Northern Nigeria

By Kamal Alkasim

As I embark on writing about the history of our community, I am compelled to share the remarkable story of Sheikh Lawan Makama. His life’s work has had a profound impact on thousands of students, including myself, through his tireless dedication to teaching the Qur’an and founding a prestigious Islamic college.

We affectionately called him ‘Baban Makaranta’ (Father of the School) because of his unwavering presence and guidance. He would often be seen at the school, writing on the Allo (wooden slate) for students, mentoring teachers, and caring for us like a father.

When I spoke to one of my teachers and his son, Shehu Lawan Makama, about his father’s legacy, he shared a profound insight: ‘In our family tradition, every child is expected to teach in school before pursuing any business venture.’ This legacy lives on through the Ma’ahad Sheikh Lawan Makama, a renowned college for Qur’anic studies in our community, Kofar-Ruwa.

The college offers a comprehensive curriculum, with morning and afternoon sessions focused on Qur’anic studies, followed by evening classes on Hadith and Islamic theology. The quality of education in our community is a testament to the excellence of his school. Sheikh Lawan Makama’s impact extends beyond the classroom, as his commitment to community service has left an indelible mark on our society.

Sheikh Lawan Makama’s contributions to community services were multifaceted. His children would often lead Islamic events, including Ramadan prayers in various mosques. As students, we would attend school during the day and participate in community services in the evenings.

Growing up in a family that values the Qur’an, I had the privilege of attending many of these events. Sheikh Lawan Makama instilled in us strong moral values and good habits, emphasizing the importance of integrity and character. His reputation was such that if someone from his school misbehaved, the community would say, “This isn’t the habit of Sheikh Lawan Makama’s students.” His legacy is built on the principles of good character, and those who know him can attest to this.

Sheikh Lawan Makama’s family reflects his commitment to the Qur’an. All 16 of his children are Qur’an reciters, and thousands of students have memorized the Qur’an through his school. The students who lived in his house were treated like family members, receiving food, clothing, and care. One of my classmates shared that they felt no difference between themselves and Sheikh Lawan Makama’s biological children.

As someone who values documenting history, I aim to preserve Sheikh Lawan Makama’s legacy accurately, ensuring that future generations can learn from his remarkable life and contributions. May God bless him with knowledge, wisdom, and eternal peace.

Kamal Alkasim wrote from Kano, via kamalalkasim17@gmail.com.

By Uzair Adam 

Three scholars from Bayero University, Kano (BUK), have been named among the top 2% of the world’s most influential scientists in the 2025 global ranking released by Stanford University in collaboration with Elsevier.

The Daily Reality reports that the list, which draws on data from the Scopus database, recognises researchers whose work is among the most cited worldwide. 

The ranking evaluates research impact using standardised metrics, including total citations, h-index, co-authorship-adjusted index (hm-index), and a composite indicator (c-score), across 22 fields and 174 subfields.

The BUK academics featured in the 2025 ranking are Professor Abdulrazaq Garba Habib of the Department of Internal Medicine, who ranks 82nd globally in Clinical Medicine, subfield Tropical Medicine, with an h-index of 11 and an hm-index of 5.

Dr. Sunusi Marwana Maniadan from the Department of Mechanical Engineering, ranked 4,131st in Enabling and Strategic Technologies, subfield Materials, with an h-index of 14 and an hm-index of 4. 

Dr. Isah Baba Abdullahi of the Department of Mathematical Sciences, ranked 142nd in Physics & Astronomy, subfield Mathematical Physics, holding an h-index of 8 and an hm-index of 4.

The Stanford-Elsevier ranking is widely regarded as one of the most credible indicators of scientific influence, spotlighting researchers whose work is highly cited and influential in their fields.

Commenting on the achievement, BUK Vice Chancellor, Professor Haruna Musa, described the recognition as a reflection of the university’s academic growth and research excellence on the global stage. 

The inclusion of these three scholars’ positions BUK among the select Nigerian universities with multiple entries in the prestigious annual ranking.

By Ibraheem A. Waziri

(My other essay, Against The Hadith Problem, discussed how Muslim empires in the past lived on a quartet of paradigms produced through the synthesis between the Qur’an, the body of Hadith, and reason. That provoked questions regarding the future of Muslim societies and states, hence these reflections and projections into 2075.)

It is 2075, and the world I walk through feels at once strange and familiar. The glass towers still gleam, drones still hum, algorithms still rule, yet beneath the circuitry there is a slower pulse: the rhythm of old fiqh and older faith.

For all our talk half a century ago of a secular age, the present belongs to hybridity. Constitutions speak the language of the Qur’an without calling it revelation. Western democracies borrow the moral grammar of Medina without feeling conquered. The four old schools of law (Mālikī, Shāfiʿī, Ḥanafī and Ḥanbalī) and the three great theologies (Ashʿarī, Māturīdī and Atharī) are no longer museum exhibits. They are living systems quietly moderating the noise of modernity.

West Africa: The Mālikī Republics

I began this journey in Abuja. The city has doubled in size, but its heart beats in rhythm with the Mālikī canon. In the courthouse, digital panels display sections from Mukhtaṣar Khalīl beside constitutional clauses. When a judge calculates inheritance shares, the algorithm he uses is Mālikī too: transparent, fair and incorruptible.

Even non-Muslim states around the Sahel now use these formulas. Ghana’s civil code borrows Mālikī inheritance rules, while Benin’s marriage registry follows the Islamic ʿaqd nikāḥ (marital contract) model because it ensures equity and consent better than the older colonial templates.

Banking has gone moral. Nigeria’s hybrid finance sector runs on maṣlaḥa-based smart contracts, while interest systems survive only in history syllabi. The ulama sit on the Council of Moral Economies, auditing state budgets for ethical imbalance. “Sharia,” an elderly economist told me, “is not our government; it is our conscience.”

Arabia: The Neo-Atharī Technocracy

From the Sahel, I flew east to Riyadh. The skyline looks like circuitry: solar glass towers, sky bridges humming with data. The Atharī–Hanbalī paradigm still shapes law, but it is encoded now in a literal sense. Hanbalī jurists work with AI engineers who have trained “Hadith logic engines” to map rulings from canonical texts.

The constitution speaks of dual sovereignty: divine law for the moral order, human law for function. A court clerk showed me how every regulatory draft is first run through an algorithm trained on Ibn Ḥanbal and Ibn Taymiyyah, then reviewed by human jurists.

Even cinema has turned pious. Historical dramas about early scholars play in multiplexes. Young Saudis quote Ibn Ḥanbal as easily as they quote quantum code. The result is not rigidity but confidence. They see tradition not as a wall but as a coordinate system for the future.

Southeast Asia: The Shāfiʿī–Ashʿarī Democracy

Jakarta feels like the world’s conscience. The call to prayer threads through a metropolis of electric trams and vertical gardens. The parliament convenes only after the Majlis al-Maqāṣid, the Council of Objectives, certifies that each bill meets four of Sharia’s six ethical aims: life, intellect, property, faith, lineage and justice.

This “maqāṣid democracy” has become the envy of the developing world. Corruption is rare because legislation itself is filtered through moral metrics. University students still memorise al-Nawawī and al-Ghazālī, but they also code in Python and quote maqāṣid theory in debates on climate law.

Shāfiʿī jurisprudence has not stifled freedom; it has disciplined it. A new civic pride glows here. Islam and democracy are no longer hyphenated; they are married.

Ankara: The Ḥanafī–Māturīdī Continuum

And then there is Turkey, the quiet custodian of the Ottoman inheritance. Its universities still teach Māturīdī theology as the bridge between revelation and rationalism. The state calls itself secular, yet its courts and social policy breathe Ḥanafī air.

In 2075, the High Directorate of Moral Logic, a successor to the old Diyanet, reviews every national reform for philosophical balance: does it protect reason (aql) and faith (īmān) equally? The framework is pure Māturīdī.

Turkey’s digital constitution, ratified in 2060, encodes “Ḥanafī modularity,” a principle allowing law to flex with circumstance. The same logic shapes its AI governance, its family law, and even its diplomacy.

From Istanbul outward, this Ḥanafī–Māturīdī ethos has spilt into Central Asia and the Indian subcontinent. Uzbekistan’s civic schools teach both Avicenna and al-Māturīdī. Pakistani fintech startups run on ḥiyal-based smart contracts. The Ottoman blend of faith and rational statecraft has found its second life in circuitry and policy code.

Europe: The Mālikī Renaissance

In Paris, I walked past a law office advertising “Islamic Equity Contracts.” Mālikī inheritance rules, once exotic, are now embedded in the French civil code for their mathematical clarity. Every December, the city hosts La Nuit des Saints, honouring figures from both faiths such as ʿAbd al-Qādir al-Jazāʾirī, Rābiʿa al-ʿAdawiyya and Francis of Assisi. The night ends with poetry readings under the Louvre’s glass dome.

Across the Channel, the United Kingdom has normalised Sharia arbitration. The Hanafi–Maturidi tradition, brought long ago by South Asian immigrants, is now part of national legal pluralism. Judges quote Abū Ḥanīfa in footnotes. Friday sermons mingle Qur’an with Shakespeare, and the term Anglo-Muslim has lost its hyphen; it has become a cultural fact.

The Global Drift Towards Muslim Norms

What surprises me most in 2075 is not conversion, though that too has surged, but imitation. The world has adopted Muslim social standards almost unconsciously.

The ʿaqd nikāḥ, once seen as a religious marriage, is now the global model for civil unions, prized for its symmetry and consent clauses. UN inheritance reforms draw on Mālikī logic for equitable estate division. Even secular citizens in Europe and East Asia now choose contracts modelled after fiqh because they feel fairer, cleaner and more human.

Reverence for saintly figures, long dismissed as superstition, has made a comeback. Shrines to al-Ghazālī, Rūmī, Ibn ʿArabī and even non-Muslim sages now form a new “pilgrim’s circuit of wisdom.” Modern psychology calls it “ancestral grounding.” We simply call it barakah.

As for conversions, some call them reversions; they grow yearly. Not by the sword of argument, but by exhaustion. People wanted meaning, proportion and discipline. They found it in Islam’s cadence: prayer as pause, zakat as fairness, fasting as freedom from appetite. In Europe, nearly one in five now identifies as Muslim or Muslim-shaped; in North America, one in ten. Many of them began not with belief but with admiration for the order that belief produced.

The Entangled Civilisation

By 2075, no state is purely Islamic or Western. The categories have dissolved.

The UN’s Council on Civilisational Ethics opens its sessions with verses from the Qur’an alongside Kantian aphorisms. Global digital charters cite ʿadl, justice, as their guiding principle. Algorithms that allocate water or distribute vaccines carry lines of fiqh-based code to ensure fairness.

The old paradigms have not conquered the world; they have simply proven indispensable. Mālikī–Ashʿarī, Shāfiʿī–Ashʿarī, Ḥanafī–Māturīdī and Ḥanbalī–Atharī each remain alive, shaping ethics, finance, law and art. Their jurists now sit on international boards beside secular philosophers, arguing about AI morality and interplanetary law. The conversation is no longer between faith and reason, but between kinds of reason.

A Closing Reflection

As I write this letter from a café in Fez, the call to prayer blends with the hum of an electric tram. A group of students nearby, Muslim, Christian and atheist, argue over a verse from the Qur’an, not as a theological claim but as a piece of political philosophy. The verse speaks of balance: “We made you a middle community.”

Perhaps that is what we have become by 2075: a middle community for a weary planet. The Western world brought machinery; Islam preserved measure. Together they built a civilisation that still argues, still hopes and still prays. The paradigms the world once thought ancient turned out to be the most modern of all.

By Rabiu Elkanawi

Mr Sulaiman Abbas, a Nigerian-born researcher, is contributing significantly to scientific innovation with his groundbreaking work that has the potential to transform global approaches to climate change.

Abbas, having obtained his MSc from Tianjin University in China, co-authored a highly cited paper on interface engineering for the electrocatalytic reduction of carbon dioxide (CO₂). His research investigates the potential of meticulously engineered nanomaterials and catalyst interfaces to transform CO₂, a significant factor in climate change, into useful fuels and industrial chemicals.

“I have consistently demonstrated a commitment to identifying solutions in the face of challenges,” Abbas stated. 

In Nigeria, industries and power stations emit significant quantities of CO₂, which is frequently regarded merely as waste. My research aims to convert waste gas into valuable resources for energy production and manufacturing.

This study elucidates the engineering of metal–metal, metal–oxide, and molecular interfaces to facilitate the efficient breakdown of CO₂, addressing the resilient chemical bonds that complicate its processing. Abbas’s research enhances catalyst performance, indicating novel methods for producing clean fuels, chemicals, and power storage systems, while simultaneously decreasing greenhouse gas emissions.

Nigeria’s reliance on oil and gas causes environmental issues like rising emissions. Abbas’ research suggests capturing CO₂ from industries, developing low-carbon sectors for green jobs, and rural electrification using CO₂ conversion with solar and wind energy.

Mr Abbas is pursuing a PhD in Solid State Chemistry at the University of Cincinnati and is part of international networks on sustainability and clean energy. His work highlights a circular carbon economy, where Nigeria and developing nations turn environmental challenges into innovation catalysts.

In the pursuit of carbon-neutral technologies, innovators such as Mr Abbas demonstrate that Nigeria’s emerging scientists are prepared to take a leadership role.

By Halima Abdulsalam Muhd

For decades, many Nigerian communities benefited from a rigorous weekly sanitation exercise led by duba gari or community health monitors who inspected homes and surroundings for hygiene compliance. These dedicated individuals went from house to house, checking toilets, kitchens, bedrooms, and waste disposal areas. Offenders were fined ₦50, a penalty that not only discouraged negligence but also ensured that communities maintained high sanitation standards.

Today, however, that once-vibrant practice has largely disappeared, leaving neighbourhoods grappling with mounting sanitation challenges, from blocked drainage to increased cases of cholera and malaria. Residents and experts alike are calling for the revival of this community-driven initiative.

Voices from the Community

Malama Hadiza Musa, a trader in Naibawa, recalled how effective the system used to be. “When the duba gari came every week, we had no choice but to clean up. Everywhere was tidy, even the backyards. Now, people dump refuse carelessly, and it is affecting all of us,” she lamented.

Mr Aliyu Garba, a retired civil servant, shared similar sentiments, “Back then, sanitation was part of our lives. Today, gutters are clogged, and mosquitoes breed everywhere. We need to bring back that system before things get worse.”

For Zainab Abdullahi, a mother of four, the absence of weekly inspections has created health concerns for families. Children now play around in dirty environments. If sanitation checks were still happening, parents would take cleaning more seriously.”

Community leader Malam Ibrahim Tukur believes the fines encouraged responsibility, “₦50 may look small today, but it carried weight at that time. It wasn’t about the money—it was about discipline. People feared being fined, so they kept their homes clean.”

Meanwhile, younger residents like Suleiman Adamu, a university student, argue that modern approaches should complement the old system, “We can bring it back, but alongside awareness campaigns and community waste management systems. Punishment alone may not be enough.”

Expert Perspectives

Environmental experts warn that abandoning structured sanitation monitoring has far-reaching effects.

Dr Fatima Yakubu, an environmental health specialist, emphasised the connection between sanitation and public health: “Poor sanitation directly contributes to outbreaks of cholera, typhoid, and malaria. Weekly inspections used to act as preventive measures. Reviving them could save lives and reduce health costs.”

Similarly, Prof. Emmanuel Okafor, an environmental scientist at Ahmadu Bello University, stressed the economic implications, “Communities spend more on healthcare when sanitation breaks down. By reinstating duba gari inspections, we are not just promoting cleanliness—we are reducing disease burden and increasing productivity.”

The Way Forward

Local governments, community associations, and traditional rulers are being urged to reintroduce house-to-house sanitation, perhaps updating the fines to reflect current realities while also integrating modern waste management solutions.

As Mrs Aisha Danladi, a public health advocate, put it, “We need a collective effort. The duba gari system worked before; it can work again. Our health and environment depend on it.”

Halima Abdulsalam wrote from Bayero University, Kano, via haleemahm42@gmail.com.

By Bilyamin Abdulmumin, PhD

One of my grandfather’s wives, Hajiya Ba’u, survived to live with us till last year, when she passed away. She was fond of sharing history, and in me she found a devoted student. One particular period stuck with her was the early years of her marriage, which was a few years before Nigerian Independence. She once narrated to me how oranges and bananas were considered costly gifts at the time. They only got to see such fruits when my grandfather travelled to Ibadan; these fruits were shared meticulously, as they were seen once in a blue moon.

These fruits, which were once rare luxuries, have now become common in every household, regardless of the season. One can wake up at any odd hour, walk to the main street, and easily find them. Both oranges and bananas are now available in many varieties. The sweetest orange is Dan Boko, named after its place of origin, while the sweetest banana is the variety known as Senior; it has a taste beyond ordinary bananas. Beyond oranges and bananas, fruits like apples, pineapples, and coconuts have also become ubiquitous, and the richness of fruits reaches its peak in the form of fruit salad. People of the 1960s could only dream of fruit salad in Heaven.

Hajiya Ba’u also mentioned that soap was a rare luxury in those days, and they would only use it once in a while. The equivalent of soap, if I didn’t forget, is Bagaruwa (Gum Arabic tree); the pods and bark of this tree contains substance called saponins, like in the case of sodium salts of fatty acids of modern soap, the hydrophobic part of the saponins binds to oils on skin, clothes, or utensils while hydrophilic part binds to water, this creates micelles, which trap dirt and wash them away. Some rural areas still use Bagaruwa as a means of cleaning. In other words, these rural areas are just as advanced as my community of the 1960s. This is why going to rural areas is reminiscent of time-travelling.

Today, whether it’s table soap or liquid soap, it comes in various types, sizes, colours, and fragrances. My memory was reset in 2019 when I lodged at Hotel 17 in Kaduna. There, I saw just how far the customisation of everyday items had gone: single-use soaps, single-use rubbing Vaseline, single-use sugar, single-use perfume, milk, and more. People of the 1960s would think such convenience could only be found in Heaven.

My grandma was also nostalgic about the advancement of packaging. Polyethene (black nylon, etc) was non-existent in those days, so instead they used Tumfafiya—a broad leaf large enough to serve as a wrapper. In fact, I myself bought zogale da kuli (Moringa oleifera and groundnut cake) wrapped in Tumfafiya. In a chemical process called polymerisation, thousands of two-carbon alcohols (ethylene) are woven together to form polyethene. That is more or less like laying thousands of bricks together to make a block. Thanks to the Polyethene revolution, it has now taken over, from shopping bags to “leda” bags, “Santana” bags, water sachets, milk sachets, and stretch wraps in different sizes, brands, and designs. Our packaging revolution extends to cardboard boxes, aluminium foils, plastic containers, and resealable pouches. Those living in the 1960s could only have been left speechless.

Far back in the 1960s, donkeys and camels were the standard vehicles. So, when my Fiqh Sheikh travelled to Zamfara in the 2000s, we only closed for one day. He reminded us that in earlier times, such a journey would have required at least two weeks. Similarly, cellular communication, once a dream of the 1960s, now happens in a split second. One day in the lab, a colleague, who was fond of observing social change, sent a message to England using his mobile phone. Our conversation would revolve around the miracle: the efficiency of sending the message at a negligible cost of only about ten naira.

The paradox is this: even as social change is undeniable in contemporary Nigeria, the strength of our institutions has nosedived and been reversed. A small clinic in a district in the 1960s would treat patients better than what is obtainable in our modern general hospitals. Teachers, even at the primary school level, were treated like kings. We are still in touch with the rural communities my father taught in the seventies and eighties. In one viral clip, late former President Buhari recalled how immediately after secondary school graduation, he was offered a managerial job, a new motorbike, and a competitive salary. 

Late Chief Audu Ogbe, in a Daily Trust reminiscence, noted that in the 1960s, the Central Government even borrowed from the Native Authorities, which now became local government authorities. A former permanent secretary from Kebbi State once told me how, during his days at ABU in the 1980s, students had meal tickets and even their clothes washed. All these examples point to one fact: institutions were working then.

With remarkable social change beyond recognition and technological advancement beyond imagination, if our institutional trajectory is redirected, Nigeria could go to the moon.

Happy Independence Day.

By Ibraheem A. Waziri

In the Hausa Islamic civilisation, or what one might call the moral order and cultural refinement that grew from Islam’s deep roots in Hausaland, the word mutuwa (death) is a curious thing. It is harmless, ordinary, and adaptable. One can say mutum ya mutu – “the man has died” – regardless of who the man is. The same word can apply to an animal, a tree, or even an inanimate thing whose usefulness has come to an end. It can carry tones of mockery, pity, or finality. We say ya mutu mushe when some living thing has worthlessly ended, ya mutu murus when silence or defeat takes over.

Yet, our language is not without tenderness. When someone beloved passes away, whether out of affection or courtesy, we soften the word. We say ya rasu. Rasuwa is a form of loss tinged with grief and respect. It refuses the bluntness of mutuwa. It gives the heart its due.

When it comes to the Prophet Muhammad (SAW), the most noble of all creation whose departure shook the heavens and all generations after, our forebears chose words such as wafati (a peaceful return to Allah), fakuwa (withdrawal or disappearance), and rasuwa (loss imbued with yearning). These were not accidental choices; they were marks of reverence. The Prophet’s message, after all, did not die with him. His presence lingers, like fragrance after rain. Thus, Hausa Muslims avoided the word mutuwa not because it was wrong, but because it was too plain for such a sacred absence. Language itself became a form of prayer and praise, salati towards the Prophet of Islam, as the Qur’an commands the faithful to always offer.

This sensibility reflects a civilisation shaped by Islam yet polished by Hausa thought. It has endured for over a millennium, blending revelation and reason, piety and poetry, into a coherent moral fabric. Scholars such as Professor Mahdi Adamu have rightly argued that Islam is now part of the defining essence of being Hausa. Indeed, no serious student of culture can separate the two.

When Professor Samuel Huntington, in his 1993 popular thesis The Clash of Civilisations, classified the great Islamic civilisations as Arab, Turkic, and Malay, I once protested, mildly but firmly, in my column of 22 July 2013 in LEADERSHIP Newspaper, “Egypt: Western World, Egypt, Political Islam and Lessons.” For he omitted the fourth: the African, which includes the Hausa Muslim civilisation. Perhaps he did so because we in West Africa have not been diligent in documenting our own intellectual heritage. Our scholars mostly built souls rather than libraries. Their wisdom lived largely in hearts, not in manuscripts. Yet civilisation is not measured by ink alone.

By the eleventh century, Islam had already entered Hausaland through kings, scholars, and merchants. It mingled with the social elite, who naturally became custodians of what was right and proper. Over centuries, Islamic principles and Hausa customs intermarried. Law, governance, poetry, and etiquette became fused with faith. The result was not confusion but coherence. Nothing central to Hausa civilisation contradicted Islam at its core, unless one judged too quickly or too superficially.

That is why scholars such as Murray Last, in his work The Book in the Sokoto Caliphate, observed that even the nineteenth-century jihad led by Shehu Usman Ɗanfodio did not reinvent Hausa Islamic learning; it merely revived and restructured it. The civilisation was already mature, only in need of renewal and discipline.

After colonial rule and the birth of Nigeria, this historical balance was tested. Contact with global Islamic thought from Egypt, Saudi Arabia, Iran, and beyond brought new currents of theology and reform. Many who studied abroad returned believing they had discovered a purer Islam, one untainted by “local innovation.” Movements such as Jama’atu Izalatul Bid’ah Wa Iqamatissunnah (founded in 1978) sought to purify faith and democratise knowledge. Their zeal achieved much good, spreading Islamic learning to wider circles.

The unintended cost, however, was subtle: a growing suspicion towards the inherited Hausa sense of decorum, the gentle courtesies and expressions through which Islam had long been lived here. Many young preachers, both from Izala and other traditions, began to attack words, proverbs, and customs without studying their origins or meanings. They mistook refinement for deviation. They forgot that ladabi—good manners—is itself part of faith.

In the curricula of the Arab world, where some of them studied, there was no course on “Islam and Hausa civilisation.” Thus, they returned unaware that many Hausa forms of reverence, formal linguistic expressions, and proverbs had already been filtered through the sieve of Islamic thought over centuries. They saw impurity where there was actually depth. And when a people are cut off from the noble patterns that dignify their past, they begin to doubt themselves. This self-doubt, or inferiority complex, becomes more dangerous than ignorance itself.

Still, there is light in the dusk. From the 1990s onwards, a new generation of researchers began delving into precolonial manuscripts and oral traditions, recovering the intellectual dignity of old Hausaland. They showed how Islamic education, Sufi scholarship, and Hausa ethical thought intertwined long before the arrival of Europeans or the rise of the Sokoto Caliphate. Yet this work has mostly been carried out by Western-trained scholars, the so-called yan boko. Our purely religious scholars have been slower to engage, preferring imported frameworks to indigenous memory.

The road ahead, however, must bring both together. The Hausa Muslim future—steady, confident, and intelligent—will depend on producing scholars grounded in both the Islamic sciences and the lived wisdom of Hausa culture. Not a nostalgic culture, but one aware of its thousand-year conversation with faith.

If the Turks, Arabs, and Malays take pride in their civilisational imprint upon Islam, why should the Hausa not do the same? Our civilisation too has carried the Prophet’s light for centuries, shaping it into our language, our etiquette, and even our choice of words.

So, when we say Rasuwar Manzon Tsira or Wafatin Manzon Tsira, it is not mere politeness. It is theology—lived, spoken, and refined in our own tongue. To call it otherwise is to forget who we are.

Ibraheem A. Waziri wrote from Zaria, Kaduna State, Nigeria.

By Zayyad I. Muhammad 

Since February 6th, 2013, when the All Progressives Congress (APC) was formed, the party has been the darling of the North. In the 2015, 2019, and 2023 presidential elections, the North was instrumental in bringing and maintaining the APC in power at the centre. However, in President Bola Ahmed Tinubu’s just two years in power, there is widespread aggrievement against the Tinubu government in the North. This is surprising and unsurprising as well:

Out of the 8.7 million votes that brought President Ahmed Bola Tinubu to power, the North collectively contributed 5.6 million votes, accounting for approximately 64% of his total. In contrast, the South contributed 3.2 million votes, or 36%. Given this overwhelming support, it is surprising that the President has allowed the North to slip from his political grip so easily.

To be fair to Tinubu, every President seeks to reward close associates, loyalists, and political allies, including in his own way of governing. However, Tinubu appears to have gone too far in prioritising his inner circle, often at the expense of the region that gave him his strongest mandate.

The good news is that Tinubu still has ample time to regain the North’s confidence. But to succeed, he must act based on facts, not emotions, nor the filtered narratives he hears from those around him.

Broadly, Tinubu must focus on four urgent actions, grouped under two components: one political and three socioeconomic.

The President has made good progress in building elite consensus but must expand to persuade more politicians and elites. Some seek recognition, relevance, appointments, or contracts. Tinubu can quickly address this: by calling, offering appointments, or granting contracts. There’s room for more Advisers, Special Assistants, and ambassadorial positions.

Furthermore, he should establish a Presidential Advisory Council in each state, a small team of respected voices who can meet quarterly to brief him directly on the needs and aspirations of their people. This will give Northern leaders a sense of inclusion and shared ownership in governance.

The second component, socioeconomic, comprises three elements: Agriculture, Livestock, and security and infrastructure.

This is where Tinubu must be most deliberate. Socioeconomic issues directly affect the masses, the real voters. The August 16, 2025, by-election has already shown that money politics will have limited influence by 2027.

Tinubu has tried to stabilise food prices, but the cost of farm inputs has skyrocketed. The North urgently needs a dedicated agricultural recovery program. Past initiatives, such as the Anchor Borrowers’ Programme, the Presidential Fertiliser Initiative (PFI), Youth Farm Lab, Paddy Aggregation Scheme, Agricultural Trust Fund, PEDI, and the Food Security Council, were well-conceived. Yet implementation failures meant that benefits rarely reached genuine farmers.

For instance, under the PFI, fertiliser blenders made fortunes, but farmers, who should have been the real beneficiaries, still buy fertilisers at ₦45,000–₦52,000 per bag, far above the ₦5,000 target price.

Tinubu must ensure that agriculture is reconnected to ordinary farmers, not just middlemen. The Ministry of Agriculture should recalibrate its projects and programs to target real farmers directly.

The creation of the Federal Ministry of Livestock Development was a brilliant and forward-thinking step. Yet, it has made little impact so far.

With proper funding and direction, this ministry can: transform nomadic herders into more settled, educated, and productive citizens; address the farmer-herder conflict that has claimed thousands of lives; reduce cattle rustling, banditry, and kidnapping, which are often linked to herder communities.

If effectively managed, the ministry can become one of Tinubu’s most enduring legacies in the North.

Security remains the North’s most pressing concern. The kinetic and non-kinetic strategies being coordinated by the Office of the National Security Adviser (ONSA) are yielding some positive results, but much more is needed.

Tinubu should expand the non-kinetic approach through security communications, utilising massive public relations and grassroots outreach, particularly in the Hausa and Fulfulde languages. Talking directly to communities and even to at-risk groups will deepen trust, reduce misinformation, and weaken extremist recruitment.

Another way to rewin the North is through concerted efforts to make sure the ongoing and stalled infrastructure projects are fast-tracked, especially the ongoing rehabilitation of the Abuja-Kaduna expressway, some deplorable roads in the Northeast, especially along the Gombe-Adamawa axis, the Mambila hydroelectric project, Sokoto-Badagry Freeway/Highway, Kaduna-Kano Standard Gauge Rail Project, and Kano-Maradi Rail Link.

The North gave Tinubu his strongest mandate in the 2023 election. Losing its trust would be politically costly in 2027. To recover lost ground, the President must move beyond token gestures and adopt a deliberate, structured engagement strategy that balances elite consensus with grassroots socioeconomic transformation.

If Tinubu can act decisively on these four fronts, more political inclusion, agricultural recovery, livestock reform, enhanced security, and fast-track ongoing infrastructure projects, he will not only rewin the  Northern confidence but also secure massive votes in 2027

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

By Muhammad Umar Shehu

As Nigeria clocks 65 years of independence, one would expect a moment of pride and reflection on remarkable achievements. Yet, the reality on the ground tells a different story. 

The country continues to struggle with corruption, poverty, unemployment, inadequate infrastructure, insecurity, and a range of other social issues. These issues cut deep into the daily lives of ordinary Nigerians, making access to basic necessities and opportunities for growth a constant struggle.

For many citizens, there is little reason to roll out the drums. Independence anniversaries are usually a time for celebration, but how can we truly celebrate when millions remain jobless, when insecurity still holds communities hostage, when hospitals lack basic equipment, and when roads remain death traps? The weight of these problems overshadows whatever progress has been made.

This does not mean Nigeria has no potential or that the sacrifices of our founding fathers should be ignored. Leaders like Sir Abubakar Tafawa Balewa, who gave Nigeria a voice of dignity on the global stage, or the Sardauna of Sokoto, Ahmadu Bello, who worked to strengthen education and unity in the North, envisioned a better future for this country. 

Chief Obafemi Awolowo’s free education policy in the West and Chief MKO Abiola’s ultimate sacrifice for democracy remain powerful reminders of what true leadership and patriotism demand. These men stood for a Nigeria that could rise above selfishness and mediocrity.

But after 65 years, Nigerians deserve more than repeated promises and underdevelopment. We deserve a country where leadership prioritises people, where accountability is more than just a slogan, and where citizens can genuinely take pride in the flag they carry.

So, if there is something worth celebrating at 65, perhaps it is the resilience of Nigerians themselves —the spirit that refuses to give up despite everything. Beyond that, the truth is clear: the road ahead requires serious action, not mere rhetoric.

May Nigeria succeed and prosper. Amin.

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

By Hadiza Abdulkadir

A new book examining the cultural and religious forces shaping the Hausa-language film industry, Kannywood, will be released on 5 December 2025 by Springer Nature.

Titled Kannywood: Film, Faith and Identity in Northern Nigeria, the work critically explores how filmmakers navigate religious expectations, cultural norms and language ideologies while appealing to a diverse audience.

The author, Dr Muhammad Muhsin Ibrahim, teaches Hausa Studies at the University of Cologne and is an expert in Hausa media and cultural production.

The study employs audience reception theory and a close analysis of selected films to reveal tensions within the industry, including the dominance of the Kano dialect, the marginalisation of others, such as Sokoto’s, and the commercialisation of “broken” Hausa.

The book also highlights the pressures of global influences and conservative religious forces, presenting Kannywood as a contested space of identity and representation in northern Nigeria.