Northern Nigeria

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.

By Umar Sani Adamu

The Almajiri system, once a noble pursuit of Islamic knowledge, has degenerated into a humanitarian disaster spread across Northern Nigeria. From the streets of Kano to the slums of Sokoto, thousands of children wander barefoot, hungry, and hopeless victims of a tradition that has outlived its purpose.

The idea behind Almajiranci was simple: young boys, mostly from rural or poor families, would be sent to Islamic scholars for religious education. But over time, what began as a pathway to learning became a pipeline to poverty, abuse, and neglect. Today, these children beg for survival, live in unhygienic conditions, and face constant exposure to criminality and exploitation.

Every year, thousands more are pushed into this cycle. With no formal curriculum, no sanitation, no feeding structure, and no monitoring, the system violates every principle of child welfare and human dignity. Many of these almajiris live in overcrowded, unventilated rooms, sometimes as many as 18 children in a single space, with no access to health care, no protection, and no future.

While governments talk reform, very little action meets the urgency. Integration programs are underfunded, religious institutions are left unchecked, and families often forced by poverty continue to submit their children to this outdated system. Meanwhile, the streets of Northern Nigeria grow more unsafe as vulnerable children are manipulated by extremist groups and criminal syndicates.

Let’s be clear: the Almajiri system, in its current form, is not education. It is abandonment. It is state-sanctioned child endangerment masquerading as religion. Any society that claims moral or spiritual uprightness cannot continue to tolerate this level of systemic neglect.

What Northern Nigeria needs is not a patchwork of reforms, but a complete overhaul. Islamic education should be formalised, monitored, and integrated into the broader national curriculum. Children should learn in safe environments where Qur’anic knowledge is integrated with literacy, numeracy, hygiene, and vocational training. Religious scholars must be trained, certified, and held accountable.

Above all, we must shift the responsibility from children back to adults. Governments, communities, parents, and religious leaders must admit the system has failed and work together to end it. The Almajiri child deserves more than survival. He deserves dignity, opportunity, and a future.

This is not just a social concern. It is a national emergency.

Umar Sani Adamu can be reached via umarhashidu1994@gmail.com

By Usman Abdullahi Koli, ANIPR

Some lives are measured in years, others in titles, and some in possessions. The rarest and most enduring lives are measured in the hearts they touch and the hope they restore. Dr Bala Maijama’a Wunti belongs firmly in that rare place. His journey has been one of resilience and quiet strength, of rising from hardship to become a fountain of generosity whose waters reach far beyond the place where they spring.

Born on 8th August 1966, his earliest years were marked by a loss that would shape the rest of his life. Losing both parents as a child meant entering the world with an emptiness most could never imagine. Those days were not kind; survival was his only option. There were no easy comforts, no safety nets, only the will to push forward and the dream that tomorrow could be better.

Instead of allowing hardship to harden him, it softened him in extraordinary ways. The hunger he knew became a hunger to feed others. The loneliness he endured became a desire to stand by those who had no one to stand by. The obstacles he faced became a determination to clear the paths for others. He did not allow pain to turn into bitterness; he transformed it into kindness.

Over the years, giving has become so deeply ingrained in his life that it no longer feels like charity; it feels like breathing. He has lifted burdens that would have crushed families, stepped in quietly where hope was fading, and turned despair into relief for people who may never know his face but will always remember his help. For him, giving is not a grand event; it is the natural rhythm of his days.

Only yesterday, on the eve of his birthday, he paid the full registration fees for Bauchi State indigenous Law students across Law Schools in Nigeria and added incentives to support their journey. For those young men and women, it was more than a payment. It was a belief in their dreams and a reminder that someone cares enough to invest in their future. Acts like this are not exceptions in his life; they are the pattern.

His foundation, Wunti Alkhair, is an extension of his own values. It reaches into communities, lifts the sick from their sickbeds by clearing medical bills, opens doors of opportunity for young people to acquire skills, and creates moments of dignity where they seemed lost. It strengthens faith by building and restoring places of worship, not as monuments of wealth but as sanctuaries of hope.

What makes him remarkable is not just the scale of what he gives but the sincerity with which he provides it. There is no fanfare, no calculation, no search for applause. Many of those who have felt his kindness will never meet him, yet they carry a piece of him in their stories, in their survival, and in their renewed strength to face life again.

As we celebrate his birthday, we celebrate far more than a date. We honour a man whose life is proof that greatness is not in what we take but in what we give. A man who rose through the storms of his own childhood to become a shelter for others. A man who, in a world too often cold and self-serving, has chosen to be warm and selfless.

May Allah grant him long life, good health, and the strength to keep shaping lives for the better. May his journey remind us all that no matter where we start, we can choose to live in a way that makes the world a little softer, a little fairer, and a little kinder.

Your life is not only a blessing to those who know you but to many who never will, and that is the highest form of legacy.

Usman Abdullahi Koli wrote via mernoukoli@gmail.com.

By Dr Abubakar Bello

The recent controversy over an alleged honorary doctorate awarded to musician Alhaji Dauda Kahutu Rarara has sparked debate across northern Nigeria. Initially, reports indicated that the European-American University conferred an honorary doctorate on him in Abuja. However, days later, the institution publicly denied endorsing such an award, describing the event as fraudulent.

This is not the first time Rarara’s name has been caught in institutional back-and-forth. At one point, the Federal University Dutsin-Ma (FUDMA) was said to be planning a conference to celebrate his contributions to music and politics. Yet the university later backtracked, insisting the information was fake. The recurring pattern suggests not a lack of merit on Rarara’s part, but rather institutional hesitation in dealing with a figure whose art, political songs, and social influence are both celebrated and contested.

There is clear precedent for cultural icons receiving academic recognition. The late Mamman Shata, perhaps the most revered Hausa musician of the 20th century, was formally honoured by Ahmadu Bello University, Zaria. That recognition secured his place not only in the cultural memory of the Hausa people but also in academic history. By that measure, Rarara too will, sooner or later, be recognised by universities both within Nigeria and abroad for his cultural and political contributions. The real question is: which university will take the initiative?

Across Nigeria, universities have rightly celebrated industrialists, politicians, and philanthropists with honorary degrees, sometimes even surprising their own local institutions, as happened when other universities honoured Katsina’s business mogul, Alhaji Dahiru Mangal, taking Umaru Musa Yar’adua University, his home-state university, by surprise. Yet cultural figures, especially musicians whose work captures the pulse of society, are too often overlooked until history forces recognition.

This is an opportunity for Nigerian universities to redefine what they celebrate. Honorary degrees are not just ceremonial gestures. They are statements of value, affirmations that music, political commentary, and popular culture are as vital to society as commerce and politics.

Whether in Katsina or beyond, Nigerian universities have the opportunity to lead by recognising Rarara. Doing so would not only honour one man but also promote the significance of indigenous music and political expression in our collective intellectual and cultural heritage. The controversy over fake awards should not overshadow this larger truth: Rarara’s contributions are genuine, and he deserves formal recognition.

 Dr Abubakar Bello wrote from the Department of Biological Sciences, Umaru Musa Yar’adua University, Katsina. He can be reached via bello.abubakar@umyu.edu.ng.