Northern Nigeria

By Musa Kalim Gambo

The International Institute of Islamic Thought (IIIT), Central Nigeria Office, recently hosted a pivotal monthly lecture series on Sunday, June 1, 2025, shedding light on the escalating challenge of mental health and psychosocial issues in the modern world through an Islamic lens. The virtual event, titled “Navigating Mental Health and Psychosocial Challenges in the Modern World: An Islamic Perspective,” brought together eminent scholars and practitioners to underscore the urgency of addressing mental well-being, especially in a nation grappling with pervasive stressors and inadequate healthcare infrastructure.

The lecture commenced with welcoming remarks from Dr. Aliyu Tanko, the Coordinator of IIIT Central Nigeria Office, who highlighted the widespread nature of mental instability, noting the common sight of individuals speaking to themselves or acting unusually due to mental distress. Professor Ahmad Bello Dogarawa, a Zaria-based Islamic scholar who served as the chairman of the occasion, emphasised the timeliness and relevance of the topic, noting that the issue of mental health and psychosocial wellness gained critical attention during the COVID-19 lockdown, as families experienced increased troubles and stresses while confined to their homes. This realisation, he stated, underscored the necessity of continuous discourse on mental health and psychosocial support.

The first distinguished speaker, Professor Salisu Shehu, a Professor of Educational Psychology at Bayero University Kano and Executive Secretary of the Nigerian Educational Research and Development Council, delved into the conceptualisation of mental health. He noted that traditionally, mental illness was only recognised in its most severe forms, such as “actual madness and lunatic behaviour,” overlooking milder emotional instabilities like neurosis or withdrawal syndrome. However, with expanding knowledge, it’s now understood that mental illness encompasses a broad spectrum, including emotional disorders.

Professor Shehu highlighted the fluidity in defining “disorder” or “maladaptation” in the modern world, influenced by libertarian philosophies and concepts of freedom and inclusivity, citing the LGBT movement as an example where behaviours once considered abnormal are now termed “difference”. He countered that in the Islamic context, and conventionally, any behaviour “that deviates markedly from the accepted ‘norm’ or pattern can be considered as a disorder or abnormality”. He adopted the World Health Organization’s (WHO) 2022 definition of mental health as “a state of well-being in which the individual realizes his or her abilities, is able to cope with normal stresses of life, work productively and fruitfully, and make a positive contribution to his or her community”. He further explained that mental illness, according to WHO, is a “clinically significant disturbance in an individual’s emotional regulation, or behavior,” often associated with stress. He lamented the “irony of modernity,” where inventions designed for ease have, paradoxically, accentuated stress and psychosocial challenges, leading to increased mental illness due to factors like urbanization, overcrowding, and the erosion of social networking and extended family support.

Transitioning to the Islamic perspective, Professor Shehu articulated that mental health and sickness are “primarily subject to the absolute will of Allah,” rooted in the Tawhidi framework. He emphasised that Islam attaches “fundamental and central concern on maintaining and preserving mental well-being”. A profound demonstration of this concern is the unequivocal prohibition of intoxicants, as mental well-being is a prerequisite for fulfilling all Sharia obligations. He cited a Hadith affirming that “the pen (for record of sins) is suspended… against… the mentally ill until he regains sanity,” underscoring the vital importance of sound mental health in Islam.

The Quran, he noted, directly links stress and depression to emotional disorders, offering remedies such as belief in divine decree, patience, trust, and gratitude. Practices like Dhikr (remembrance of Allah) and Dua (supplication) are prescribed as potent coping mechanisms for sorrow and anxiety. Professor Shehu referenced Islamic scholars like Ibn al-Qayyim al-Jawziyya, who in “al-Tibb al-Nabawy (The Prophetic Medicine),” discussed the effects of stress (e.g., sleeplessness, grief, unfounded fears) on mental well-being and outlined over twenty Islamic coping techniques.

Following Professor Shehu, Professor Taiwo Lateef Sheikh, a distinguished Professor of Psychiatry at Ahmadu Bello University, Zaria, delivered a comprehensive presentation. He echoed the sentiment that mental health is a core protection in Islam, ranking third among the five necessities. He stressed the critical distinction between mental health symptoms and mental illness, noting that many experiencing distress can recover with community or spiritual support without necessarily needing clinical intervention.

Professor Sheikh painted a grim picture of mental health in Nigeria, describing it as “one of the most neglected areas of health in the world and even worse in Africa”. He presented sobering statistics:

• Over one in five people in conflict-affected areas experience mental health conditions.
• Nigeria allocates less than 5% of its health budget to mental health, with funds often going to standalone psychiatric hospitals rather than comprehensive care.
• There is a severe shortage of mental health professionals, with fewer than one psychiatrist per 100,000 people in Nigeria, translating to a ratio of 1 to 1.5 million.
• More than 85% of people with severe mental illness in low- and middle-income countries do not receive the care they require.
• Around half of all mental health conditions start by age 14, and suicide is the second leading cause of death among youth aged 15-29 in Africa.

He explained that mental health encompasses emotional, psychological, and social well-being, influencing thought, feeling, action, relationships, and stress management. He introduced the “bio-psychosocial approach” to care, integrating biological (physical investigations, medications), psychological (counselling, psychotherapy), social (lifestyle adjustments, environmental factors), and religious/spiritual dimensions. He passionately argued for the crucial role of spirituality in mental health, stating it provides a “sense of purpose and meaning, social support, healthier behaviours, increased happiness, and enhanced coping mechanisms and resilience”.

Professor Sheikh also detailed Nigeria’s mental health governance, outlining policies from 1995 to 2023. He highlighted his pivotal role in developing the National Mental Health Act of 2021, a landmark legislation signed into law in December 2023. However, he lamented the significant institutional barrier: the Act remains largely unimplemented, and the Federal Ministry of Health has yet to establish a dedicated Department of Mental Health, the “first rate-determining step” for a budget line and governance structure. Other barriers include professional rivalry, lack of standardisation in religious healing approaches, and individual self-denial and stigma. To overcome these, he called for multi-sectoral and integrated approaches, involving collaborations across health, education, housing, and other sectors and fostering partnerships with faith-based organisations and community engagement.

The lecture concluded with interventions from other senior colleagues and attendees. Professor Nasiru Maiturare, Rector of the Hajj Institute of Nigeria, underscored the effectiveness of the Islamic framework by presenting statistics on suicide rates: Muslim-majority countries show remarkably lower rates compared to nations like South Korea, Japan, and Sweden. This, he asserted, is not a coincidence but attributable to Islam’s “comprehensive approach to mental health,” which anchors human life in faith, remembrance of Allah, patience, trust, and gratitude.

Participants urged for greater mass outreach, including radio and TV programs in local languages, to reach broader audiences beyond those who can log into virtual platforms. Given their large followership, there was a strong call to engage religious and traditional institutions for awareness and community-based support and to standardise spiritual healing approaches. Suggestions were also made to integrate mental health awareness into primary school curricula and to establish groups of young, enthusiastic individuals at the state level to disseminate this crucial knowledge.

The lecture served as a powerful reminder of the urgent need for a societal shift in addressing mental health, emphasising that Islam provides a robust, holistic, and spiritual foundation for mental well-being and resilience in the face of modern-day challenges.

Gambo writes from Funtua, Nigeria and is a member of the IIIT Central Nigeria Office Monthly Lecture Series Committee.

By Muhammad Umar Shehu

The Nigerian educational system faces a crisis that can no longer be ignored. After years of neglect and outdated policies, the system has effectively collapsed. The curriculum in many public schools and universities is stuck in the past, failing to keep up with global developments and the skills needed in today’s workforce. Students often learn content that no longer applies to current realities, leaving them ill-prepared for the job market or further study.

One of the key problems is the failure to reform the curriculum in a meaningful way. While other countries continuously update their education content to match technological advancements and changing economic needs, Nigeria remains stuck with decades-old textbooks and syllabi. This disconnect creates a significant gap between what students learn and what employers expect, ultimately undermining the country’s ability to compete internationally.

The challenges extend beyond outdated content. Many schools are overcrowded, forcing students into cramped classrooms that are not conducive to learning. Basic facilities such as libraries, laboratories, and lecture halls are either dilapidated or entirely missing in numerous institutions. The lack of adequate infrastructure makes it difficult for students to engage in practical and experimental learning, which is critical to developing critical thinking and innovation.

Equally troubling is the condition of the teaching workforce. Many educators in the system are poorly motivated, largely because of low pay, irregular salaries, and poor working conditions. The absence of incentives and professional development opportunities means many teachers do not perform to their full potential. This creates a cycle where students receive substandard teaching, further reducing the quality of education and widening the skills gap.

Another critical issue is research funding, which is almost non-existent in Nigeria’s public education sector. Research is the backbone of academic and scientific progress, but here, lecturers often have to fund their projects or give up entirely. Without adequate grants, modern labs, or support for collaboration, innovation stalls. This lack of investment in research not only affects universities but also denies the country breakthroughs that could address local and global challenges.

The federal government’s role in this decline cannot be overstated. Despite education being constitutionally a priority, it remains underfunded and undervalued. While political budgets and other sectors receive increased allocations, education’s share continues to shrink. The failure to treat education as a strategic investment has led to a cycle of decay where graduates come out unprepared and schools continue to crumble.

In conclusion, reversing the collapse of Nigeria’s education system requires urgent and sustained commitment. It demands updated curricula, better infrastructure, improved teacher welfare, and significantly increased funding for research. Until these steps are taken seriously, Nigeria risks falling further behind as its youth are denied the quality education they need to thrive in a fast-changing world. The country’s future depends on a system that values knowledge, innovation, and real learning, not just ticking boxes on paper.

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

By Muhammad Umar Shehu 

I read with deep shock and sorrow about the gruesome murder of innocent travellers from Basawa in Zaria LGA of Kaduna State. It is heartbreaking and disturbing. 

What is happening to our society? When did we become so heartless that taking a human life no longer moves us? When did we start watching these tragedies unfold without reacting, without speaking, without demanding justice? This is not normal. We are clearly losing our sense of humanity and conscience.

The killing of these travellers is wicked, and it must be condemned in the strongest terms. No matter the excuse, mob action is mob action. Whether it happens in Plateau, Uromi, Kaduna, or anywhere else, it is lawlessness. It is cruel. And it has no place in any society that wants to grow, that wants peace, that wants justice. The moment we begin to justify the unjustifiable, we open the door to more bloodshed and deeper division.

The Federal Government, Plateau and Kaduna State Governments, security agencies, traditional rulers, religious leaders, and all other concerned stakeholders must rise to the occasion. This crime must not go unpunished. It is not enough to issue statements. Action must follow. Those behind this evil must be arrested, investigated properly, and brought to justice. That is the only way this act can serve as a warning to others. We cannot continue to act as if all is well when innocent lives are being wasted with no consequences.

It is painful to admit, but we have become a society where people record killings with their phones instead of stepping in to stop the madness. Where is our sense of community? Where is our compassion? The silence and indifference from many quarters are just as dangerous as the violence itself. We must speak up, we must act, and we must demand better from those who claim to lead and protect us.

The media, civil society, and the public must not let this incident be buried under the weight of the next trending story. These lives mattered, and these families deserve answers. We must keep the pressure on until justice is served. A society that fails to protect the innocent will one day be a danger to everyone, including those who look away.

May the Almighty Allah forgive the victims, grant them eternal peace, and give their families the strength to bear this painful loss. And may we, as a people, wake up before it is too late.

Muhammad Umar Shehu is a writer and social commentator from Gombe and can be reached via umarmuhammadshehu2@gmail.com.

By Fatima Ishaq Muhammad

Kano, known for its deep Islamic practices and royal traditions, witnessed a historic and uneasy moment during the 2025 Eid-el-Kabir celebrations as two rival Emirs led separate congregational prayers in different parts of the city.

This development demonstrated the woeful crisis over the leadership of the Kano traditional Emirate, which, indeed, remained one of the most powerful traditional institutes in northern Nigeria.

Moreover, on one side was Emir Muhammadu Sanusi II, reinstated in May 2024 by the Kano State Government after being dethroned in 2020. Aminu Ado Bayero was installed as Emir on the other side after Sanusi’s removal. He still maintains that he remains the rightful occupant of the royal seat.

During the Eid celebrations, Emir Sanusi II led prayers at the Kofar Mata Eid Ground, traditionally recognized as the seat of the Emir’s religious leadership.

Meanwhile, Emir Aminu Bayero held his prayers at a different location, with loyalists gathered around him. For the first time in recent memory, Kano experienced two major Eid congregations, each holding up to a divided royal allegiance within the ancient city.

This unprecedented situation did not happen in isolation, but it resulted from the recurring tussle over the Kano Emirate, rooted in politics and personal rivalries.

Sanusi II’s removal in 2020 by the administration of former Governor Abdullahi Ganduje was widely termed as punishment for his massive outspoken criticism of the government.

His reinstatement by the current government of Governor Abba Kabir Yusuf has been challenged in court by Bayero’s supporters, creating legal and political uncertainty over who the legitimate Emir of Kano is.

The split Eid prayers skyrocketed across Kano and beyond, symbolizing the Emirate’s division and disunity of authority.

What should have been a day of religious unity became a visible sign of division in the state’s leadership. Thankfully, no major disturbances were reported, though tensions remain high.

Adding to the complexity of the situation, the traditional Durbar festival, which usually follows the Eid prayers, was banned by the police for security reasons.

The ban disappointed many residents, as the Durbar is integral to Kano’s cultural identity and economic life.

As the legal battles escalate, many residents and observers fear that the division within Kano’s traditional leadership could escalate unless a clear resolution is provided by the courts or through dialogue among key stakeholders.

For now, Kano remains a city with two Emirs, two congregations, and a divided loyalty, awaiting clarity on the future of one of northern Nigeria’s most important royal institutions.

Fatima Ishaq Muhammad via fatimaishaq021@gmail.com.

By Sabiu Usman

On a Thursday evening, I began to experience symptoms of a fever. I took paracetamol, which temporarily reduced the temperature, but the fever returned more aggressively by nightfall. I spent the entire night shivering and praying for dawn, hoping to visit a nearby pharmacy for further treatment.

By morning, I was too weak to leave the house alone. I contacted a neighbour who often assisted people with basic medications. He came over with some drugs, inserted a cannula into my hand, and administered an injection. After some time, I felt slightly better, just enough to perform my early morning obligatory prayers.

After prayers, I visited my parents for the usual morning greetings. They noticed the cannula in my hand and expressed concern. I explained that I had been battling a fever all night. They offered prayers for my quick recovery and good health.

I returned to my room to rest, but a few hours later, the fever returned. I decided to visit a hospital for a proper diagnosis and treatment. I informed my mother and father, who responded with prayer and support.

Just as I stepped out, NEPA restored electricity, so I went back inside briefly to plug in my phones. Then I picked up my HMO & ATM card, some cash, and headed out. I stopped an Okada taxi motorcycle and climbed. However, midway through the trip, I suddenly felt dizzy and weak. I asked the Okada man to stop so I would not fall off. He parked and waited with me for about 10 minutes. When the dizziness did not subside, he advised me to stop another Okada when I felt better, and he left.

As I sat by the roadside with my head lowered, trying to recover, I heard someone call my name: “Sabiu, what are you doing here?” I looked up and saw a man who seemed to recognise me. I told him I was heading to Doma Hospital, and he offered to give me a ride. Without much thought, I entered his tinted glass car, given my background working in places like banks, I often encountered many people, so I did not find it unusual that he knew me, even though I could not recognise him.

I did not realise the danger until the doors shut behind me. The two men in the back seat immediately pulled me to the centre and forced a long beanie over my head, covering my face. We drove for about 25 minutes. When the cap was finally removed, I found myself in an unfamiliar room with three men surrounding me.

One of them, wearing a face mask and medical gloves, opened a kit, pulled out a syringe, and took my blood. He also forced me to give a saliva sample by pressing my jaw and collected it in a small container. Then he asked for a urine sample. I told him I did not feel the urge, but he insisted. One of the men, a tall, heavy-set individual, struck me twice in the back. The pain and fear triggered an immediate urge, and I had no choice but to comply. I gave the sample.

They offered me food, which I refused. I was scared and confused, still burning with fever. I noticed a wall clock, and it was 11:20 am. They left me locked in the room around noon and did not return with food and water until late that night, around 10:00 pm. Again, I refused to eat.

Later, one of the men sitting beside me was scrolling through what appeared to be my Facebook profile on his phone. I realised he had likely performed a reverse image search using the photo he had taken of me earlier. As he continued scrolling, a call came in from a contact saved as “Dr. Gombe.” He answered briefly, and shortly afterwards, they opened the door to let the doctor in. He appeared again wearing a face mask, this time also with a pair of glasses.

He reviewed some papers and likely test results and told the others that my vitals were fine and the only issue was my fever. He handed me medication I recognised and trusted, so I took it. It relieved the fever, but I remained cautious and continued to reject all food and drinks they offered.

That night, I could not sleep. I was terrified, and I knew something terrible was about to happen.

On Saturday morning, I refused to eat the breakfast they brought. They eventually left, leaving me alone inside the room. Around 9:00 pm, they returned. I overheard a tense conversation between the men and the doctor from behind the door. The doctor confirmed that everything had been arranged for a journey to Kaduna, where a surgery was scheduled for Monday. The driver, whom I had become familiar with by voice, asked about payment and the buyer of the kidney. Suddenly, one of them realised the door had not been entirely shut and might have allowed me to overhear their plans. He quickly pulled it closed and locked it properly.

When I realised they were planning to transport me to Kaduna, surgically remove my kidney, and sell it, a wave of fear surged through me. My heart began to race uncontrollably. I knew, without a doubt, that I had to find a way to escape or I might not live to tell the story.

That night, after they all left with the doctor, I gathered what little strength I had left and began inspecting the room. The doors were solid, and the windows were tightly secured with reinforced burglar-proof bars. Then, as I looked upward, I noticed the ceiling was made of a thin, rubber-like material, not as strong as the rest of the room. I dragged a chair to the centre, climbed onto the headrest, and carefully broke through two ceiling panels. With trembling hands, I pulled myself up into the roof cavity.

Carefully crawling along the ceiling joists, I broke through another panel leading into a different bedroom. I did not stop. I kept crawling, searching for a way out, until I spotted a weak point near the edge of the roof. With all the strength I could muster, I pushed through it, and to my relief, it opened to the outside.

I jumped down and instantly heard approaching footsteps. My heart pounded as I dove into a nearby flower bed, pressing my body flat against the ground. A man walked by, sweeping the area with a flashlight. I held my breath, praying he would not see me. Fortunately, he moved on to another part of the compound. When his back was turned, I leapt up, climbed onto a drum near the wall, and scaled it, disappearing into the night as fast as my legs could carry me.

I ran blindly, barefoot, and disoriented. Eventually, I found a road. I tried flagging down cars, but most sped past. Finally, an elderly man stopped. He asked where I was going. I said Nasarawo. He said he was not going that far but would drop me at Jekadafari Roundabout.

He noticed I was barefoot and looked me over suspiciously, probably questioning my mental state, but he said nothing. When we reached Jekadafari, I got down and began walking toward Central Primary School, exhausted and disoriented. Along the way, someone who looked familiar stopped me. Though I could not remember his name, we recognised each other. 

“Sabiu, what happened to you?” he asked, shocked. I did not have the strength to explain. I simply begged, “Please just take me home.” Without hesitation, he helped me onto his motorcycle and rode straight to our house in Nasarawo.

My mother was the only one at home; all of them were out searching for me. I knocked on her door and weakly said, “It’s me.” She opened it, and I collapsed in her arms, crying. She offered me water, which I drank desperately. After two sachets, I passed out from exhaustion and trauma.

My elder brother and his wife, both medical practitioners, had returned by then. They immediately began treating me. I was given injections and placed on intravenous fluids. Their swift care helped stabilise me.

I didn’t wake up until midnight the next day, Sunday. I had slept for more than 24 hours straight. My body had completely shut down from the fever, stress, and trauma.

When I finally regained enough strength to speak, I sat with my mother and narrated everything, from the moment I fell ill to my escape from the traffickers. As I said, her eyes filled with tears. She listened in horror, then pulled me close and wept.

Through her sobs, she kept repeating, “Alhamdulillah. Your prayers and ours worked. Allah protected you.” Today, I am recovering, still feeling aches and pains, but alive. I thank God for giving me the courage and the opportunity to escape.

I share my story to warn the public: organ trafficking is real. These people are organised and patient, and may even know your name or background. They work like professionals, from collecting samples to contacting buyers.

Please be cautious when interacting with strangers, even those who seem familiar. If you ever feel dizzy, disoriented, or experience sudden symptoms after a simple injection, seek professional medical help immediately.

Above all, always let your loved ones know where you are going and don’t move around alone, especially when you are unwell.

May Allah continue to protect us all, ameen.

Sabiu Usman can be reached via sabiuusman12@gmail.com.

By Muhammad Umar Shehu

Let’s stop sugarcoating it. Nigeria’s leaders have failed the very people they swore to serve. The signs are everywhere. Millions go to bed hungry, communities are under constant threat from bandits and terrorists, and families bury loved ones over avoidable tragedies. The cry from the North to the South is the same: “Where is the government?”

For decades, we have watched politicians campaign with promises and disappear after elections. We have listened to speeches full of hope, only to wake up to worsening hardship. Whether in education, healthcare, security, or the economy, Nigerians are primarily left to fend for themselves in a country that seems to work only for the elite.

Electricity is unstable. Public schools are underfunded. Hospitals lack basic equipment. Roads are death traps. Jobs are scarce. The police often protect the rich while the poor face brutality. The gap between government and the governed has become dangerously wide.

But the failure didn’t start yesterday. It results from years of corruption, mismanagement, and lack of vision. Successive governments, both military and civilian, have chipped away at the country’s foundations while enriching themselves. The civil service, once respected, is now known more for inefficiency and bribery than service delivery.

What’s worse is that people have grown tired. Tired of voting without results. Tired of protesting with no response. Tired of hoping for leaders who never come. This fatigue is dangerous because when people lose faith in the system, they seek alternatives. And that is where chaos begins.

Still, all hope is not lost. The first step is honesty. We need to admit that things are not okay. Then, we must demand better. Louder. Consistently. In unity. Good governance doesn’t happen by chance. It happens when citizens hold leaders accountable during elections and every day after.

Nigeria is not poor. Nigerians are not lazy. The failure lies in a leadership that treats public service like a private business. Until that changes, the suffering will continue. But if the people find their voice and use it, we may turn this broken system into something that works for all.

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

By Usman Abdullahi Koli, ANIPR

It is difficult to tell the story of a man whose life was not just lived but felt deeply, genuinely, and profoundly. It’s over now, the last file signed, the final handshake exchanged, the door gently closed behind a man whose entire life has been anything but ordinary.

As of May 30, 2025, Dr. Bala Maijama’a Wunti stepped out of public service, quietly bowing out from a remarkable journey that shook boundaries, lifted lives, and left behind a trail of courage, dignity, and truth. I find it not only fitting but necessary to say this: Now that it is done, let this be my tribute.

Much has been said, written, and whispered in admiration since his retirement announcement. But what I pen today is not a replica of what others have offered. This is personal. This is from a heart that was moved years ago when I sat quietly among students of ATBU Bauchi, listening to a man speak not as a bureaucrat, not as a technocrat, but as someone who had walked through fire barefoot and came out not burnt, but better.

He wasn’t speaking to impress. He was telling the truth, raw and unfiltered. He spoke of days when meals were not guaranteed, when dreams seemed laughable in the face of brutal reality. He described the hunger, the worn sandals, the sleepless nights, and how faith became his pillow. I remember that moment clearly. That day, in that humble auditorium, something shifted. It wasn’t just a speech. It was a defining moment for him and for us who listened.

In that moment, I carried three life lessons from Dr. Wunti—ones he never explicitly taught but demonstrated through his life.

First: Prayer is not optional. I have never encountered a man more grounded in submission to the Divine. No matter how tight his schedule, how demanding the office, and how crucial the meeting was, he found time to pause and connect with his Creator. And he did it not out of habit but conviction. It shaped everything about him: his calm, clarity, and confidence.

Second: He never forced what his heart didn’t embrace. Dr. Wunti did not do things just to tick boxes. He left it alone if his soul wasn’t aligned with a cause. This rare integrity gave his actions an unusual depth. Whether leading multi-billion-naira reforms or quietly helping an ailing community clinic, he did so with full acceptance and sincerity.

Third: Compassion wasn’t a virtue for him; it was a reflex. He gave not because he had to, but because he knew what it felt like to need and not have. Every school he built, child he sponsored, borehole he commissioned, and hospital bill he paid came from a heart softened by experience. He remembered. And in remembering, he uplifted.

Born in Bauchi, in a household where survival often came before ambition, Dr. Bala Wunti grew up in the shadows of lack. But he did not let it define him. Instead, he let it refine him. He pushed through school with sheer determination — from Chemistry at Ahmadu Bello University, Zaria, to earning his MBA in Marketing from ATBU Bauchi, and a Postgraduate Diploma in Management. These were not just academic milestones but small battles won against the odds.

Then came the Nigerian National Petroleum Corporation (NNPC). He joined in 1994, and what followed was a remarkable odyssey. From Production Programming Officer to GM Corporate Planning, and eventually MD of the Petroleum Products Marketing Company (PPMC), he did not just fill positions — he transformed them. His work at NAPIMS as Group General Manager changed how Nigeria handled petroleum investments. Projects like Operation White restored sanity to a system many had given up on.

But beyond strategy and structure, he brought the soul into the system. He refused to let numbers dehumanise policy. He saw the downstream sector not as a marketplace but as a lifeline, and he made it work for people, not just profits.

Still, if you asked Dr. Wunti his proudest achievements, he would not point to the boardroom. He would likely tell you about the girl in Dass who got a scholarship and later became a pharmacist, or the widowed mother in Katagum who now has a roof over her head. He would tell you about community boreholes, school renovations, and the youth he mentored who are now leaders in their own right.

He didn’t just serve; he saw. He saw people not as statistics but as stories. And he listened. And when he could, he helped. Quietly. No cameras. No hashtags.

In his family, Dr. Wunti is not the oil executive; he is Abba. A father who sits with his children teaches them not just by advice, but by example. A husband who understands that love is shown in small acts, in presence, in patience. He did not let success steal him away from those who mattered most. He carried them with him.

Now that his chapter in public service closes, many will remember Dr. Wunti for the policies he shaped, the reforms he led, and the titles he bore. But I will remember him for something more enduring: the humanity he never let go of.

Some may chase greatness by building empires. But some, like him, choose to make people. And when people grow, they remember. They speak. They write just like I am doing now.

Dr. Bala Maijama’a Wunti didn’t retire. He simply stepped into another phase of influence that does not require office walls or government files. His impact now lives in the echoes of children’s laughter in classrooms he built, in the gratitude of patients treated in hospitals he supported, and in the hearts of all of us lucky enough to know the kind of man he truly is.

Thank you, sir, for rising and taking many of us along with you.

This is not goodbye. It’s an honour.

Usman Abdullahi Koli wrote via usmankoli31@gmail.com.

By Muhammad Abubakar

A wave of violent attacks across Plateau State over the past week has claimed the lives of at least 41 people, with dozens more reportedly wounded, local sources and security officials have confirmed.

In what residents describe as a series of coordinated assaults, a total of 96 homes were set ablaze in several communities, displacing scores of families and raising fresh concerns over the escalating insecurity in the region.

The attacks, which spanned multiple local government areas, are believed to be part of ongoing communal clashes and reprisal violence that have plagued the state for years. Eyewitnesses recount harrowing scenes of gunfire, arson, and panic as armed assailants descended on their villages under the cover of darkness.

Authorities say security operatives have been deployed to the affected areas, but locals continue to express frustration over what they perceive as a slow or inadequate response to the violence.

While the Plateau State Government has condemned the attacks and promised to bring the perpetrators to justice, humanitarian agencies are calling for urgent relief efforts to support the growing number of displaced persons.

As of the time of this report, no group has officially claimed responsibility for the attacks. Investigations are ongoing.

By Oladoja M.O

A peculiar tragedy defines the Nigerian state—a complete surrender of responsibility by those elected to bear it, a full-blown case of irresponsibility institutionalised at the highest levels. It is as if we are not being led at all. It is as if we are simply being watched, pitied, and narrated to. Our so-called leaders behave like helpless spectators, not as those with the authority to fix the very problems they moan about.

Shamefully, Nigeria lacks leadership. Instead, it has men and women who love the microphone more than the mandate. We are not governed; we are narrated. Commentators rule us.

Just days ago, a State Governor resurfaced with yet another alarming statement: that Boko Haram has infiltrated the government. Again. This is not the first time he has said something like this. Several times, he has come out to decry the killings, to point fingers, to lament the destruction. And every single time, one question keeps hanging in the air. What exactly has he, as the Chief Security Officer of the state, done about it? What has he changed? What systems has he challenged? What heads have rolled under his watch? Where is the real action beyond the endless news appearances and emotional speeches? It is not enough to wear a bulletproof vest and take a stroll in a burned village. That is not leadership. That is performance.

I mean, this individual is not a social media activist. He is not a political analyst. Not a powerless citizen. He is not a sympathiser. He is a sitting governor, for goodness’ sake! He has the resources, influence, and intelligence at his disposal. If all he can do is complain, then he has failed. And that is the bitter truth. Or how did the weight of office shrink to the mere performance of sympathy and public outrage? Because, for all I know, leaders do not just point to problems. They solve them. They don’t weep when the house burns. They command the water. But what we see here is the opposite. 

It is as if holding public office in Nigeria has been reduced to a loud-speaking exercise. The governor speaks. The senators speak. The representatives hold press conferences. Everybody speaks. But nobody leads. They describe problems they were empowered to solve, like detached observers, rather than active change agents. It is nauseating. It is tragic. It is dangerous because this governor is just one symptom of a far deeper rot. 

Nigeria’s leadership structure is littered with voices that echo sorrow and rage without ever lifting a finger to stop the bleeding. The National Assembly, for instance, has become a festival of talkers. Lawmakers who go to the chambers not to legislate, but to lament. Some of them even act as if their job is to criticise the government when in fact, they are the government. You hear them talk on TV and wonder if they were mistakenly sworn into opposition. These are people elected to craft laws, drive policies, and oversee the executive. Instead, they pick microphones and begin to “express worry”, “condemn in strong terms”, and “call on the federal government”, as though they are not the federal government themselves. It is embarrassing. It is pathetic. It is a national disgrace that the loudest voices in power are often the most passive in a country so battered.

And the tragedy is even louder when we look at the so-called new breed. For instance, Peter Obi has earned some Nigerians’ admiration because they see in him a departure from the past. But in reality, he’s just the same recycled blaming and deflecting game-player. Recently, when asked about the internal crisis tearing through the Labour Party, a party he is seen as the head of, his response was a flat finger-pointing exercise. He explained who caused what and who did what. Zero sense of responsibility. No ownership, nor a plan to fix it. Is it hard to understand that leadership is not explaining the problem but solving it? What are we banking on if someone aspiring to govern 200 million people cannot manage internal party squabbles?

Being soft-spoken and throwing statistics around is not leadership. Nigerians need people who carry the weight of responsibility and act with urgency, not people who are always ready with talking points. 

This country is bleeding. Virtually every region, every sector, every institution is either hoping to set into recovery or picking up the pieces. From poverty to insecurity, from joblessness to healthcare collapse, from fuel inflation to decaying infrastructure, we are a nation gasping for air. And what do our leaders do? They gather at events and in press briefings to express sympathy. They talk. They hold conferences. They issue long tweets. And then they disappear. It is now a full-blown epidemic. Everyone in power wants to talk about the problem. No one wants to be responsible for the solution. They love the headlines. They love the interviews. But they vanish when it is time for hard decisions, bold reforms, and deep accountability.

This is not what leadership looks like. Leadership means bearing the burden of others. It means thinking, planning, executing, sweating, failing, trying again, and never passing the buck. But Nigerian leaders today see power as a shield from responsibility. To them, power is for glory, not for duty. It is for the title, not for toil. And we, the people, must also take some blame. Because time after time, we bring these same people back. We vote them in. We defend them. We hail them. We wash, rinse, and repackage them for another round of useless governance. It is insanity.

A time must come, and it should be now, when Nigerians wake up to the bitter reality that democracy today is mostly a circus—a time when we say it clearly and loudly: enough with all the empty noise. We do not want more commentators, glorified orators, or prophets of doom in positions of power.

We want leadership. Real, practical, accountable leadership.

If you are in the office, your job is not to narrate the problem. Your job is to change it. If you are the governor and your people are being killed, we expect action, not pity. If you are a senator and the economy is crashing, we expect reform, not press conferences. Don’t blame others if you are a party leader and your house is on fire. Fix it. Nigeria can no longer afford leaders who vanish when it matters most. We cannot survive another decade of commentators posing as commanders. The country is on the brink, and what we need now are not voices of complaint, but minds of action and hearts of steel.

Until that happens, let the records reflect it. We are not being led. We are being narrated to. And that is the greatest insult of all.

Oladoja M.O writes from Abuja and can be reached at: mayokunmark@gmail.com

By Dr. Muhammad Sulaiman Abdullahi

I was riding my electric bike and the engine was in an absolute silence, courtesy of China’s existence on earth, I passed some guys walking by the road side, and suddenly, I overheard one of them screamed out the word “technologia Alaji”, before I took it in, he screamed again, Tesla!

I was internally filled with joy as I was sure he was talking about my little angel, which I didn’t know it would make such an impact on anyone, though the young guy was a millennial. These set of people are fascinated by almost everything today. They find fun even in every sort of trash. The way they take trashes high is so funny and confusing. But my electric bike, though small, is something to attract their whole, I am sure of that.

After I passed, the word “technologia” keeps coming back to me and I just remembered Sarkin Mota, because the young guy mimicked him while screaming the words out.

Sarkin Mota is a Hausa term which can literally be rendered into English as King of Cars or Master of Cars or Owner of Cars or Seller of Cars or all these combined. In this case the guy who is called Sarkin Mota qualifies for all the above mentioned renditions.

I know of Sarkin Mota recently and I am sure he started trending not long ago. The guy was super talented in his unique, unprecedented and unpresidented humorous way of advertising his wares. His style was so tantalizing, timely and it coincides with the needs of the time. Added to this, the Tinubuconomics has angered most Nigerians and made them to think for simple alternatives. Boom… Sarkin Mota emerged with super cars, mostly from China but not in any way affordable by the “Civil Servants”!

The guy started by teasing civil servants whom are mostly today frustrated, angry, hungry and ridiculed from all angles, ranging from their employers, their managers, their community members and even sometimes from within their family structures. Civil servants are in trouble and Sarkin Mota teased them to sell his stuff without remorse identifying with them.

However, Sarkin Mota is sarcastically and truly right. Only some very few privileged civil servants who work in high places can afford the cheapest of his cars today. Others who can afford to purchase cars from him from among the civil servants may do so only with proceeds of corruption, looting or embezzlement. Therefore, the guy is truly right, it is only that too much of everything can be boring as well as hurting. It is not funny to keep banging and punching at one spot, it may end up becoming so fatal and brutal.

In Nigeria there are two types of civil servants today. The extremely poor civil servants and the super-rich civil servants. The extremely poor civil servants are those who work but cannot afford to buy what they need for their lives. They are of various categories. Those who can’t regularly fuel their cars and opt for two days fueling per week or even month. Some have already abandon their cars and opt for their legs. Those who cannot buy a bag of rice to feed their families. Those who are always on credit from the neighboring shop owners as a result of purchase of certain groceries, which they always collect on credit. Those who cannot pay their children school fees. Those who always hide when they see the landlord coming or ignore phone calls to avoid embarrassment. These are even regarded as tier two up, in as much as they eat, even if what they eat is not what they want. There are tier one, top tier, who cannot afford anything. They hardly eat. They barely have any form of enjoyment in Nigeria beside the air they inhale and the sky that covers them from the above. They just live and follow the time. These two categories form the majority of Nigerian civil servants today.

The extremely poor civil servants in Nigeria takes more than 95% of the civil servants’ population. Civil servants are suffering beyond any reasonable doubts. Sarkin Mota was just someone who is frowned at unnecessarily or was only targeted as a scapegoat. His sarcastic nature of dragging the civil servants in the mud was used by NOA to silence him. NOA is also another government agency, which I am pretty sure, harboring extremely poor civil servants who cannot afford to buy Salla rams for their families.

Though I reason with NOA especially if what they did is part of their mandate, I still find their misdirection of anger and warning as worthless.

Their letter should have been a dual sharp edge sword which should have called Sarkin Mota to order and drawn the attention of the government on how they reduce civil servants to being ridiculed by the business community. People look at the “branch” instead of digging deep in order to see the root of a problem! Sarkin Mota’s costly sarcastic style was as a result of what the government does, deliberately. Let us assume that Sarkin Mota was disrespectful, something that he debunked, and then would the government that forcibly pushed the civil servants into this sorry state be? Wicked and merciless, simple. There are no two way about this. He who beats you is more wicked than he who only laughs at you from afar.

What worsen Sarkin Mota’s sarcastic videos were the fact that some other Social Media copycats have already taken his style to another level. A ram, which is purportedly priced at one million naira, would be displayed, and after all the grandiose show off, a civil servant who cannot truly buy it will be dragged. Then, you would be surprised as against whom should a civil servant set his face now? This is someone deprived, wickedly and mercilessly, of all enjoyment and now little boys have made him as laughing stock on their empty social media trashes. On this, everyone must commend NOA for stopping this nonsense.

As for Sarkin Mota, I feel he has carved a niche for himself and has been recognized as one of the top dealers even when for sure, there may be many others above him, but yet unknown.

Aliyu Muhammad Sarkin Mota confirmed that his parents are civil servants and that he was not disrespectly and that he was just pulling their legs in an interview he granted to Channels TV. Also, in a new recent video where he displayed a convoy of electric cars, he didn’t mention civil servants again. He still maintained some of his major take always and insignias like technologia Alaji, but he didn’t mentioned civil servant. This is a sign that he had “repented”. Thanks to NOA’s intervention. But a question to NOA, does their intervention make civil servant to afford his cars?

Another take away from the Sarkin Mota’s style is his unique way of speaking English, especially “my buraza”, which makes him unique and original. This takes us to the resounding debate of English as a measure of intelligence. To Sarkin Mota, that isn’t even a topic of discussion, because he has a great command of the English language but he chooses not to sound like a grandchild of Kings Charles. He speaks in a very nice deep and lovely Nigerian accent which even if you don’t like, that doesn’t snatch a dime away from his celebrity status he attained.

Keep going Sarkin Mota! And may we see a day when ordinary primary school teachers can afford to buy the latest brand of cars you brag about, amen!

Muhammad writes from Kano Nigeria, and can be reached via, muhammadunfagge@yahoo.com