Northern Nigeria

By Muhammad Abubakar

Sheikh Muhammad Bashir Saliu, the Chief Imam of Ilorin, has passed away at the age of 75.

His death was confirmed on Monday, January 19, 2026. The revered Islamic scholar reportedly died after decades of devoted service to Islam and the Ilorin Emirate.

Sheikh Muhammad Bashir Saliu was widely respected for his scholarship, spiritual leadership, and commitment to promoting peace and Islamic values within Ilorin and beyond.

His passing marks the end of an era for the Ilorin Muslim community, where he played a central role in religious guidance and communal affairs.

Tributes are expected to pour in from religious leaders, traditional institutions, and faithful across Nigeria, mourning the loss of a prominent cleric and community leader.

By Ahmed Usman

Away from political noise and headline-grabbing theatrics, Jigawa State under Governor Umar Namadi is pursuing a disciplined development path; one that prioritises agriculture, human capital, and long-term economic foundations.

In Nigeria’s political culture, analysts have long relied on improvised metrics to judge elected officials: the first 100 days, the first year, or the widely appealed 18-month threshold, said to be the point when a new administration needs to settle, understand its responsibilities, and develop its own identity separate from the previous government. Yet in practice, Nigerian governments often have only two effective years to deliver results before politics and electioneering reclaim the agenda. 

The remaining two years are usually taken over by political campaigns, party struggles, and early preparations for the next election. By that measure, the administrations sworn in May 2023 have crossed the decisive midpoint, and any government unable to clearly articulate its policy direction, measurable outcomes, and long-term vision at this stage must confront uncomfortable questions about competence and priorities.

This moment offers a useful lens through which to reassess Jigawa State, a place often dismissed by outsiders as economically marginal or politically inconsequential. For decades, Jigawa was viewed through a narrow lens of poverty rankings and limited industrial activity. With agriculture providing livelihoods for nearly two-thirds of households and with relatively low levels of urbanisation, critics frequently argued that the state lacked the structural foundations to become economically competitive. Such narratives, however, ignore a fundamental truth about development: transformation often begins quietly, long before it becomes visible in national headlines. Under Governor Umar Namadi Danmodi, Jigawa is now presenting evidence of such a shift, deliberate, methodical, and quietly disruptive.

I do not write as a political pundit but as a citizen who cares deeply about his locality, a state too often stereotyped and misunderstood. Jigawa has long been caricatured as peripheral, yet today it provides an unlikely case study in how disciplined governance can chart a new economic course. What makes this transformation compelling is not bombast or political spectacle, but the understated way the administration communicates, through actions, policies, and investments rather than theatrics. The government speaks not in rhetoric but in results that are gradually reshaping the state’s economic and social landscape.

That message is clearest in the administration’s approach to agriculture. Recognising that Jigawa’s comparative advantage lies in its fertile land and large smallholder base, Danmodi has pushed aggressively to modernise the sector. Irrigation expansion, improved access to inputs, and strengthened value chains are already raising yields and market access. Given that Jigawa possesses nearly 150,000 hectares of land suitable for irrigated agriculture, this strategy is not only rational but transformative, positioning the state as a future food production hub in northern Nigeria. These efforts may not dominate front-page news, but they represent the kind of foundational work that changes economic destinies.

That same quiet logic underpins reforms in education, perhaps the most consequential area for a state where literacy remains below the national average. From classroom renovations and teacher training to curriculum enhancement, these interventions reflect a long-term commitment to human capital rather than a search for quick political points. In a region where poor educational outcomes fuel cycles of poverty, ignoring such structural issues would be far more costly than confronting them.

Equally important is the administration’s effort to build an economy that is less dependent on federal allocations. In a country where many states survive almost entirely on monthly revenue from Abuja, Jigawa’s pursuit of internally generated revenue, industrial growth, and investment-friendly reforms reflects an understanding that true development requires financial independence. The state’s infrastructure push, spanning rural electrification, road construction, and urban renewal, is designed to support this transition. Reliable electricity, particularly, is indispensable for revitalising small and medium enterprises, which account for the lion’s share of non-oil employment in Nigeria.

These economic initiatives intersect meaningfully with reforms in healthcare and social protection. For a state grappling with high maternal and infant mortality, investments in primary healthcare centres, vaccination programs, and emergency response systems signal a welcome shift toward preventive, not reactive, governance. Jigawa’s emerging life-cycle social protection model, supporting individuals from pregnancy through childhood, youth, and old age, offers an unusually holistic approach in a country where social safety nets are often fragmented or nonexistent. Together, these policies communicate a consistent message: development is possible only when people are healthy, educated, and economically empowered.

Taken as a whole, the administration’s work sends a subtle but powerful signal. It suggests a government not merely managing day-to-day affairs but intentionally laying the groundwork for what the state could become. This is the essence of Jigawa’s quiet revolution: a governance model that prioritises structure over spectacle and competence over performative politics. It is a reminder that some of the most meaningful transformations are neither loud nor dramatic; they are steady, disciplined, and anchored in long-term vision.

For years, sceptics argued that Jigawa lacked the capacity to catch up with more industrialised states. But development rarely follows a straight line. It accelerates when leadership aligns with strategy, when investments target the roots rather than symptoms of underdevelopment, and when political ambition is tempered with economic realism. 

Under Danmodi, Jigawa is beginning to suggest that its future will not be determined by its past reputation but by its present choices. These choices, rooted in economic transformation, human capital development, and institutional stability, show a state no longer content to survive but ready to shape its own future.

This is why the story of Jigawa today matters. It is a reminder that progress does not always announce itself with fanfare. Sometimes, it emerges quietly, through the steady accumulation of policies that, taken together, signal a shift too significant to ignore. Under the right leadership and with the right priorities, even a state long written off by pessimists can begin to rewrite its place in the Nigerian economy. And in Jigawa, that rewriting has unmistakably begun.

Ahmed Usman wrote via ahmedusmanbox@gmail.com.

By Tahir Mahmood Saleh

Kabeer 2Pac’s rise to online fame began in early 2025, when he started posting highly unconventional videos on his TikTok account. Born Kabiru Isma’il and known online as Kabeer2pac (a name he chose in homage to the late American rapper 2Pac Shakur), he quickly garnered massive attention for performing bizarre, often shocking stunts. His content included immersing himself in stagnant open cesspools and smearing sediment on his body, actions he explained were not signs of madness but deliberate attempts to “trend” and gain visibility online (“ɗaukaka na ke nema”).

The TikTok metrics behind his rise were striking. Within months of posting these videos, Kabeer had amassed millions of views and a large following. One of his most-viewed clips, in which he shook off charcoal dust while wearing a distinctive winter jacket, reached over 51 million views, and at one point, his account had approximately 1.8 million followers and 15.1 million likes. These numbers reflect how quickly his brand took off in an environment where the algorithm rewards shocking or novel content.

Kabeer’s content evolved over time as he experimented with different styles and stunts to maintain attention. After his early cesspool videos gained traction, he shifted to other eye-grabbing visuals, such as having bags of charcoal dust dumped on him, which again drew viral attention. This strategy positioned him as a cultural exemplar of the “attention economy,” in which creators leverage extreme content to secure views, engagement, and, eventually, financial or material rewards.

His fame translated into real-world opportunities, though not without controversy. A notable outcome of his online popularity was an invitation from Gwanki Travels and Tours International Ltd in Kaduna, who publicly offered him a free ticket to perform Umrah (a pilgrimage to Mecca). Kabeer expressed gratitude for achieving the fame he sought and noted that such endorsement was among the factors that drove him to continue his work. However, reactions were mixed: while many fans celebrated his creative drive, some religious leaders and critics warned against harmful behaviour and urged investment in education or trade instead.

Despite his meteoric rise, Kabeer himself acknowledged the ephemeral nature of his viral popularity. In later interviews shared online, he said he understood that people might soon tire of his antics as the public constantly seeks fresh content and new personalities. Beyond the sensational stunts, he also sought to diversify his videos by including short comedy skits and dance clips to retain audience interest, a common strategy among creators seeking to build sustainable relevance.

Today, the outcome is telling. There is no consistent content relevance, no major promotion, no formal education leveraged, no lasting sponsorships, no two million followers, just a fading digital footprint. Kabeer2pac’s story is not merely about an individual; it is a cautionary tale.

For Arewa content creators, the lesson is clear: fame without strategy is noise, not power. Visibility alone does not ensure sustainability. Without structure, skill development, personal growth, and long-term planning, viral attention fades as quickly as it arrives. In the digital age, the challenge is not how to trend, but how to remain relevant with dignity, purpose, and value.

Tahir Mahmood Saleh wrote from Kano via tahirmsaleh.seggroup@gmail.com.

By Usman Usman Garba

Incidents of women killing their husbands in Northern Nigeria have become a disturbing phenomenon which puts some kind of anxiety in the hearts of youth and unmarried men. What was once rare is now appearing more frequently in headlines, police reports and public conversations. 

Everyone knows that Northern Nigeria is a region known for strong family values, deep respect for marriage, and a social structure built on religious and cultural norms. Yet, the recent rise in cases where wives take the lives of their husbands has forced many to question what is happening behind the façade of stability.

There are a lot of views and perceptions concerning why women kill their husbands in Northern Nigeria. Many are of the belief that forced marriage is one of the reasons such an inhumane act happens. Thus, others are married willingly without the intervention of anyone in a forced marriage, but still kill their spouses.

In my opinion, other factors should be taken into consideration, contrary to what many regard as the main cause of this dastardly act.

Mental health remains one of the least understood issues in Northern Nigeria. Depression, trauma from abusive relationships, postpartum challenges, and emotional exhaustion can push individuals to extremes. Unfortunately, many women have no access to counselling, families discourage speaking out; society expects women to “endure”; emotional crises are dismissed as weakness or spiritual problems, and this lack of support creates dangerous psychological pressure.

Similarly, domestic violence is one of the dangerous circles that causes women to kill their husbands. Many of the reported cases involve homes where domestic violence had been ongoing. Women in such situations sometimes endure physical and emotional abuse for years. With limited support systems, some feel trapped with no escape route.

This does not justify murder, but it highlights the reality. For instance, some wives act out of fear; some out of desperation; some out of retaliation; while others act because they believe no one will protect them.

Hence, the role of social media and exposure to new narratives has also contributed immensely to this inhumane act in Northern Nigeria.

Cases of women killing their husbands, though still few, spread quickly on social media, and sometimes, this creates copycat behaviour, unrealistic ideas about marriage, normalisation of revenge narratives and fake empowerment messages telling women to “fight back” violently.

Social media has become an amplifier, sometimes distorting reality and increasing tension in fragile homes

Nonetheless, a justice system that often fails women worsens the system. Many women who are abused find no one to intervene. At the station, police dismiss domestic complaints; families send them back home; religious or traditional leaders advise “patience”, and society blames women for failed marriages. Thus, when conflict turns deadly, the same system responds swiftly, after lives have already been destroyed. This is why prevention, not punishment, should be our priority.

The rising cases of wives killing their husbands are not simply crime stories; they are warning signs of deeper fractures inside marriages, families and social systems.

Northern Nigeria must confront these issues honestly and urgently. The goal is not to assign blame but to prevent homes from becoming battlegrounds. When families break down, society breaks down: when violence enters the home, it enters the community; and when silence becomes the norm, tragedy becomes inevitable.

The solution lies in awareness, support, justice and compassion, before the next headline appears. To stop this dangerous pattern in our communities, we must confront the root causes. The society must strengthen domestic violence reporting channels, improve community mediation and counselling structures, promote healthy marital communication, address economic pressures, educate people on mental health and teach conflict management to young couples.

Usman Garba writes from Kano via usmangarba100@gmail.com

By Muhammad Sulaiman

A New Year’s Day community gathering in Daneji took an unexpected philosophical turn when a sponsor’s closing remarks sparked deep reflection on knowledge stewardship and mortality, Professor Abdalla Uba Adamu has revealed.

The January 1st townhall meeting, organized to honor ten outstanding youth from the Kano neighborhood, became memorable not just for the celebrations but for a pointed challenge issued to the honorees, Professor Adamu recounted in a Facebook post that has drawn significant attention.

The young achievers, recognized for accomplishments spanning Artificial Intelligence, Mathematics, Nursing Sciences, and Qur’anic studies, were urged by event sponsor Alhaji Ahmed Idris to “die empty”—a statement that initially puzzled attendees before its meaning was revealed.

Idris, a prominent community pillar, was invoking Todd Henry’s motivational concept that individuals should pour out their knowledge and talents during their lifetime rather than take untapped potential to the grave. “You enter your grave empty—all the knowledge has been left outside for other people to use,” Professor Adamu explained.

The academic noted that at least three of the honorees hold doctorates or specialized training in Artificial Intelligence, achieved before AI became a consumer phenomenon, while others excelled in diverse fields—showcasing what the community hopes will inspire younger residents.

Writing on his experience, Professor Adamu drew connections between Henry’s secular philosophy and Islamic teachings on amanah—the sacred trust of knowledge. “Discharging your knowledge—sharing it and imparting it on others—is therefore one of the highest acts of Islamic piety,” he wrote, adding that both the Qur’an and Hadith contain warnings against hoarding knowledge.

The professor described the event as a community response to concerns about youth engagement with “consumer communication technology” at the expense of career focus and future planning.

By Mujahid Nasir Hussain

On 14 November 2025, the world marked World Diabetes Day, and a familiar message rang out across hospitals, communities, and workplaces: Africa must “know more and do more” to confront the rising tide of chronic diseases. It is a message that feels especially urgent here in Nigeria, and in cities like Kano, where the realities of modern life have dramatically reshaped how people live, move, work, and stay healthy. For many families, this year’s theme was not merely a global campaign. It reflected what they witness daily—more people living with diabetes, hypertension, kidney disease, stroke, obesity, and joint disorders than ever before.

The World Health Organisation has warned that Africa will soon face a dramatic shift in its health landscape. By 2030, deaths from non-communicable diseases are projected to surpass those from infectious diseases. This is a striking transformation for a continent historically burdened by malaria, tuberculosis, and HIV. Nigeria, Africa’s most populous nation, is at the centre of this shift, with cities such as Kano experiencing a rapid rise in chronic and progressive conditions. The reasons are both complex and straightforward: changing diets, prolonged sitting, stressful work environments, reduced physical activity, environmental pollution, and limited access to preventive healthcare.

Yet amid these alarming trends, one therapeutic tool stands out: exercise. For many years, exercise has been treated merely as a wellness activity or an optional lifestyle choice. But in reality, it is one of the most powerful and scientifically proven therapies for slowing the progression of chronic diseases. When the body moves consistently, it undergoes profound biological changes: insulin works better, blood vessels become healthier, the heart becomes stronger, inflammation decreases, and harmful fat around organs begins to shrink. These benefits are not cosmetic; they are therapeutic.

However, there is a critical truth that the public often misunderstands: exercise is powerful medicine, and like any medicine, it must be prescribed correctly. It is not something people with chronic diseases should “start doing” without guidance. The mode, frequency, intensity, and duration of exercise must be tailored to the individual’s medical condition, age, fitness level, and risk factors. What is safe and effective for one person may be dangerous for another. This is why professional guidance is so essential. For instance, a person living with uncontrolled hypertension should not begin intense aerobic workouts without clearance from a doctor, because sudden spikes in blood pressure could lead to complications.

Someone with diabetic neuropathy may not feel injuries in their feet, making certain activities unsafe without supervision. Individuals with chronic kidney disease need specific exercise prescriptions that do not strain the cardiovascular system or accelerate fatigue. People recovering from stroke require structured rehabilitation overseen by physiotherapists to prevent falls or further damage. Even patients with obesity, osteoarthritis, or long-standing back pain need tailored, gradual programs to avoid joint overload. This is why exercise should not be approached casually, especially in a context like Africa, where many chronic conditions are undiagnosed or poorly monitored. Before starting an exercise program, individuals living with progressive diseases should consult qualified professionals. Doctors provide medical clearance and identify risks. Physiotherapists design safe movements that protect joints and nerves. Exercise physiologists prescribe evidence-based routines that align with the patient’s goals and limitations. Their role is to ensure that exercise becomes therapy, not a trigger for complications.

In Kano State, this issue is especially relevant. The city has undergone a rapid transition from physically demanding lifestyles to sedentary routines. Many residents now spend long hours sitting in shops, riding motorcycles, or working in offices. Combined with high consumption of energy-dense foods and limited awareness of disease symptoms, progressive illnesses have become deeply entrenched. Yet awareness of safe, guided exercise therapy remains low. Many people begin rigorous routines abruptly, driven by social pressure or misinformation, only to injure themselves or exacerbate their conditions. Others avoid exercise entirely because they fear doing the wrong thing. Both extremes are harmful.

To confront this, a cultural shift is needed, one that recognises exercise as a vital part of medical care. Hospitals and clinics across Nigeria must integrate exercise counselling into routine visits, especially for patients with diabetes, hypertension, kidney issues, and obesity. Something as simple as a doctor explaining which movements are safe, or a physiotherapist demonstrating gentle routines, could prevent years of complications. Exercise physiologists, though still few in number, should be incorporated into more healthcare teams to design personalised programs grounded in scientific evidence.

At the community level, awareness must grow that exercise therapy is not a one-size-fits-all approach. It is a carefully structured health intervention. Encouraging early-morning walking groups, promoting workplace movement breaks, and organising community fitness sessions are valuable, but they must be paired with safety education. Leaders—traditional, religious, and educational—can play a vital role by emphasising the importance of seeking professional guidance before starting any intense routine, especially for those already living with chronic diseases.

It is also worth acknowledging the emotional dimension. People battling progressive diseases often feel overwhelmed, frightened, or uncertain. Exercise offers not just physical healing but a sense of agency. It improves mood, relieves anxiety, supports sleep, and helps people feel that they are actively shaping their health. This psychological benefit is powerful, especially in societies where chronic diseases still carry stigma. But again, confidence grows stronger when people know they are exercising safely and correctly under the guidance of trained professionals.

Nigeria’s future health outcomes depend on coordinated action. Families must embrace a culture of safe movement. Workplaces must reduce prolonged sitting and encourage healthy routines. Schools must restore physical activity as a normal part of the day, not an afterthought. Healthcare institutions must treat exercise as a formal therapy, not a casual suggestion. And individuals must understand that professional guidance is the foundation of safe and effective exercise therapy. The WHO’s projections are indeed alarming, but they are not destiny. Africa still has the opportunity to change its trajectory. But to do so, we must shift how we view health, how we integrate movement into daily life, and how we approach treatment of chronic diseases. Exercise will play a central role in this transformation, but only if it is approached with the same seriousness and medical supervision as any other form of therapy.

In the markets of Kano, the offices of Abuja, the streets of Lagos, and the rural communities of northern and southern Nigeria, the message must be clear: movement heals, but only when guided, intentional, and safe. The global call to “know more and do more” continues beyond 14 November. This is a reminder that Africans must not only embrace exercise as therapy but also do so with professional guidance to protect the body and preserve long-term health. Our path forward lies not just in treating disease, but in transforming lifestyles with knowledge, with care, and with the understanding that the right kind of movement, at the right intensity, prescribed by the right professional, can change the story of health for a generation.

Mujahid Nasir Hussain is an exploratory researcher in biomedicine, deeply passionate about public health, chronic disease prevention, and evidence-based community health interventions.

By Sulaiman Maijama’a 

Writing the end‑of‑year experience or the new‑year resolution, as is the case with many people on social media in recent years, has not been my tradition, for I don’t like making public the ladder I set out to climb in my life, nor do I like sharing my private‑life experience for public consumption. Reflecting on my journey through 2025, however, I saw the need to document the lessons learned, the experiences and knowledge acquired, and the shocks that became a turning point in my life. Perhaps this will shed some light on up‑and‑coming young people.

Of all the things I will recount, three occasions of opposite feelings of happiness and sadness that occurred stand out, and made me redefine my life and the people around me. Two experiences taught me, in practice, the concept of winning and losing in life. Several other experiences have widened my eyes to the realities of age and responsibility that come with it, as I’m rounding out the year as a newly improved version of myself.

On April 12th this year, I reached the pinnacle of my adulthood as I tied the nuptial knot with my beautiful Fulani wife in a momentous ceremony. Two days later, as we set out to enjoy the new life, my father-in-law, the father of my wife, passed on. The mosque we had gone to two days earlier to witness the making of my marriage contract was the same mosque we went back to observe the funeral prayers of my father-in-law. People who, two days earlier, came or called to celebrate with us were the same people who came or called to commiserate now. 

This tribulation obstructed all our plans: our honeymoon and visits from relatives to our newlywed home were suspended.  Weakened or rather paralysed by death, love vanished naturally from our hearts. My wife cried profusely (as she still does), and so my job was to pacify her and give her a sense of solace for her ever-growing pain. We did not have the luxury of the early days of marriage.

One month later, as we began to recover from the ordeal and as the rainy season set in,  thieves broke into my house mysteriously overnight while it was raining and took away my motorcycle. This was yet another moment of nervousness and suspicion about the area we reside in and the people around us, because we did not acclimatize to the environment.

Life continued through June and July, when I decided, for the first time in my life, to give agriculture a try. I planted soya beans with full force and hope to earn multiple profits. When it was almost ripe for cultivation, the farmland was tilted for a massive project, and I ended up having less than 20 per cent of what I invested.

In August, the most flabbergasting of all tribulations befell me: my biological father passed away after two years of illness. This is the greatest change in my life, and the realisation that growth has seriously come.

Looking back on my life, I know the Almighty’s favour and kindness toward me are immeasurable. Throughout my life, I have been successful in everything I have ever put my hands to; my educational journey, from nursery through primary and secondary school to polytechnic and university, has been seamless. Throughout this, I never retook any exam, graduated from polytechnic at the top of my class with a Distinction, and graduated from university with almost a First‑Class Honours. I never lacked resources, had opportunities, and even built a house while in university.

After graduation, I had two job offers before I finished the National Youth Service Corps. As I rounded out my NYSC, I got married immediately. I never missed any of my life’s milestones. With all these favours of God on me, why did God not test me in 2025? I will have to question my life and faith. Though these are tests of life that are hard to contend with, I draw solace whenever I remember Allah’s saying in the verse below in Surah Al‑Baqarah:

“And We will surely test you with something of fear and hunger and a loss of wealth and lives and fruits, but give good tidings to the patient”

Maijama’a is the Manager of Admin and Commercials, Eagle Radio Bauchi. He can be reached via sulaimanmaija@gmail.com.

By Oladoja M.O

There comes a point in every nation’s existence when it must interrogate the very myths that forged its being, and it appears Nigeria has reached that juncture. “One Nigeria”, a slogan as old as our independence, repeated in classrooms, parliaments and pulpits alike, has gradually morphed from a patriotic creed into a hollow incantation that adorns speeches, but no convictions. A rhetoric that unites in sound but not in substance. And yet, like an overused balm, it is still generously applied to wounds that have long become septic.

When the British, in their cartographic arrogance, decided that the roaring rivers of the Niger and Benue could somehow dissolve the ancestral boundaries of a hundred nations into a single name, they planted both a promise and a peril. The promise was the strength of size, the illusion that numerical vastness equals greatness. The peril, however, lay in presuming that different civilisations, with their own gods, economies, memories, and destinies, could be hammered into a coherent polity without a shared philosophy of being. What emerged was less a federation of equals than a fragile patchwork held together by coercion and cliché.

History is replete with examples of states that mistook enforced coexistence for genuine unity. The Soviet Union once imagined that the subjugation of difference equalled solidarity until it collapsed under the weight of its own contradictions. Yugoslavia thought nationalism could be suppressed by ideology until ethnic passions burned Sarajevo into ash. Even Sudan, our continental cousin, insisted on an indivisible state until the centre could no longer contain the centrifugal cries for dignity and recognition, and the South tore itself free in a baptism of blood. Each of these polities preached “oneness,” but none could manufacture mutual trust. Unfortunately, Nigeria’s situation, though cloaked in democratic pretensions, bears an unnerving resemblance.

Decades after independence, we continue to stagger under the illusion of unity while exhibiting every symptom of division. Our politics remains a theatre of tribal anxieties. Our economy, a contest of regional grievance. Our institutions, battlegrounds of exclusion and suspicion. Every census, every election, every policy debate collapses into the arithmetic of ethnicity. We have created a federation in name, but a feud in practice. The Nigerian state, like a badly tuned orchestra, plays the anthem of unity while each instrument screams in its own discordant key.

What has deepened the tragedy is not merely that we are divided, but that we have learned to romanticise our dysfunction. The myth of “One Nigeria” has been elevated to the level of moral blackmail, as though questioning it were heresy. Yet, the facts are unflinching. From the coups and counter-coups of the 1960s, to the Biafran war that drenched this soil in youthful blood; from the endless agitations of the Niger Delta, to the violent insurgencies of the North, and the secessionist murmurs of the East, we have been a nation perpetually negotiating its own existence.

Even now, in the twenty-first century, the markers of mistrust remain, only deepened by new forms of betrayal. We have witnessed, time and again, how national security efforts are quietly sabotaged by regional sympathies where the pursuit of peace against terror becomes a political chessboard, and those who menace the state are garlanded as champions in their communities. In some quarters, it has almost become an identity to excuse barbarity in the name of kinship, to embrace those who burn the nation’s fabric as heroes rather than outlaws.

There are regions where individuals, through their character and conduct, have dragged the nation’s image into global disrepute, staining the diplomatic standing of millions, and forcing the country to spend years rebuilding bridges of trust with the international community. Elsewhere, the spirit of entitlement fosters a belief that governance is a turn-by-turn inheritance, that “it is our time now,” and so positions of influence must rotate along bloodlines and geography rather than merit. Even the recent rumblings of military adventurism, the whisper of coup sympathies and their architects seem disturbingly traceable to predictable corners of the polity, confirming that our divisions have not merely survived time; they have evolved.

Thus, we remain a country trapped in its contradictions: differential justice, uneven development, selective outrage, and an ever-widening gulf between the governors and the governed.

How then do we continue to recite the catechism of unity with straight faces? When the “one” in “One Nigeria” has become a question rather than a statement. For unity cannot be decreed by constitutions nor enforced by soldiers; it must be earned by fairness, equity, and mutual respect. When a nation’s prosperity is monopolised by a few, when power circulates within predictable bloodlines, when regions are treated not as partners but as provinces, the rhetoric of unity becomes an insult to intelligence.

We deceive ourselves with patriotic songs while ignoring the dissonance in our reality. The world is changing; nations are redefining themselves in pursuit of justice and balance. Ethiopia, after decades of internal conflict, restructured its governance to reflect its ethnic federalism. The United Kingdom, once rigidly centralised, conceded autonomy to Scotland, Wales, and Northern Ireland to preserve its union. Even Belgium, split by language and identity, discovered that devolution was the price of stability. In each case, political maturity triumphed over sentimental unity. Why then should Nigeria, with its far deeper pluralities, cling to a system that has neither delivered prosperity nor peace?

It is at this critical juncture that Nigeria must summon the courage to confront itself, not with nostalgia or denial, but with truth and pragmatism. The time has come for an honest national conversation, a sober rethinking of our structure, values, and vision. We must ask: What truly binds us, and on what terms should we continue this union? This is not a call to disintegration, but to redefinition. 

If genuine unity is to be sustained, it must be built on a framework that reflects our peculiarities rather than suppresses them. Perhaps it is time to revisit the foundations of our federalism to decide, through dialogue and consensus, whether the present centralised model still serves our collective good.

If what we need is a restructured federation that grants greater autonomy to regions, then let us pursue it with sincerity. If what we require is a return to a confederation that allows each region to govern according to its social and economic realities, then let the people decide it freely. And if, after exhaustive dialogue, it becomes clear that coexistence itself has become unsustainable, then perhaps peaceful dissolution negotiated with maturity and justice may be the truest form of unity left to us.

Whatever the outcome, silence and pretense can no longer suffice. We must choose between a future defined by courage or a decline defined by denial.

It is time to stop pretending that unity is sacred when it has become suffocating.

If we refuse to confront this reckoning, we risk learning, as others have, that when unity becomes a prison, freedom will break the walls. For now, the cracks are visible in our rhetoric, our regions, our republic. Whether they widen into collapse or are sealed with courage depends on our collective honesty. But one thing is certain: the chant of “One Nigeria” will not save us if it continues to mean nothing more than silence in the face of inequality.

Until we replace illusion with justice, and ideology with sincerity, we will remain what we are, a country yoked together by history, but not joined by purpose.

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

By Abdulhamid Abdullahi Aliyu

Nigeria has fallen into a bitter cycle of violence, with communities caught in a war they neither invited nor comprehend. In four days, at least 145 Nigerians were abducted in Kebbi, Zamfara, and Niger. This included 25 schoolgirls kidnapped in Kebbi, three villagers killed, 64 seized in Zamfara, 16 vigilantes murdered, and 42 abducted in Niger. The headlines are shocking, but the stories are more troubling: rural areas are dissolving under fear, abandonment, and rising criminal violence.

For many Nigerians, these incidents are not isolated tragedies; they are part of a vicious pattern stretching back years. In 2023, during the tense pre-election months, at least 792 Nigerians were abducted in only the first quarter, according to verified data. Today, as political parties warm up again for the 2027 contest, the shadows are lengthening once more. Insecurity rises, rhetoric rises, promises rise, but communities continue to fall.

The Kebbi school attack is particularly symbolic. Once again, the targets were schoolgirls. Once again, a perimeter fence proved more ceremonial than protective. Once again, armed men walked into a public school as though strolling through an unguarded market. According to the police, the bandits arrived at about 4:00 a.m., firing into the air and overpowering the school’s security before escaping with 25 children. A staff member, Hassan Makuku, was killed. A guard was shot. And the students vanished into the vast, unregulated forests that now function as safe havens for armed groups.

The Federal Government has condemned the attack as governments always do, calling it “reprehensible,” promising swift rescue, and directing security agencies to “locate, rescue and ensure justice.” The Minister of Defence described the incident as “totally unacceptable.” These statements are necessary, but they do little for the parents who now spend their days staring at empty bunks and silent uniforms.

Zamfara’s case is no less alarming. Entire families were carted away from Tsafe and Maru LGAs, with reports confirming three deaths and at least 64 abducted in one attack alone. Communities such as Zurmi, Shinkafi, Maradun, Maru and Bungudu have lived under this shadow for years. They pay levies. They negotiate to farm. They bury loved ones. They flee at night. Banditry in Zamfara has evolved into a parallel economy, one that thrives because the state’s presence has weakened, and criminal syndicates now operate with cold confidence.

Niger State’s tragedy further complicates the picture. Sixteen vigilantes were killed, and dozens were kidnapped. These vigilantes are ordinary residents who step in where the state has failed with torches, dane guns and courage as their only armour. They are outmatched, outgunned and overstretched. Yet they stand in the gap because the alternative is abandonment.

What links Kebbi, Zamfara and Niger is not geography but the silence that follows after promises fade and attention shifts elsewhere. Rural Nigeria has become the theatre of a slow, grinding war of attrition. Schools, farms, highways and markets have become targets. Parents now enrol children in schools not by distance or quality, but by safety. Communities now make security decisions based on rumours, not signals from the government.

Reactions from political figures capture a growing national frustration. Former Vice President Atiku Abubakar condemned the attacks as “a reminder of worsening insecurity,” pointing also to killings in Plateau, Benue and Kano. The PDP accused the Federal Government of “preferring politicisation to protection.” Security experts have raised deeper worries. Former CP Emmanuel Ojukwu warned that abductions often spike ahead of elections, becoming tools of disruption and intimidation. Another retired CP, Ladodo Rabiu, countered that insecurity has now become permanent, not seasonal, and politicians merely exploit it when convenient.

Both views reveal a brutal truth: Nigeria’s insecurity is no longer episodic; it is structural. It feeds on weak governance, fragile policing, porous borders, fragmented jurisdictions, and an overstretched military deployed incessantly for internal duties it was never designed to handle.

But beyond statistics and politics lies the real crisis, a moral one. Rural Nigerians are bearing the brunt of the state’s slow decay. They pay for security with money they don’t have. They live in fear; they didn’t create. They bury victims they cannot protect. Nigeria is failing them not because officials do not speak loudly, but because institutions do not act deeply.

So where does the problem lie, and what must be done?

First, the country’s security response remains reactive. Troops are deployed after attacks, not before them. Intelligence is gathered after kidnappings, not to prevent them. This cycle guarantees repetition. Nigeria must invest in village-level intelligence networks, not just forest-level firepower.

Second, the state is fragmented. Federal, state and local security efforts exist in parallel but rarely intersect meaningfully. Community policing remains a slogan instead of a functional architecture. Insecurity requires a coordinated chain; currently, Nigeria operates with scattered links.

Third, governance in the North-West has become inconsistent. Some states negotiate with bandits; others fight them; others allow communities to fend for themselves. Criminals easily read these patterns and exploit them.

Fourth, poverty and governance failure feed bandit armies. Unemployed youths become foot soldiers. Unprotected forests become camps. Unregulated mining corridors become revenue lines. No amount of military operations can defeat a criminal economy unless the incentives are dismantled.

Finally, transparency is missing. Nigerians rarely know what works or fails. Operations are announced, but outcomes are not documented. Without accountability, improvement is impossible.

The solutions are not mysterious. Deploy intelligence-driven operations; rebuild local policing; integrate vigilantes into formal security structures with training; secure forests with drone surveillance; regulate mining corridors; strengthen border patrols; ensure swift prosecution of captured bandits; and most importantly, ensure that victims are rescued quickly and consistently.

But no solution will matter unless Nigeria is honest with itself: the country has abandoned its rural citizens, leaving millions to bargain daily with terror. Kebbi, Zamfara and Niger are not just news items; they are warning lights for a nation whose peripheries are collapsing inward.

The question now is not whether the government will condemn the attacks it already has. The question is whether Nigerians will see meaningful change, or whether new tragedies will replace these before this week ends.

Until the state reclaims every inch of its territory physically, administratively and morally, rural Nigerians will continue to live on borrowed certainty, waiting for the next sound of gunshots in the night.

Abdulhamid Abdullahi Aliyu is a journalist and syndicated commentator based in Abuja.

U.S. President Donald J. Trump has claimed that the United States carried out a “powerful and deadly” military strike against ISIS targets in northwest Nigeria.

In a statement released on Thursday night, Trump said the operation was conducted under his direction as commander in chief and targeted ISIS fighters accused of killing civilians, particularly Christians. He described the strikes as highly successful and warned that further military action would follow if the violence continues.

There has been no independent confirmation of the operation from U.S. defense officials, and no details have been provided regarding the exact locations, casualties, or scope of the strikes.

As of the time of this report, the Nigerian government has not issued any official statement responding to or confirming the claims.