yet, digital natives have turned it into “kafasiti” to indicate an urban cool, swagger, ability, capability, “arrived”, etc. The word is now used in multiple forms and contexts to refer to attainment of either distinction or class (“Alaji, wallahi an baza kafasiti a bikin nan”). 

But, then, old words have always had new meanings in Hausaphone urban language use. For instance, “shege” is literally a bastard in Hausa, but recontextualised to mean “an expert” or “outstanding.” “Mugu” (bad) became an adjective for extremities (“mugun kyau”, extreme beauty). “Arne” (pagan) transformed into contemporary “bro” (kai arne, yaya dai/yo, bro, wazzup?). “Kwaro” (insect) translates into a tenacious, usually studious person. For southern Nigerians, “Aboki” is an imagined insult referring to any northerner, whether Hausa or not, rather than “friend,” its actual meaning. 

Hausa digital natives utilise the unconventionality of the social media they inhabit to create neologisms that often reflect hidden, dark, or altered meanings, frequently dealing with in-group lexicons. After trawling through various sites and TikTok videos, I was able to gather approximately 35 neologisms and incorporate them into a paper I am still working on. 

Looking at these digital coinages and the transformation of words, I was struck by the fact that many of them refer to bawdy or sexually suggestive language along the entire sexual preference spectrum. They tend to be more common in social networks (e.g., Facebook, WhatsApp, Telegram, Signal), where interactions are mainly conversational, than in visual social media (e.g., TikTok, Instagram). The reason is that visuality often identifies the person easily, and in Kano, an Islamicate state in northern Nigeria, this could lead to prosecution on moral grounds. On social networking sites, users often use aliases instead of their real names. Such anonymity gives them the freedom to express their thoughts and use these neologisms in their correct grammatical sense. The sentences are meaningful only to in-group members, within or outside the online communities. 

Examples include “Malam Zakari da almajirai biyu”, referring to the male reproductive organs. “Kaya” (load, baggage) referring to trophy (girl, money, etc), “tarkon alƙali” (judge’s trap/jailbait) for pedophilic behaviour, royal rumble (orgy) and murfi (cover) referring to lesbian activity.

As I noted, over 70% of the neologisms in my collection were bawdy and sexually slanted. Their creators chose the anonymity of online communities not only to create new coinages but also to perpetuate them, without any fear of social labelling or prosecution. Some of these words will gradually become part of conventional social usage, along with their attendant meanings. There is no stopping them. Their very existence highlights another way social media is influencing our culture, language, and traditions. 

But, what do you think – good, bad, indifferent? Whatever your feeling, what can we do about it? Hausa is not the only language facing this, though. A recent book by Adam Aleksic, Algospeak: How Social Media Is Transforming the Future of Language” (July 15, 2025), reveals the international nature of this phenomenon through “algorithmic speech”. As the blurb indicates:

“From ‘brainrot’ memes and incel slang to the trend of adding ‘-core’ to different influencer aesthetics, the internet has ushered in an unprecedented linguistic upheaval. We’re entering an entirely new era of etymology, marked by the invisible forces that drive social media algorithms. Thankfully, Algospeak is here to explain. As a professional linguist, Adam Aleksic understands the gravity of language and its use: he knows how it has evolved and changed, how it reflects society, and how, in its everyday usage, we carry centuries of human history on our tongues…New slang phrases emerge and go viral overnight. Accents are shaped or erased on YouTube. Grammatical rules, loopholes, and patterns surface and transform language as we know it. Our interactions, social norms, and habits—both online and in person—shift into something completely different.”

No, I don’t have “eCopy” to Acibilistically share. You gotta buy the original print copy if you are interested in the way in which social media usage transforms contemporary language. I can give you the cover of the book for free, though!

By Abdulaziz T. Bako

The National Assembly is quietly processing over 80 constitutional amendments that could change the structure of Nigeria permanently. But most of us are not paying attention. This is not about party or tribe, it is about our future.

Just look at what happened in Kano. The State Government organized a public hearing on these bills, but the hall was mostly filled with Kwankwasiyya supporters, not because others were not invited, but because people are sleeping on what may be an existential threat to their region.

Reading through all 86 proposals, I couldn’t find a single clause that deliberately strengthens the North or addresses our developmental realities. The only visible “benefit” is that most of the proposals for the creation of new states and local governments are from Northern states, which is a clear reflection of our power-hungry leaders’ penchant for prioritizing territorial control over actual development. It’s the same mindset behind our endless creation of emirates across the North. Everyone just wants a title, a throne, or a kingdom they can personally rule, while the people remain poor, uneducated, and insecure.

Well, I want you to know that these reforms are not harmless. Many of them target the political, social, and economic foundations of Northern Nigeria. Leme break down a few of the most dangerous ones with what the bill says:

1. 50% VAT Derivation

The FG’s push for 50% VAT derivation is especially dangerous and deceptive. The federal government is now trying to reintroduce 50% VAT derivation formula through the back door after it was fought and rejected in the recently enacted tax reform bill. This move is clearly designed to give Lagos state an undue advantage, allowing them to keep most of the VAT collected, while impoverishing Northern states that rely heavily on federal redistribution. In essence, Lagos and other few states will keep most VAT, and Northern states will lose billions.

5. Resource Control – (HB 1310, HB 1406)

“States to have control over resources in their land… only remit 25% to the Federation Account.”

If this proposal passes, states will control the natural resources in their land and only remit 25% to the Federation Account. This would be catastrophic for Northern Nigeria, as most northern states heavily rely on the redistribution of oil revenue and VAT to fund their budgets, pay salaries, build infrastructure, and provide basic services. But with this reform, oil-producing states like Rivers, Akwa Ibom, and Delta would keep 75% of their oil money, while the federal government would be left with less to share. The North, which has fewer natural resources and far lower internally generated revenue, would be left behind economically. This is clearly an economic secession and sabotage disguised as federalism. It will widen the already dangerous gap between North and South, and could plunge many northern states into deeper poverty, unrest, and dependency.

3.. Indigeneship Reform – (HB 2057, HB 1422, HB 70)

“Any person resident for 10 years… or married to an indigene shall be entitled to all rights of indigeneship.”

This means anyone can become an indigene of Kano, Katsina, or Sokoto after 10 years or by marriage. I would leave you to decide what this means for emlloyment opportunities and federal character.

4. Ecclesiastical (Christian) Courts – (HB 79)

“Establish a system of Ecclesiastical Courts equivalent to Sharia Courts for Christians.”

You decide what you make of it.

This is just a sample. These reforms are coming fast and quietly. If we don’t speak up, they will be passed, and we may never recover from the consequences.

Share this, organize, and demand your state organize public hearings. Ask your religious leaders, lawmakers, and traditional rulers where they stand.

Abdulaziz Bako
7/25/2025

By Muhammad Umar Shehu

Nigeria, as a nation, has always struggled with the idea of unity. From the country’s very foundation, deception has played a central role in shaping the narrative we’ve been led to believe. The idea that we are “one people” is more of a slogan than a reality. The truth is, there has never been genuine unity in the way the state was formed or in how it is currently run.

The political class has done more to divide us than to unite us. Instead of promoting national interest, they manipulate ethnic, religious, and regional sentiments to serve their selfish goals. Over the years, these tactics have created deep hatred and mistrust among citizens. What should have been a diverse but united people has become a society fragmented by deliberate division.

Our leaders talk about unity during campaigns or national crises, but their actions show otherwise. Appointments, projects, and policies are often distributed along lines of loyalty, tribe, or religion rather than merit or national need. This is not only unfair, but also dangerous. It feeds resentment and makes many Nigerians feel like outsiders in their own country.

In almost every region, people feel marginalised. From the South East crying out over exclusion, to the North East lamenting underdevelopment, to the Niger Delta’s struggle over resources, the sense of belonging is weak. When some groups feel like second-class citizens, it becomes nearly impossible to build a strong national identity.

The younger generation is growing increasingly aware of these divisions. Many of them are no longer buying into the false narrative of unity. They see through the hypocrisy and want a country that treats everyone fairly, regardless of background. But without sincere leadership and bold reforms, their hope for a united Nigeria may remain a dream.

Unity cannot be built on lies. It cannot exist where injustice is the norm, where corruption thrives, and where the average citizen feels neglected. We cannot continue to pretend that all is well when millions feel disconnected from the system that claims to represent them.

If Nigeria is ever going to move forward, we must stop repeating slogans and start dealing with the hard truths. The illusion of unity must give way to honest conversations, equitable governance, and deliberate efforts to bridge our divides. Only then can we begin to build a nation where unity is not just a word, but a lived experience.

Muhammad Umar Shehu, who wrote from Gombe, can be reached via umarmuhammadshehu2@gmail.com.

By Malam Aminu Wase 

Your Excellency,

I write with deep concern for the moral and cultural fabric of our nation. It is my humble request that you consider banning the operation of TikTok in Nigeria to restore and preserve the dignity of our country, our religious values, cultural heritage, and the moral upbringing of our youth.

While TikTok is used in many parts of the Western world as a platform for creativity, advertising, and business promotion, the situation in Nigeria is deeply troubling. Instead of being a tool for productivity and education, TikTok has become a channel where inappropriate content thrives, particularly content that undermines our moral values and exposes young people to harmful influences.

In Nigeria today, TikTok is alarmingly associated with immoral displays, including the exposure of private parts by married women, as well as the promotion of prostitution. It has sadly become a platform that contributes to the breakdown of marriages and family structures. Many relationships have been destroyed because of disagreements over the use of this platform, with some spouses refusing to delete their TikTok accounts despite repeated appeals from their partners.

This moral decline is not just a private matter; it affects our collective national conscience and identity. If left unchecked, it may have long-term consequences for future generations.

Therefore, I respectfully urge your administration to take decisive action to regulate or, if necessary, ban TikTok in Nigeria. Such a step would not only protect our societal values but also send a strong message about the importance of discipline, modesty, and responsible use of technology.

Thank you, Mr. President, for your continued commitment to the growth and integrity of our nation.

Malam Aminu Wase writes from Kaduna. He can be reached via aminusaniusman3@gmail.com.