Northern Nigeria

By Myolisi Gophe

When meningitis robbed him of his hearing at the age of eight, many believed Ibrahim Tukur’s future had been written off. His teachers could no longer reach him. Friends drifted away. Some mocked him. Even his father, convinced there was no future for a deaf child, withdrew him from school.

Today, that same boy is pursuing a Master of Philosophy (MPhil) in Disability Studies at the University of Cape Town’s (UCT) Department of Rehabilitation and Health Sciences as the first Deaf Mandela Rhodes Scholar – one of Africa’s most prestigious leadership scholarships – and is using his experiences to advocate for a more inclusive society.

For Tukur, who hails from Nigeria, his journey is not simply one of overcoming adversity – it is proof that when barriers are removed and opportunities are created, people with disabilities can thrive.

“Receiving the scholarship was one of the happiest moments of my life,” he said. “It reminded me that our disabilities do not determine our success.”

Growing up in Ingawa, a small town in Nigeria’s Katsina State, life changed overnight when meningitis left him Deaf.

Unable to follow lessons in mainstream classrooms, he experienced a sharp decline in academic performance.

“My life drastically changed,” he recalled. “I could no longer understand what my teachers were teaching.”

The social isolation that followed was equally devastating.

“I lost most of my friends, who avoided me because of my deafness, as if it were a curse.”

Believing there was little hope for his son’s future, his father removed him from school.

But fate intervened.

A relative encouraged his father to enrol him at the Government School for the Deaf in Malumfashi, a residential school where sign language was the primary means of communication.

The impact was immediate.

“For the first time since losing my hearing, I learned in an environment where everyone communicated through sign language. Gradually, I regained my confidence, rediscovered my love for learning, and began to believe in myself again.”

That experience sparked a lifelong commitment to ensuring other Deaf children would not face the same barriers.

He went on to earn a degree in Special Education from Bayero University in Kano before enrolling at UCT to deepen his understanding of disability inclusion and advocacy.

Today, he serves as the head teacher at Dambo Tukur School for the Deaf and he also co-founded the Thrive Disability Initiative, a non-governmental organisation (NGO) dedicated to empowering persons with disabilities through education, employment, and entrepreneurship.

Finding inclusion at UCT

Although he had spent years advocating for disability rights, arriving at UCT introduced him to a level of inclusion he had never previously experienced.

“I have never experienced what real inclusion was like until I came to UCT,” he said.

When he struggled to find accommodation upon arrival, staff at UCT’s Disability Service stepped in immediately, helping secure accessible accommodation at Obz Square in Observatory and installing assistive technologies in his room.

Initially, he worried he might be inconveniencing others.

“I realised that inclusion is not about doing someone a favour. It is about removing barriers so everyone can participate equally.”

Another turning point came when his South African Sign Language interpreter connected him with members of the Western Cape Deaf community.

“Through them, I found friendship, belonging and a sense of home.”

Those experiences reinforced his belief that leadership begins by creating spaces where everyone feels seen, valued and included.

The importance of leadership

The Mandela Rhodes Scholarship recognises more than academic excellence. It seeks young leaders committed to reconciliation, entrepreneurship and social impact.

For him, leadership has always been measured by how many lives are impacted, rather than what titles people have.

Among his proudest achievements is advocating for the establishment of Dambo Tukur School for the Deaf back home, which now provides quality education to more than 50 Deaf children who previously had little or no access to schooling.

He has also organised mentorship programmes for Deaf learners, trained government workers in sign language to improve communication with Deaf citizens and coordinated vocational skills programmes that have enabled many unemployed Deaf adults to become financially independent.

One of his biggest challenges came while campaigning for the school.

Government officials initially resisted the proposal because of misconceptions about Deaf people.

Rather than allowing disagreement to create division, he chose dialogue.

“By continuing to engage respectfully and demonstrating the importance of inclusive education, we eventually secured approval and established the school.”

He believes those experiences embody the leadership values championed by the Mandela Rhodes Foundation.

Overcoming invisible barriers

His own university experience also revealed the everyday obstacles Deaf students continue to face.

As an undergraduate, before his journey with UCT, he completed his degree without the support of a sign language interpreter.

Instead, he relied on lecture notes, handouts, and hours of independent study to compensate for the information he could not access in class.

“There were moments when I questioned whether I truly belonged at university and whether I could succeed in a system that was not designed with Deaf students in mind.”

Despite those challenges, he graduated with an Upper Second Class pass (an average score between 60% and 69% across his university courses).

The experience shaped his conviction that disability itself is not the greatest obstacle.

“Inaccessible environments create the greatest barriers to success.”

As someone who has lived the realities of exclusion, he believes universities have an important role to play in changing society.

He would like to see disability studies integrated across disciplines so that graduates in every field understand disability rights, accessibility, and inclusive communication.

He also advocates for stronger support services, including timely access to sign language interpreters, assistive technologies and accessible learning materials.

Financial support for students with disabilities, particularly those from disadvantaged backgrounds, is equally important.

Long-term vision

His long-term vision is ambitious: over the next decade, he hopes to empower at least 500 people with disabilities through education, leadership development and entrepreneurship.

The Mandela Rhodes Scholarship, he said, provides more than financial support.

“It gives me the knowledge, networks and leadership experience to achieve these goals.”

Looking back on his journey, he hopes his story inspires other Deaf learners to believe in themselves.

“Do not allow society’s expectations to define your future,” he said.

“There will be obstacles, and there may be moments when people underestimate your abilities, but your deafness does not determine your intelligence, your talent or your potential.”

His message is simple but powerful.

“If a boy who was once withdrawn from school because people believed he had no future could become a Mandela Rhodes Scholar and study at one of Africa’s leading universities, then you should never doubt what is possible for your own life.

“Dream boldly, persevere through challenges, and remember that you deserve to learn, to lead and thrive just like everyone else.”

Editor’s Note: The article was first published on the Cape Town University news website here: How a Deaf student experienced real inclusion at UCT.

By Muhammad Abubakar

Since I came to France for work, I have been extremely cautious about criticising Israel or Benjamin Netanyahu. Often, though wrongly, people conflate criticism of an entity or a person with criticism of an idea or of an entire ethnic or religious group.

Soon after Hamas’s attack on Israel on October 7, I felt driven to write about the unresolved conflict. It was difficult to ignore the subject. Yet I was also concerned that expressing my views might affect my employment or even my residency status in France. To be certain, I reached out to our Human Resources department for guidance.

We essentially agreed on an important distinction. Israel and Benjamin Netanyahu are not the same as the Jewish people or Judaism. One can criticise the policies of the Israeli government or the actions of its prime minister without expressing hostility towards Jews or the Jewish faith. The same principle applies elsewhere. A person may criticise Saudi Arabia or Crown Prince Mohammed bin Salman without being an Islamophobe or an enemy of Islam.

This distinction is fundamental in any society that values free expression and intellectual honesty. Democracies depend on the ability of citizens to question governments, leaders and public figures. If every criticism of a political leader is interpreted as an attack on an entire religion or ethnic group, meaningful public debate becomes impossible.

I was reminded of this principle after listening to new songs released yesterday by the Nigerian political singer, Dauda Kahutu, popularly known as Rarara. The songs appear to criticise an opposition politician in Gombe State, Sheikh Ali Isa Ibrahim Pantami, who is also a respected Islamic scholar.

Unfortunately, I have seen some people make the same mistake that often appears in discussions about international politics. They have framed criticism of Pantami as though it were criticism of Islam itself.

Pantami does not represent Islam. He is a Muslim and an influential public figure, but he remains an individual whose political choices, public statements and actions are open to public scrutiny, just like those of any other politician. Defending him is entirely legitimate, but such a defence should be based on facts, evidence and reason rather than on the assumption that any criticism directed at him is an attack on the religion he professes.

By any definition, both the singer and the governorship candidate he appears to criticise in his songs are Muslims. Neither of them represents Islam. Their political disagreements should therefore remain political disagreements. Turning them into religious disputes serves neither truth nor the public interest.

This tendency to wrap political figures in the cloak of religion is dangerous. It discourages accountability and deepens unnecessary divisions within society. Once religion becomes a shield against legitimate criticism, it becomes difficult to separate public responsibility from personal belief.

Nigeria’s diversity demands greater care in the language we use. Political competition should not be transformed into religious confrontation. Citizens should be able to disagree with politicians, governors, ministers or scholars without being accused of attacking an entire faith.

The lesson is simple. We must distinguish between people and the principles they claim to represent, between governments and the nations they govern, and between political leaders and the religions they practise. Failing to make these distinctions only fuels misunderstanding and polarisation.

Criticise ideas. Debate policies. Defend people if you wish. But let us avoid presenting political disagreements as battles for religion. In the long run, both politics and religion are better served when we keep that distinction clear.

By Ibrahim Aliyu Gurin 

In Northern Nigeria’s political battlegrounds, the loudest attacks don’t always come from campaign podiums. Long before Facebook, TikTok and WhatsApp turned everyone into a publisher, Hausaland already had its own version of political messaging.

The maroƙi (praise-singer) was more than a singer. He was a storyteller, historian and public commentator. When a leader did well, he sang yabo, verses filled with praise and the same performer could just as easily turn that skill toward humiliation by mocking a rival’s failures, appearance, or character in verses crafted to stick in public memory, which is referred to as zambo. 

Zambo is a sharp, witty poetry designed to mock, embarrass or expose. It wasn’t always pleasant, but it was part of the culture; the difference today is that zambo has become a political business.

Instead of entertaining a local crowd, one song can now reach millions of people before sunset. A chorus recorded in Kano can be playing in Kaduna, Sokoto, Abuja and even among Hausa communities abroad within hours.

No one illustrates this better than Dauda Kahutu Rarara. Over the years, he has released songs like Hannun Karɓa, Masu Gudu Su Gudu, Baba Buhari Dodar, Jagaba Shi Ne Gaba and recently Malam Ya Yi Rawa. To his supporters, these are campaign anthems. To his critics, they are political attacks wrapped in catchy melodies. Whatever side you take, one thing is difficult to deny: people remember the songs long after they have forgotten the campaign speeches, and this alone says something about the power of music.

What makes today’s political songs different from the poetry of men like Sa’adu Zungur, Mudi Sipikin or Garba Affa is intention. Earlier political poetry was designed to awaken society, challenge injustice and educate the people. Much of today’s political music is driven by patronage. A politician hires a musician, the musician praises one side, ridicules the other, and the song becomes another campaign strategy.

Perhaps that is why political music now feels less like public service and more like political advertising. There is nothing wrong with musicians supporting politicians. Every artist has the right to hold political views. The concern begins when entertainment replaces truth, becomes more influential than verified facts, and insults travel farther than ideas.

Maybe the bigger question is not why politicians pay musicians. Maybe it is why we, the listeners, remember the insults more easily than the policies.

As another election season approaches, perhaps the challenge is to enjoy the music without allowing the chorus to become our ballot paper. After all, a hit song lasts only a few minutes, but the consequences of the leaders we choose can last for years.

Ibrahim Aliyu Gurin is a graduate of mass communication from Bayero University, Kano, and can be reached at ibrahimaliyu5023@gmail.com.

By Zayyad I. Muhammad 

One of the gubernatorial ambitions generating the most intense debate and public interest ahead of the Gombe State 2027 governorship race is that of Professor Isa Ali Ibrahim Pantami.

From the outset, Professor Pantami’s reported interest in contesting for the governorship attracted attention far beyond the borders of Gombe State. This is largely because he is not regarded as a conventional politician. Rather, he is an accomplished academic, Islamic scholar, technocrat, and former Minister of Communications and Digital Economy whose tenure earned him national recognition for driving Nigeria’s digital transformation.

Pantami’s potential candidacy appears to enjoy support from three distinct constituencies.

The first consists of those who genuinely believe he has something significant to offer the state. They draw inspiration from his performance as minister, citing his reforms in the digital economy, the expansion of broadband infrastructure, the growth of digital identity enrolment, and his emphasis on innovation, transparency, and public sector efficiency. To this group, his administrative record demonstrates that he possesses the competence and vision required to govern Gombe State.

The second group is found within the opposition in Gombe state, particularly elements of the PDP, who view Pantami as one of the few personalities with the political profile, credibility, and public appeal capable of mounting a serious challenge against the APC’s candidate-Dr. Jamilu Isiyaku Gwamna. Whether they support him or not, many acknowledge that his entry into the race would significantly alter the political equation.

The third constituency comprises sections of the religious community who see his ambition as an opportunity for one of their own to demonstrate how religious scholarship, intellectual depth, and public service can translate into effective democratic governance. For many within this group, his candidacy represents more than a political contest; it is an opportunity to test whether the values he has consistently preached can be successfully applied in elective office.

Like every major political figure, Pantami also faces opposition from different quarters.

The first group consists mainly of career politicians who believe he is entering a political space traditionally occupied by established political actors. To them, he is an outsider attempting to disrupt existing political calculations, alliances, and structures that have been built over many years.

Perhaps more surprisingly, the second group of opponents comes from within sections of his immediate religious constituency. Some clerics and religious associates reportedly believe that during his tenure as minister, he did not sufficiently carry them along or extend the expected level of inclusion and patronage. Consequently, while they may respect his scholarly credentials, they remain reluctant to support his political ambition.

Another dimension that has attracted considerable attention is the political dexterity with which Pantami secured the PDP gubernatorial ticket. The manner in which he navigated the party’s internal dynamics and emerged as its flagbearer suggests careful planning and strategic preparation rather than mere political ambition. His decision to align with the Nyesom Wike-led faction of the PDP, a bloc widely perceived in political circles as maintaining a cooperative relationship with the APC-led Federal Government, has further strengthened his political positioning. The goodwill and support he reportedly enjoys within that tendency of the PDP could prove to be a significant advantage as the campaign unfolds.

In addition, Pantami could benefit from protest votes originating from within the APC. Some influential APC stakeholders and their supporters who believe Governor Muhammadu Inuwa Yahaya has not done sufficient justice to their political aspirations or interests may choose to channel their dissatisfaction by supporting Pantami. While it remains to be seen how substantial such a shift could be, the possibility of cross-party protest votes is a factor that political observers cannot ignore.

Whichever way one chooses to examine it, Professor Isa Ali Ibrahim Pantami’s potential governorship candidacy is in a class of its own. What initially appeared to be little more than speculation or a distant aspiration has steadily evolved into one of the defining conversations in Gombe State politics. official campaign has yet to commence, but the discussions surrounding Pantami’s governorship ambition have already reshaped Gombe State’s political landscape, making him a force that political stakeholders can no longer afford to ignore.

The ultimate test, however, will not simply be the enthusiasm surrounding his candidacy but his ability to convert goodwill into an effective political structure, sustain broad-based alliances, and persuade the electorate that his administrative achievements at the federal level can be replicated in Gombe State. Regardless of the eventual outcome, Pantami has already ensured that the Gombe 2027 governorship contest will be one of the most closely watched political battles in the state’s history.

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

By Abdullahi Mukhtar Algasgaini 

The National Board for Arabic and Islamic Studies (NBAIS) has come under scrutiny after allocating N18.049 billion of its N26.47 billion 2026 budget to staff salaries and allowances, representing 68 per cent of its total budget.

The agency, responsible for standardising and certifying Arabic and Islamic education across Nigeria, plans to spend N15.414 billion on salaries and N2.636 billion on allowances and social contributions for its workforce, according to budget documents.

While N146.6 million is earmarked for allowances, N2.489 billion has been allocated for social contributions, including N770.15 million for the National Health Insurance Scheme and N1.540 billion for staff pensions.

The remaining 32 per cent of the budget covers N318 million for overhead costs and N8.104 billion for capital expenditure.

The board has also set aside over N2.5 billion for projects including road construction, solar streetlights, food distribution, and social media training across Kano, Katsina, Kogi, and Zamfara States.

Notable allocations include N210 million for road construction in Kano Central Senatorial District, N175 million each for solar street lights in three Kano LGAs, and N28 million for rice distribution in Zamfara State.

A combined allocation exceeding N1.5 billion has been made for solar street light installations across multiple Kano LGAs, with amounts ranging from N140 million to N175 million per local government area.

Dr Umar Yakubu, Executive Director of the Centre for Fiscal Transparency and Public Integrity, called for the board’s scrapping, describing it as a duplication of existing agencies.

“First of all, we create agencies we don’t need. How can you create a whole agency just to conduct exams when you can easily give that role to WAEC, JAMB or other bodies?” he asked.

Yakubu alleged that “90% of the staff don’t have work to do,” adding that the EFCC has been investigating corruption allegations at the agency for years.

Public analyst Lasisi Olagunju highlighted the disparity in spending, noting that NBAIS’s personnel expenses exceed the entire personnel budget of NECO (N15.53 billion), NUC (N4.216 billion), NBTE (N1.843 billion), and NCCE (N1.306 billion).

“How many workers does the National Board for Arabic and Islamic Studies have in its employment to justify a personnel bill of more than N18 billion?” Olagunju queried.

Sources within the agency, speaking on condition of anonymity, revealed that the board has approximately 6,000 staff members. Some employees admitted to having little to no work, with one headquarters staff member stating: “I come to work twice a week because there is nothing for me to do.”

NBAIS was recognised as a national examination and regulatory body in 2011 following approval by the National Council on Education, covering over 1,600 public and private schools and more than 5,000 Tsangaya schools.

The agency’s Head of Information, Abdul Salam Ramalan, promised to respond to inquiries after consulting with his principal but had not done so at the time of filing this report.

Dr Auwal Adam Sa’ad

Northern Nigeria stands at a defining moment in its humanitarian and development history. Years of insurgency, armed conflict, banditry, communal violence, and environmental shocks have displaced millions of people from their homes. Women and children bear the greatest burden of this crisis. Many now live in internally displaced persons (IDP) camps or host communities where access to education, healthcare, housing, livelihoods, and economic opportunities remains severely constrained.

For years, humanitarian agencies, governments, charitable organisations, and development partners have provided emergency assistance that has undoubtedly saved lives. Food distribution, temporary shelter, healthcare interventions, and emergency education programmes have prevented an even greater catastrophe.

Yet an uncomfortable reality remains: emergency aid cannot become a permanent development strategy.

Humanitarian assistance addresses immediate needs but seldom creates enduring economic resilience. Once donor funding ends, many beneficiaries remain trapped in poverty and dependence. The cycle of vulnerability simply begins again.

Northern Nigeria therefore requires a financing model that moves beyond relief towards sustainable empowerment. One promising solution lies within the rich heritage of Islamic social finance: the integration of Waqf and Sukuk into a single development instrument known as Waqf Sukuk.

For centuries, Waqf has served as one of Islam’s most powerful institutions for public welfare. Across the Muslim world, endowed assets financed universities, hospitals, roads, water systems, orphanages, and social services that continued serving communities long after their founders had passed away. Waqf created permanent social infrastructure because its assets remained intact while only their benefits were utilised.

Sukuk, meanwhile, have become one of the fastest-growing segments of global Islamic finance. Unlike conventional bonds, Sukuk represent ownership interests in tangible assets or productive ventures that comply with Shariah principles. Today, governments and corporations worldwide use Sukuk to finance infrastructure, transportation, renewable energy, housing, healthcare, and industrial development.

Sukuk, meanwhile, have become one of the fastest-growing segments of global Islamic finance. Unlike conventional bonds, Sukuk represent ownership interests in tangible assets or productive ventures that comply with Shariah principles. Today, governments and corporations worldwide use Sukuk to finance infrastructure, transportation, renewable energy, housing, healthcare, and industrial development. Nigeria’s own experience demonstrates the remarkable market confidence in this ethical financing instrument.

The Federal Government’s Series VII Sovereign Sukuk recorded an unprecedented subscription of over ₦2.205 trillion—an oversubscription of approximately 735 per cent—underscoring the enormous investor appetite for transparent, asset-backed, and socially impactful investments. The combination of this strong investor demand with the enduring social mission of Waqf creates an extraordinary opportunity. The combination of these two institutions creates an extraordinary opportunity.

A Waqf Sukuk mobilises investment capital to establish productive assets that are permanently dedicated to charitable purposes. Instead of distributing donated funds until they are exhausted, the proceeds finance income-generating projects whose revenues continuously support vulnerable populations.For Northern Nigeria, this could fundamentally reshape humanitarian financing.

Rather than repeatedly financing food distribution, Waqf Sukuk could establish agricultural processing facilities owned by Waqf institutions that employ displaced women while generating revenues for education and healthcare programmes.

Instead of constructing temporary shelters that require constant maintenance funding, Waqf Sukuk could finance affordable housing developments whose rental income supports social services.

Vocational training centres, healthcare clinics, women-owned cooperatives, renewable energy projects, irrigation schemes, commercial markets, educational institutions, and microfinance programmes could all become endowed assets whose earnings are perpetually reinvested into community development.This is not charity that ends with consumption.It is charity that continuously reproduces itself.And the economic implications are profound.

Every naira invested through Waqf Sukuk becomes a productive asset capable of generating recurring benefits for decades. Beneficiaries are no longer viewed merely as recipients of aid but as active participants in economic production. Skills development replaces dependency. Enterprise replaces vulnerability. Opportunity replaces uncertainty.

This model also reflects the higher objectives of Islamic law (Maqasid al-Shariah). It protects life by improving healthcare and food security. It preserves intellect through education and vocational training. It safeguards wealth by creating sustainable livelihoods. It protects families through decent housing and social welfare. Above all, it restores human dignity by enabling displaced persons to rebuild their own futures.

The relevance of Waqf Sukuk extends beyond religious ideals. It strongly complements the United Nations Sustainable Development Goals, particularly those relating to poverty eradication, quality education, gender equality, decent work, reduced inequalities, sustainable communities, and partnerships for development.Its appeal therefore reaches multiple stakeholders.

For Northern Nigerian society, Waqf Sukuk revives a deeply respected Islamic tradition of community solidarity while adapting it to contemporary development challenges. It demonstrates that Islamic finance is not merely a commercial enterprise but also a powerful instrument for inclusive social transformation.

For wealthy individuals and philanthropists, Waqf Sukuk offers an opportunity to create perpetual charitable impact rather than one-time donations. Their contributions become lasting investments in human development that continue generating rewards both socially and spiritually.

For corporations, participation strengthens corporate social responsibility and environmental, social, and governance (ESG) commitments. Supporting Waqf Sukuk enables businesses to contribute directly to regional stability, workforce development, poverty reduction, and economic inclusion while enhancing their public reputation as responsible corporate citizens.

For investors, Waqf Sukuk represents an ethical investment vehicle backed by tangible assets and measurable social outcomes. The growing global demand for impact investing suggests considerable interest among investors seeking opportunities that combine financial discipline with meaningful developmental impact.

International development partners should likewise recognise the strategic importance of this model. Around the world, humanitarian agencies increasingly acknowledge that aid dependency cannot continue indefinitely. Innovative financing mechanisms are becoming central to sustainable development policy.

Waqf Sukuk offers exactly such an innovation. It complements humanitarian programmes rather than replacing them. Emergency assistance remains indispensable during crises, but Waqf Sukuk creates the permanent institutions that reduce dependence on future aid by building local economic capacity.

Countries such as Malaysia, Indonesia, Türkiye, and several Gulf states have already demonstrated the growing potential of integrating Islamic social finance with national development priorities. Nigeria possesses every ingredient necessary to become Africa’s leading centre for socially oriented Islamic finance.

However, successful implementation requires robust policy support. Federal and state governments should establish comprehensive legal frameworks governing Waqf assets, Sukuk issuance, governance standards, transparency, beneficiary protection, auditing, and performance reporting. Regulatory certainty will significantly improve investor confidence.

Tax incentives can encourage private participation. Public-private partnerships can leverage government support with private investment. Islamic financial institutions should develop specialised Waqf Sukuk products tailored to humanitarian and development objectives. Universities and research institutions should contribute through policy research, professional training, and impact assessment. Traditional institutions, religious leaders, and civil society organisations should mobilise public awareness to build trust and acceptance.

Development finance institutions and multilateral organisations can further strengthen the ecosystem through technical assistance, credit enhancement mechanisms, capacity building, and co-financing arrangements.The humanitarian crisis in Northern Nigeria demands solutions that are as enduring as the challenges themselves.

Emergency aid will always have an important place during periods of crisis. But rebuilding societies requires more than relief. It requires institutions that continuously generate hope, opportunity, and economic independence.

Waqf Sukuk represents precisely such an institution. It transforms generosity into productive capital, compassion into sustainable investment, and charity into perpetual empowerment. It reflects both the ethical foundations of Islamic finance and the practical realities of modern development economics.

The displaced women and children of Northern Nigeria deserve more than temporary survival. They deserve access to education, productive employment, dignified housing, quality healthcare, entrepreneurship, and the opportunity to shape their own futures.

Waqf Sukuk offers a pathway towards that future. Its widespread adoption by governments, corporations, investors, philanthropic organisations, Islamic financial institutions, and international development partners could redefine humanitarian financing in Nigeria and establish a model worthy of replication across Africa.

The question is no longer whether we can afford to innovate.It is whether we can afford not to.

Auwal is an associate professor at the Institute of Islamic Banking and Finance, IIUM. He can be reached via: auwal@iium.edu.my.

By Ibrahim Aliyu Gurin 

The Kannywood film industry is more than an entertainment industry. It has become one of the most powerful cultural influences in Northern Nigeria. The stories it tells shape how people think, speak, and sometimes even behave. Characters become role models, and the habits they display often find their way into everyday life.

That is why this is a respectful appeal to directors, producers, and scriptwriters: as you entertain millions, also seize the opportunity to promote simple habits that make our society safer, healthier, and more compassionate.

One of the simplest ways to save lives is also one of the most overlooked. Wearing a seat belt should not depend on the distance being travelled. Whether someone is driving to the market, taking children to school, or travelling across states, everyone in the vehicle, including those in the back seat, should buckle up before the journey begins.

Unfortunately, films often show characters jumping into cars and driving away without fastening their seat belts. This unintentionally sends the message that seat belts are optional. Imagine the opposite: respected characters calmly fastening their seat belts before starting the engine, reminding passengers to do the same. Such scenes require only a few seconds but can influence millions of viewers.

Also, modern driving is increasingly threatened by distracted driving. Many people believe it is harmless to answer a quick call, read a message, or reply to a text while driving. Others assume it is safe to use their phones while waiting at a traffic light.

In reality, distraction can be deadly. Safe driving means the phone stays out of the driver’s hands until the vehicle has been parked safely. Showing heroes who ignore incoming calls while driving or politely tell callers, “I’ll call you back when I’ve stopped,” promotes a powerful message without interrupting the story.

Additionally, food is central to many Kannywood stories. Family meals, celebrations, and traditional gatherings are common scenes. Yet one simple habit is often overlooked: washing hands properly before eating or preparing food.

Handwashing properly remains one of the most effective ways to prevent many infectious diseases. A brief scene showing a family washing their hands before sharing a meal can quietly reinforce a healthy practice that protects entire households.

Mental health is another area where Kannywood can make a real difference. Too often, emotional struggles are portrayed only as spiritual attacks. Faith is important, but so are counselling, medical care, and family support. Showing them together would reflect real life and encourage more understanding.

Furthermore, people living with disabilities deserve to be represented with dignity and authenticity. Too often, disability is used merely as comic relief, a symbol of helplessness, or a tool to evoke pity.

Real life tells a different story. Across Nigeria, people with disabilities are teachers, entrepreneurs, professionals, artists, students, parents, and community leaders. They contribute meaningfully to society and deserve to see themselves represented fairly on screen.

Inclusive storytelling means giving characters with disabilities meaningful roles, realistic ambitions, and complete personalities—not defining them solely by their disabilities.

Social change does not always begin with government policies or public campaigns. Sometimes it begins with everyday habits becoming normal. This is why I hope Kannywood filmmakers become more intentional about the habits they put on screen. The greatest impact may not come from dramatic speeches or moral lectures, but from ordinary characters consistently doing the right thing.

After all, audiences often imitate what they repeatedly see. Sometimes, the lessons we never intended to teach become the ones the world remembers the most.

Ibrahim Aliyu Gurin is a graduate of mass communication from Bayero University, Kano, and can be reached at ibrahimaliyu5023@gmail.com.

By Uzair Adam 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

By Maimuna Katuka Aliyu

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‎By Fatih Lawal-Garu  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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