Northern Nigeria

By Abdullahi Muhammad Yalwa

As Nigerians lay their former president, Muhammad Buhari, to rest, a lively yet insightful debate has ignited on social media. Buhari’s death on the evening of Sunday, 13 July, has sparked a wave of polarised reactions across Nigeria and beyond. These responses, though all too familiar to ignore, are nonetheless difficult to tolerate either.

Ruling one of the most ethnically heterogeneous populations, the name BUHARI means different things to different people. For some, his death marks the end of a revered statesman’s journey, a disciplined military man turned democrat who embodied integrity and sacrifice. As such, religious apologists and loyalists have rushed to sanctify his legacy, cloaking his tenure in a veneer of divine purpose and moral uprightness. Yet, beneath the watershed emotions, lies a more sobering narrative, an impersonal truth which is hard to accept as it’s bitter to swallow.

For history and to serve as a springboard of truth, Buhari’s legacy is one that history will not so easily forgive nor forget. It’s a force that will be reckoned with in Nigeria’s history. A turmoil journey that lumbered from one crisis to another and finally ended in an overwhelming sense of failure. The truth, though uncomfortable, is therefore that Buhari’s legacy is a tale of squandered goodwill, unfulfilled promises, and a nation left more fractured than he found it.

In 2015, when the Saviour proclaimed his campaign, which would finally mark his ascension to power, Buhari, in a boisterous voice, chanted the “CHANGE” mantra, and citizens across the nation’s divides chanted CHANGE, and so the sound echoed. Hailed as a man of discipline, Buhari, in his usual austere demeanour and military pedigree, promised a break from the corruption and mismanagement that had plagued previous administrations. Equally, he promised to tackle insecurity, root out corruption, and stabilise a faltering economy. We saw in him a Messianic figure who would finally weed Nigeria of its bad seeds and breed a new garden for the poor. Sadly, however, the euphoria that greeted his election was a sad, fragile foundation of selective memory.

Buhari’s economic legacy is perhaps the most damning indictment of his tenure. Although he inherited an economy already strained by falling oil prices, his policies exacerbated the crisis, plunging Nigeria into two recessions within five years. By 2023, inflation had soared from 9% to over 22%, unemployment surged from 10.4% to 33.4%, and the naira lost 70% of its value against the dollar. Nigeria, once Africa’s largest economy, became the world’s poverty capital, with 133 million citizens living in abject poverty by the end of his tenure.

His economic interventions, such as the 2019 border closure to boost local production, backfired spectacularly, spiking food prices and straining relations with neighbouring countries. The naira redesign policies, implemented in 1984 and again in 2022, caused widespread hardship, with long queues and economic disruption for ordinary Nigerians. These measures, while framed as anti-corruption tools, were poorly executed and lacked strategic foresight. The ballooning national debt, reaching $150 billion by 2023, forced Nigeria to allocate 96% of its revenue to debt servicing, a fiscal albatross that continues to choke the economy.

Though it might be argued that Buhari inherited a comatose economy from Jonathan, riddled with corruption scandals like the $2 billion arms deal misappropriation, he promised to come and make a change, not to make excuses. Equally, his infrastructure projects, such as the Enugu-Port Harcourt Expressway and the Nigeria Air initiative, might be cited as evidence of progress. Yet, these achievements pale in comparison to the scale of economic devastation. The reality is that Buhari’s economic policies were not just misguided- they were catastrophic, leaving Nigerians poorer and more desperate than ever.

On the side of security, Buhari’s campaign promise to defeat Boko Haram and restore security was a cornerstone of his 2015 victory. Though there may be some early gains against Boko Haram, including the reclamation of territories, which briefly bolstered Buhari’s credentials, these victories were fleeting. By the end of his presidency, Nigeria was grappling with an unprecedented wave of insecurity, with over 63,000 deaths recorded from violent incidents between 2015 and 2023—an average of 22 deaths per day.

The rise of banditry, kidnappings, and farmer-herder clashes compounded the Boko Haram threat. The #EndSARS protests of 2020, sparked by police brutality, exposed his administration’s heavy-handed approach to dissent. Buhari’s silence during these crises, a hallmark of his leadership style, only deepened public distrust.

Buhari’s anti-corruption crusade was perhaps his most touted promise, yet it remains his most glaring failure. Though some positive outcomes were recorded, Buhari’s administration’s selective prosecution of opponents, such as Dasuki’s, raised questions about its sincerity. High-profile cases, such as the trial of former Central Bank Governor Godwin Emefiele, who’s one of the key figures during Buhari’s administration, continue to grab headlines, but systemic corruption persists. When the then Kano Governor Umar Ganduje was caught on video stuffing dollars into his robe, Buhari dismissed the evidence as doctored, undermining his anti-corruption credentials. The Economic and Financial Crimes Commission (EFCC), which he helped lay the groundwork for, became a tool for political vendettas rather than a beacon of reform. Many prominent figures were either pardoned or overlooked due to their political leanings or personal interests. As such, on anti-corruption, Buhari’s promises were a hoax.

Overall, Buhari’s cold, distant, arrogant air — that rigid, dry, unbothered, “I’m above you” type of character — which pervaded his leadership, remains deeply painful in the minds of his subjects. The fact that he spoke to his citizens during their tough times as if he was doing them a favour by acknowledging their existence is a poor record to reckon with as part of Buhari’s terrible legacy as a leader. There should be warmth and humility in public relations.

In the end, history is the most invisible phenomenon. As President Buhari is laid to rest, religious and regional loyalists should not seek to sanctify his legacy, framing him as a patriot who served Nigeria with unwavering dedication. Such eulogies, while expected, gloss over the harsh realities of his tenure. Equally, claiming that Buhari’s policies were sabotaged by external forces or inherited challenges ignores his role in exacerbating Nigeria’s woes. Instead, the uncomfortable truth is that Buhari’s legacy is one of missed opportunities and disappointment. He entered office with unprecedented goodwill, yet left Nigeria more divided, poorer, and insecure. His rigid, authoritarian style stifled dissent and eroded judicial independence, as seen in the prolonged detention of figures like Sambo Dasuki despite court orders. His failure to communicate effectively, evidenced by his silence during crises like #EndSARS and the ASUU strike of 2022, alienated a generation of young Nigerians.

History will remember Buhari not as the saviour Nigeria hoped for, but as a leader who squandered a historic mandate. His presidency teaches a bitter lesson: discipline without vision, and integrity without competence, cannot redeem a nation. As Nigerians mourn his passing, we must also confront the cost of his failures-a fractured nation, a struggling economy, and a generation of youth disillusioned with governance, standing on the brink of a precipice.

Abdullahi Muhammad Yalwa hails from Azare. He’s a graduate of Law from the University of Maiduguri, looking forward to serving his Country.

By Gambo Zilkifilu Mohammed

The turquoise waters off Yemen’s coast, often a beacon of hope for thousands fleeing despair, have once again become a graveyard. In a chilling echo of tragedies past, more than 140 African migrants are feared dead after their overcrowded boat capsized late Saturday night on one of the world’s most perilous journeys, the so-called “Eastern Route” to survival.

Imagine the desperation that drives you onto a fragile vessel, crammed shoulder to shoulder with strangers, knowing the journey could end beneath the waves. For at least 74 souls, that nightmare became reality. 

They are missing, vanished into the vastness of the sea. The cruel waves have already surrendered 68 bodies to the shores of Abyan province in southern Yemen, a grim testament to the disaster. Only 12 shattered survivors bear witness to the final, terrifying moments.

These weren’t just numbers

They were individuals, mostly young Ethiopians, carrying the crushing weight of poverty, conflict, or climate-driven devastation back home. 

They clung to the fragile dream of menial work in the glittering Gulf states—a chance to feed families, build a future, survive. Yemen, itself ravaged by a decade of brutal civil war, famine, and disease, was never their destination, merely a deadly transit point on a path paved with broken promises.

“Many of the bodies have been found scattered along various parts of the coastline,” authorities in Abyan posted somberly on Facebook, sharing images that revealed a haunting truth: most had no life vests.

 They were utterly defenceless against the indifferent sea. Abdusattor Esoev, head of the UN’s International Organisation for Migration (IOM) in Yemen, pointed the finger squarely at the ruthless calculus of human smuggling: “The underlying cause… is due to smugglers filling boats over capacity and not providing enough life vests on board.” Profit over people, yet again.

This latest catastrophe is not an isolated horror. It’s part of a relentless, bloody pattern. Just four months ago, in March, at least 188 migrants drowned in similar circumstances between Yemen and Djibouti. The Eastern Route consumes lives with terrifying regularity.

Why do they keep coming?

 Because the alternative, staying in communities gripped by violence, starved by drought, or hollowed out by poverty,  feels like a slower death. They gamble everything for a sliver of hope. Yet, reaching Yemen offers no sanctuary. The country, fractured by war between the Houthis and the internationally recognised government, is a lethal labyrinth. Migrants face not only the sea’s fury but also airstrikes, exploitation, trafficking, and detention. Remember April? When US-made bombs obliterated a migrant detention centre in Saada, killing at least 60 souls who had already survived the crossing?

Many who do survive the voyage find themselves trapped in Yemen’s nightmare borders closed, opportunities vanished, preyed upon by smugglers demanding ransom, and subjected to abuse. The dream of the Gulf becomes a cruel mirage, replaced by a daily struggle for survival in a land consumed by its own suffering. 

The bodies washing ashore near Abyan are more than a statistic; they are a searing indictment. They represent the crushing weight of global inequality, the failure to protect the most vulnerable, and the deadly consequences of conflicts and climate crises they did not create. Each recovered body leaves a family across the Red Sea shrouded in agonising uncertainty, waiting for news that may never come. The waves took their lives, but the world’s indifference drowns their hopes.

 How many more mothers must mourn before this deadly exodus is met not with apathy, but with action?

By Salisu Uba Kofar-Wambai 

There is no doubt that football remains one of the strongest unifying forces for Nigerians, especially during major tournaments when our national teams fly the green-white-green flag at continental or global competitions. The story was no different recently.

The nation erupted in joy when the Super Falcons delivered a stellar performance at the recently concluded African Women’s Championship, coming out victorious in style. For their success, the players were rewarded with ₦160 million, luxury apartments in Abuja, and national honours of Officer of the Order of the Niger (OON).

Before the cheers died down, another shock arrived from the basketball court. Nigeria’s women’s basketball team, D’Tigress, achieved victory in Africa for the fifth time — an unprecedented milestone in the continent’s history. They also received ₦160 million, national honours, and additional perks from the Tinubu administration as recognition for making the country proud.

These are well-deserved accolades, and we congratulate them wholeheartedly. But in the backdrop of Nigeria’s biting economic hardship — worsened by currency devaluation and the removal of fuel subsidy — one cannot ignore that the families of these women are now among the lucky few.

It is also not lost on observers that all these celebrated athletes hail from southern Nigeria, where culture and religion give more room for women to thrive in such sports. For northern women, however, social norms and religious considerations largely shut the door on similar opportunities.

The resentment deepens when we recall another recent achievement — this time not on the field, but in the arena of intellect. A group of Nigerian students from the North travelled to London and conquered the world, emerging champions at the prestigious English-Speaking and Debate Competition. Unlike the Falcons and D’Tigress, these young women did not just defeat African teams; they beat the entire world.

Yet, to the disappointment of many, the president’s response was a mere congratulatory statement issued through his media aides. No grand reception, no cash reward, no national honours. To some in the North, this is another example of what they perceive as a lopsided and selective reward system — a reflection of the same imbalance they accuse the administration of in project allocations. This, despite the North delivering 64.5% of the votes that secured the president’s 2023 electoral victory.

Thankfully, there was a silver lining. Former Vice President Atiku Abubakar stepped in, awarding the victorious students scholarships to pursue their education to any level they desire. This gesture is commendable and serves as a reminder that recognition and reward should not depend on geography or political convenience.

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!