Northern Nigeria

By Khadija Hamisu Daninna 

Across Nigeria, kitchens are changing. Gas cylinders stand neatly in urban homes, while charcoal bags fill market stalls. Yet, despite these alternatives, firewood still burns in countless households. Its smoky flames carry taste, memory, and tradition that neither gas nor charcoal can fully replace. For some families, it is also the more affordable choice.

Zainab, a 31-year-old resident of Daura, has never known another way of cooking. “I have never cooked with gas before. All my life, I have been using firewood. I don’t even know how food tastes on gas, but I prefer my firewood. Maybe it is because I grew up with it. I use charcoal sometimes, but firewood is easier for me. Firewood is what I know.”

For Mariam, a 39-year-old housewife, firewood is tied to her husband’s nostalgia. “My husband always says the fried eggs his mother made tasted better on firewood. So I fry eggs on firewood, just to remind him of his childhood.”

Hajara, a 26-year-old food vendor, said firewood gives food a flavour no other fuel can provide. “When I cook jollof rice for parties, I always use firewood. It brings out a special flavour. Gas and charcoal cannot give you that same smoky taste. My customers expect it.”

But even warnings from doctors cannot keep some people away. Amina, a 37-year-old married woman, recalled: “There was a time I was sick, and the doctor told me to avoid smoky areas because of my eyes. But how can I stop? Firewood is what I grew up with. It is not just about cooking. It is about sitting together as a family, sharing stories, and working around the fire. That memory cannot be replaced.”

Cost is another factor. Mallam Usman, a 42-year-old man, explained: “I use both charcoal and firewood. The least charcoal I can buy is ₦200, while firewood is more expensive, up to ₦500. But I prefer firewood. My wife is already used to it. Sometimes I buy charcoal to ease the work, but mostly we use firewood because that is what we have always been using.”

Abdulmumin, a firewood seller in Rumfar Shehu who is over 40, said many people still depend on his trade. “People still come to buy firewood every day. Even though the price is high, food vendors, households, and event caterers still buy it. Firewood is something people cannot abandon. We have been using it since the time of our grandparents, and it still holds memories.”

But experts warn that firewood comes at a cost. According to a 2024 report from the National Bureau of Statistics published in Punch newspaper, 67.8 per cent of Nigerian households still cook with firewood. In Bauchi State, the figure is as high as 91 per cent. Doctors interviewed by Punch Healthwise have cautioned that prolonged exposure to smoke can lead to lung disease, eye problems, and respiratory infections. They noted that women and children, who spend long hours near smoky kitchens, are especially at risk. One pulmonologist, Dr. Abiona Odeyemi of Osun State University Teaching Hospital, explained that smoke from firewood damages the lungs over time, leading to serious health conditions.

Experts have also raised concerns about the environmental impact. Firewood use contributes to deforestation, worsens climate change, and adds to indoor air pollution.

Still, the flames continue to glow. For some, firewood carries memory and tradition. For others, it remains the more affordable choice. And for many, it is simply the way they were raised. Gas may be quicker and charcoal less smoky, but in countless Nigerian homes, firewood still burns, not just as fuel, but as a link between the past and the present.

Khadija Hamisu Daninna wrote via khadijahamisu2003@gmail.com.

By Bagwai LGA Concerned Forum

Dear Hon. Comrade Aminu Sulaiman Goro,

We write to you with great respect and admiration for your outstanding service to the good people of Fagge Federal Constituency over the past 12 years. Your tenure as a member of the House of Representatives has been nothing short of transformative, marked by unparalleled achievements in job creation, infrastructure development, education, and empowerment for women and youth. Your accessibility, humility, and dedication to grassroots politics have set a benchmark for leadership in Kano State and beyond.

While we celebrate your remarkable legacy in Fagge, we, the Concerned Forum of Bagwai Local Government, humbly call upon you to return to your roots—Rimin Dako, your ancestral town and one of the 10 wards that constitute Bagwai Local Government—to extend your transformative leadership to your place of origin. Bagwai has long suffered from poor governance, inadequate representation, and the mismanagement of its abundant human and natural resources by selfish and incapacitated leaders. Our people yearn for a leader of your calibre—one who is proven to be compassionate, and capable of turning challenges into opportunities.

Your return to Bagwai would not only bridge the gap of quality representation but also allow you to replicate and expand upon the successes you achieved in Fagge. Imagine the impact of your empowerment programs, educational initiatives, and infrastructure projects in a community that has been neglected for far too long. Bagwai is ripe for development, and your wealth of experience, influence, and unwavering commitment to service can ignite the change we desperately need.

Honourable Sir, we urge you to share your leadership with Bagwai, where your journey began in Rimin Dako. By answering this call, you will not only uplift your homeland but also cement your legacy as a true statesman who served his people at every level.

The time is now. Bagwai awaits you with open arms and high hopes. Come home, Hon. Goro, and let us build a brighter future together.

Signed:

Habibu Dan’ana
For: Bagwai LGA Concerned Forum
Kano State

By Ibrahim Suleiman Ibrahim 

It is part of my dreams to one day establish a female-only sports & gymnastics centre that would be managed and run by females, where taking pictures and videos during training sessions would be strictly prohibited.

This is to disprove the ill-conceived notion promoted by mischief makers that northern Nigerian women, particularly the Muslim ones, are deprived of the freedom to engage in sports and fitness activities. 

I’m honestly sick and tired of all the backlash Islam and Muslims are receiving, portraying us as people who do not give women freedom, as though the so-called freedom some other women are enjoying has earned them the needed value and respect from society. 

Unfortunately, these critics don’t consider the position of Islam about free-mixing between opposite sexes, and also the kind of outfit that is morally due for a woman to be seen in by men who are not her ‘Mahrams'(Muslims will understand this).  

It is worthy of note that what makes us religious people is the fact that we are neither freethinkers nor atheists. We have codes of conduct and laws enshrined in our religious scriptures, which we are obligated to abide by.

I don’t like how even some Muslims consider it absurd and barbaric that Muslim ladies are discouraged from participating in some of these secular-oriented sporting activities where women are mandated to appear in skimpy dresses, and intermingle with men indiscriminately. 

At the slightest provocation, they make references to Arabian countries where secularism has almost eaten up the religious aura there.

I understand that situations might sometimes warrant us to compromise and adopt some secular practices (Darooraat), but giving full acceptance to those practices, despite their contradiction with our religious laws, while considering our religious laws as barbaric and extreme, is quite unbecoming of a Muslim. 

Meanwhile, I implore religious organisations to begin investing in some of these necessary but non-Shariah-compliant things, such that we can have a halal version, and save ourselves this noise about us not depriving women of their rights. 

It’s about time we began to think outside the box and come up with solutions to some of these problems. 

Sports and gymnastics are necessary, and establishing a shari’ah-compliant atmosphere isn’t a bad thing. 

Ibrahim Suleiman Ibrahim wrote via suleimibrahim00@gmail.com.

By Usman Abdullahi Koli, ANIPR

There are people whose presence on earth answers questions, silences chaos, and reassures broken spirits that goodness has not lost its place in the journey of humanity. When you meet such a soul, you don’t need persuasion or praise to understand them. Their essence speaks gently but powerfully. Their actions speak more than introductions. And their humility becomes the loudest testimony. Dr. Bala Maijama’a Wunti is one such rare man.

He is not defined by his position. He is defined by his posture toward people, toward purpose, and toward the possibilities that are in building others. He carries influence with a gentleness that disarms pride. He wields intellect with a clarity that speaks in results, not rhetoric. His kindness does not seek the spotlight, yet it lights up lives. In Dr. Wunti, leadership is not a claim; it is an effect. You don’t need to be told he leads; you feel it by what surrounds him: hope, truth, trust.

Dr. Wunti is a thinker. But not one who sits in silence while people suffer. He listens, he observes, and he acts. His success in the energy sector is known by experts across continents, but even more admirable is how he has remained deeply connected to the people beneath the statistics—those whose lives don’t appear in data sheets but whose realities matter the most. He balances global intellect with local empathy, and he does so effortlessly.

Every act of his kindness is not random. It is intentional. It is driven by a deep understanding of pain and a personal conviction that no one should be left behind when it is possible to lift. Many men do charity. Few men carry kindness as a responsibility. Fewer still see it as an identity. For Dr. Wunti, it is not about doing good to impress. It is about being good enough to make a difference that leaves no noise but creates echoes of gratitude.

What sets him apart is not only what he does but how he does it. He makes room for others without shrinking himself. He uplifts without needing to be worshipped. He speaks with such calm confidence that even disagreement becomes a space of learning. There is discipline in his humility, and there is wisdom in his silence. He doesn’t interrupt with his greatness; he simply lets it shine in how he walks into a room, how he listens to the ordinary, and how he never forgets those without titles.

Dr. Bala Maijama’a Wunti is a builder of people, not just systems. He is a man who understands that progress is not only about projects but also about peace. He knows that development is not truly development if it does not carry the human soul along. That is why his style is not loud. It is thoughtful. That is why his touch remains long after he has moved on. People do not only remember what he did; they remember how he made them feel—seen, respected, and valued.

It is no surprise that across regions, communities, institutions, and families, his name is spoken not with awe but with affection. And there is his secret—he earns respect by restoring dignity. He doesn’t walk in front to be praised. He walks beside, so no one is left behind. He does not pretend to know it all, but what he knows, he applies with uncommon honesty.

There is something deeply graceful about a man who does not chase validation yet earns admiration by simply being himself. In a time when too many seek recognition before action, Dr. Wunti has quietly made his life a gift to others. His kindness is not weakness. It is strength in its purest form. A strength that builds rather than breaks. A strength that gives, even when no one is looking.

This world, with all its weight, still finds light in people like Dr. Bala Maijama’a Wunti. He reminds us that being accomplished is good, but being compassionate is better. That having knowledge is necessary, but using it to serve others is noble. That being known is nice, but being remembered for goodness is divine.

As one reflects on his journey, it becomes clear that such a man deserves not just recognition but appreciation, not just applause but prayers. He doesn’t wear his impact as decoration. He lets others wear it as hope. And in doing so, he has built something bigger than status. He has built trust.

May the road ahead for Dr. Wunti remain wide, purposeful, and peaceful. May his type multiply in a world that desperately needs the fragrance of men whose hearts still beat for others. And may his story inspire many more to lead not by command but by compassion.

Because in this world of fleeting moments and forgotten promises, one truth remains: kindness will never go out of relevance. And for that, the name Bala Maijama’a Wunti will always echo where sincerity is treasured.

Usman Abdullahi Koli wrote via mernoukoli@gmail.com.

By Abdullahi Muhammad Yalwa

As Nigerians lay their former president, Muhammad Buhari, to rest, a lively yet insightful debate has ignited on social media. Buhari’s death on the evening of Sunday, 13 July, has sparked a wave of polarised reactions across Nigeria and beyond. These responses, though all too familiar to ignore, are nonetheless difficult to tolerate either.

Ruling one of the most ethnically heterogeneous populations, the name BUHARI means different things to different people. For some, his death marks the end of a revered statesman’s journey, a disciplined military man turned democrat who embodied integrity and sacrifice. As such, religious apologists and loyalists have rushed to sanctify his legacy, cloaking his tenure in a veneer of divine purpose and moral uprightness. Yet, beneath the watershed emotions, lies a more sobering narrative, an impersonal truth which is hard to accept as it’s bitter to swallow.

For history and to serve as a springboard of truth, Buhari’s legacy is one that history will not so easily forgive nor forget. It’s a force that will be reckoned with in Nigeria’s history. A turmoil journey that lumbered from one crisis to another and finally ended in an overwhelming sense of failure. The truth, though uncomfortable, is therefore that Buhari’s legacy is a tale of squandered goodwill, unfulfilled promises, and a nation left more fractured than he found it.

In 2015, when the Saviour proclaimed his campaign, which would finally mark his ascension to power, Buhari, in a boisterous voice, chanted the “CHANGE” mantra, and citizens across the nation’s divides chanted CHANGE, and so the sound echoed. Hailed as a man of discipline, Buhari, in his usual austere demeanour and military pedigree, promised a break from the corruption and mismanagement that had plagued previous administrations. Equally, he promised to tackle insecurity, root out corruption, and stabilise a faltering economy. We saw in him a Messianic figure who would finally weed Nigeria of its bad seeds and breed a new garden for the poor. Sadly, however, the euphoria that greeted his election was a sad, fragile foundation of selective memory.

Buhari’s economic legacy is perhaps the most damning indictment of his tenure. Although he inherited an economy already strained by falling oil prices, his policies exacerbated the crisis, plunging Nigeria into two recessions within five years. By 2023, inflation had soared from 9% to over 22%, unemployment surged from 10.4% to 33.4%, and the naira lost 70% of its value against the dollar. Nigeria, once Africa’s largest economy, became the world’s poverty capital, with 133 million citizens living in abject poverty by the end of his tenure.

His economic interventions, such as the 2019 border closure to boost local production, backfired spectacularly, spiking food prices and straining relations with neighbouring countries. The naira redesign policies, implemented in 1984 and again in 2022, caused widespread hardship, with long queues and economic disruption for ordinary Nigerians. These measures, while framed as anti-corruption tools, were poorly executed and lacked strategic foresight. The ballooning national debt, reaching $150 billion by 2023, forced Nigeria to allocate 96% of its revenue to debt servicing, a fiscal albatross that continues to choke the economy.

Though it might be argued that Buhari inherited a comatose economy from Jonathan, riddled with corruption scandals like the $2 billion arms deal misappropriation, he promised to come and make a change, not to make excuses. Equally, his infrastructure projects, such as the Enugu-Port Harcourt Expressway and the Nigeria Air initiative, might be cited as evidence of progress. Yet, these achievements pale in comparison to the scale of economic devastation. The reality is that Buhari’s economic policies were not just misguided- they were catastrophic, leaving Nigerians poorer and more desperate than ever.

On the side of security, Buhari’s campaign promise to defeat Boko Haram and restore security was a cornerstone of his 2015 victory. Though there may be some early gains against Boko Haram, including the reclamation of territories, which briefly bolstered Buhari’s credentials, these victories were fleeting. By the end of his presidency, Nigeria was grappling with an unprecedented wave of insecurity, with over 63,000 deaths recorded from violent incidents between 2015 and 2023—an average of 22 deaths per day.

The rise of banditry, kidnappings, and farmer-herder clashes compounded the Boko Haram threat. The #EndSARS protests of 2020, sparked by police brutality, exposed his administration’s heavy-handed approach to dissent. Buhari’s silence during these crises, a hallmark of his leadership style, only deepened public distrust.

Buhari’s anti-corruption crusade was perhaps his most touted promise, yet it remains his most glaring failure. Though some positive outcomes were recorded, Buhari’s administration’s selective prosecution of opponents, such as Dasuki’s, raised questions about its sincerity. High-profile cases, such as the trial of former Central Bank Governor Godwin Emefiele, who’s one of the key figures during Buhari’s administration, continue to grab headlines, but systemic corruption persists. When the then Kano Governor Umar Ganduje was caught on video stuffing dollars into his robe, Buhari dismissed the evidence as doctored, undermining his anti-corruption credentials. The Economic and Financial Crimes Commission (EFCC), which he helped lay the groundwork for, became a tool for political vendettas rather than a beacon of reform. Many prominent figures were either pardoned or overlooked due to their political leanings or personal interests. As such, on anti-corruption, Buhari’s promises were a hoax.

Overall, Buhari’s cold, distant, arrogant air — that rigid, dry, unbothered, “I’m above you” type of character — which pervaded his leadership, remains deeply painful in the minds of his subjects. The fact that he spoke to his citizens during their tough times as if he was doing them a favour by acknowledging their existence is a poor record to reckon with as part of Buhari’s terrible legacy as a leader. There should be warmth and humility in public relations.

In the end, history is the most invisible phenomenon. As President Buhari is laid to rest, religious and regional loyalists should not seek to sanctify his legacy, framing him as a patriot who served Nigeria with unwavering dedication. Such eulogies, while expected, gloss over the harsh realities of his tenure. Equally, claiming that Buhari’s policies were sabotaged by external forces or inherited challenges ignores his role in exacerbating Nigeria’s woes. Instead, the uncomfortable truth is that Buhari’s legacy is one of missed opportunities and disappointment. He entered office with unprecedented goodwill, yet left Nigeria more divided, poorer, and insecure. His rigid, authoritarian style stifled dissent and eroded judicial independence, as seen in the prolonged detention of figures like Sambo Dasuki despite court orders. His failure to communicate effectively, evidenced by his silence during crises like #EndSARS and the ASUU strike of 2022, alienated a generation of young Nigerians.

History will remember Buhari not as the saviour Nigeria hoped for, but as a leader who squandered a historic mandate. His presidency teaches a bitter lesson: discipline without vision, and integrity without competence, cannot redeem a nation. As Nigerians mourn his passing, we must also confront the cost of his failures-a fractured nation, a struggling economy, and a generation of youth disillusioned with governance, standing on the brink of a precipice.

Abdullahi Muhammad Yalwa hails from Azare. He’s a graduate of Law from the University of Maiduguri, looking forward to serving his Country.

By Gambo Zilkifilu Mohammed

The turquoise waters off Yemen’s coast, often a beacon of hope for thousands fleeing despair, have once again become a graveyard. In a chilling echo of tragedies past, more than 140 African migrants are feared dead after their overcrowded boat capsized late Saturday night on one of the world’s most perilous journeys, the so-called “Eastern Route” to survival.

Imagine the desperation that drives you onto a fragile vessel, crammed shoulder to shoulder with strangers, knowing the journey could end beneath the waves. For at least 74 souls, that nightmare became reality. 

They are missing, vanished into the vastness of the sea. The cruel waves have already surrendered 68 bodies to the shores of Abyan province in southern Yemen, a grim testament to the disaster. Only 12 shattered survivors bear witness to the final, terrifying moments.

These weren’t just numbers

They were individuals, mostly young Ethiopians, carrying the crushing weight of poverty, conflict, or climate-driven devastation back home. 

They clung to the fragile dream of menial work in the glittering Gulf states—a chance to feed families, build a future, survive. Yemen, itself ravaged by a decade of brutal civil war, famine, and disease, was never their destination, merely a deadly transit point on a path paved with broken promises.

“Many of the bodies have been found scattered along various parts of the coastline,” authorities in Abyan posted somberly on Facebook, sharing images that revealed a haunting truth: most had no life vests.

 They were utterly defenceless against the indifferent sea. Abdusattor Esoev, head of the UN’s International Organisation for Migration (IOM) in Yemen, pointed the finger squarely at the ruthless calculus of human smuggling: “The underlying cause… is due to smugglers filling boats over capacity and not providing enough life vests on board.” Profit over people, yet again.

This latest catastrophe is not an isolated horror. It’s part of a relentless, bloody pattern. Just four months ago, in March, at least 188 migrants drowned in similar circumstances between Yemen and Djibouti. The Eastern Route consumes lives with terrifying regularity.

Why do they keep coming?

 Because the alternative, staying in communities gripped by violence, starved by drought, or hollowed out by poverty,  feels like a slower death. They gamble everything for a sliver of hope. Yet, reaching Yemen offers no sanctuary. The country, fractured by war between the Houthis and the internationally recognised government, is a lethal labyrinth. Migrants face not only the sea’s fury but also airstrikes, exploitation, trafficking, and detention. Remember April? When US-made bombs obliterated a migrant detention centre in Saada, killing at least 60 souls who had already survived the crossing?

Many who do survive the voyage find themselves trapped in Yemen’s nightmare borders closed, opportunities vanished, preyed upon by smugglers demanding ransom, and subjected to abuse. The dream of the Gulf becomes a cruel mirage, replaced by a daily struggle for survival in a land consumed by its own suffering. 

The bodies washing ashore near Abyan are more than a statistic; they are a searing indictment. They represent the crushing weight of global inequality, the failure to protect the most vulnerable, and the deadly consequences of conflicts and climate crises they did not create. Each recovered body leaves a family across the Red Sea shrouded in agonising uncertainty, waiting for news that may never come. The waves took their lives, but the world’s indifference drowns their hopes.

 How many more mothers must mourn before this deadly exodus is met not with apathy, but with action?

By Salisu Uba Kofar-Wambai 

There is no doubt that football remains one of the strongest unifying forces for Nigerians, especially during major tournaments when our national teams fly the green-white-green flag at continental or global competitions. The story was no different recently.

The nation erupted in joy when the Super Falcons delivered a stellar performance at the recently concluded African Women’s Championship, coming out victorious in style. For their success, the players were rewarded with ₦160 million, luxury apartments in Abuja, and national honours of Officer of the Order of the Niger (OON).

Before the cheers died down, another shock arrived from the basketball court. Nigeria’s women’s basketball team, D’Tigress, achieved victory in Africa for the fifth time — an unprecedented milestone in the continent’s history. They also received ₦160 million, national honours, and additional perks from the Tinubu administration as recognition for making the country proud.

These are well-deserved accolades, and we congratulate them wholeheartedly. But in the backdrop of Nigeria’s biting economic hardship — worsened by currency devaluation and the removal of fuel subsidy — one cannot ignore that the families of these women are now among the lucky few.

It is also not lost on observers that all these celebrated athletes hail from southern Nigeria, where culture and religion give more room for women to thrive in such sports. For northern women, however, social norms and religious considerations largely shut the door on similar opportunities.

The resentment deepens when we recall another recent achievement — this time not on the field, but in the arena of intellect. A group of Nigerian students from the North travelled to London and conquered the world, emerging champions at the prestigious English-Speaking and Debate Competition. Unlike the Falcons and D’Tigress, these young women did not just defeat African teams; they beat the entire world.

Yet, to the disappointment of many, the president’s response was a mere congratulatory statement issued through his media aides. No grand reception, no cash reward, no national honours. To some in the North, this is another example of what they perceive as a lopsided and selective reward system — a reflection of the same imbalance they accuse the administration of in project allocations. This, despite the North delivering 64.5% of the votes that secured the president’s 2023 electoral victory.

Thankfully, there was a silver lining. Former Vice President Atiku Abubakar stepped in, awarding the victorious students scholarships to pursue their education to any level they desire. This gesture is commendable and serves as a reminder that recognition and reward should not depend on geography or political convenience.

By Khairat Sulaiman

Globally, across different cultures, parents, especially mothers, are known for their unconditional strength, love, and countless sacrifices. From conception to childbirth to raising a child, mothers make innumerable sacrifices, and while some of these choices may not always be in the best interest of the child, they often stem from a place of love and concern. Yet as time passes, a subtle shift unfolds. The caregiver becomes the one who needs care, particularly in Africa, the Middle East, and Asia, where elderly homes are uncommon.

This partial role reversal is particularly complex when dealing with African mothers, whose identities have long been shaped by cultural values, religious beliefs, and deeply rooted notions of motherhood. To correct, guide, or suggest new ways of thinking often feels like a violation of cultural norms and everything they’ve ever believed in. But the truth is, just as we evolve into different stages of adulthood, our mothers are evolving too. One major transition is menopause.

Many women begin their journey into womanhood with fears, myths and half-truths. Until recently, parents and guardians often shied away from conversations around reproductive health and menstruation. 

The body undergoes a host of changes, from an increase in the size of particular body parts to hormonal fluctuations and emotional rollercoasters. She begins to adapt to this new normal, each month bringing a different experience, all of which she’s expected to bear gracefully and quietly. And as with all things that begin, there must also be an end. The end of menstruation is menopause.

Menopause isn’t just the quiet departure of menstruation. It marks the biological full stop to a woman’s fertility, typically arriving in her late 40s or 50s. Menopause brings hot flashes, mood swings, weight gain, sleep disturbances, hair thinning, memory fog, and a decline in oestrogen levels, which impacts everything from skin elasticity and bone density to a sense of identity. 

In many African societies, where motherhood defines a woman’s value, the end of fertility can feel like “the end of usefulness” or “an expiration date”. It’s an intensely physical, emotional, and psychological shift. Many mothers enter this phase in silence. 

Studies have shown that only a minority of women explicitly discuss menopause with their children, so it remains largely unspoken and unacknowledged, especially in conservative African settings. As a result, few children know how to help their mothers navigate this transition, and understanding these sudden personality changes can be both confusing and painful. It’s also difficult for mothers to acknowledge that they, too, need support.

As the first daughter, my mother’s menopause affected my life as profoundly as it did hers. The mood swings, the tears over seemingly trivial things, the constant irritation, I didn’t know how to manage. So, I misread it as hostility and dislike, and I withdrew. When it was time to choose where I would study, I picked somewhere far away, hoping distance would shield me from what I was too young to understand, but looking back now, I realise how much she must’ve been going through physically, emotionally, and mentally. 

Menopause wasn’t just a phase for my mother; it was a transformation, one that demanded compassion, not avoidance. I wish I had been able to see that then. I wish I had asked more questions, offered more hugs, and stayed present instead of pulling away.

As our parents age and evolve, it is crucial to create a relationship of mutual growth and understanding. It’s essential to lead with empathy rather than confrontation. Her reactions are often shaped by unspoken trauma, generational expectations, and physical changes beyond her control. So, meet her emotions with calm curiosity instead of matching frustration. Preserve her dignity using language that empowers rather than instructs. 

Gently introduce new ideas like therapy, rest, or lifestyle adjustments by sharing relatable stories or easing her in with familiar examples. Bear in mind that these suggestions might not sit well with her, but patience, consistency, and a little diplomacy could work magic. Normalise open conversations about menopause and ageing, just as we would with menstruation, to help her feel less isolated. Above all, women love compliments and support, so continue to affirm her worth beyond her role as a mother; remind her she is still loved, beautiful, needed, and valuable, just as she is.

Khairat can be reached via khairatsuleh@gmail.com.

By Tahir Mahmood Saleh

In Barden Barade, a remote village tucked within Sokoto State’s dry plains, something extraordinary happened a fewweeks ago — light returned. But not just light from a bulb. This was light that brought hope, dignity, and the promise of life.

For the past five years, the village’s only primary healthcare centre stood in silence — its doors locked, its wards dark, its beds removed. At night, when labour pains started, expectant mothers were rushed out of the village in desperation, sometimes travelling over 20 kilometres in search of care. Others gave birth on the floor of the abandoned hospital, aided only by midwives holding phone torches between their teeth.

“Many of us feared we wouldn’t survive childbirth,” said Maryam Abubakar, a mother of four. “My last child was born on a mat, with only the light of a small phone. The nurse kept shifting the torch with her mouth. I cried not from pain, but fear.” That fear is no more.

CREACC-NG, a Nigerian non-profit organisation championing community resilience and climate justice, launched the HealthVoltaic Initiative in Barden Barade. The initiative brings solar-powered energy systems to rural health centres cut off from the national grid.

With support from community stakeholders and generous partners, the team installed: A HealthVoltaic solar generator, Roof-mounted solar panels, medical equipment, including Doppler fetal monitors and digital thermometers, Rechargeable lights and fans, Beds and basic emergency supplies

For the first time in years, delivery rooms once sealed and abandoned were reopened. Midwives walked proudly into wards now lit by solar energy. Mothers now lie on beds, not mats. The hospital, which never operated at night, now runs 24/7.

“No woman will give birth in the dark again,” declared Umma Muhammad, the hospital’s Officer in Charge. “No more using torchlight with our mouths. No more mothers losing their lives because of light. This is a new beginning.” At the unveiling ceremony, Alhaji Mamman, the traditional leader of Barden Barade, stood with tears in his eyes.

“For years, we begged for help. We watched our women suffer. Today, we have light — not just in bulbs, but in our hearts,” he said as he formally launched the HealthVoltaic system. “This is one of the greatest things to happen to our community.”

The community turned out in large numbers. Women ululated. Children danced around the solar panels. The Ward Development Committee (WDC) members, who serve as custodians of the hospital’s welfare, pledged to supervise and protect the solar generator and ensure the project is sustained.

“We’ve waited so long. Now it’s here, we won’t let it fail,” said Malam Nura, a member of the WDC. “This energy system is for our mothers, our babies, and our future.” The transformation at Barden Barade is only the beginning.

CREACC-NG hopes to expand the HealthVoltaic Initiative to hundreds of off-grid rural health facilities across Nigeria. In a country where one woman dies every 13 minutes during childbirth, and where over 55% of primary healthcare centres have no electricity, the need is both urgent and immense.

“This is not just about power,” said CREACC-NG’s Project Lead. “It’s about restoring dignity to rural healthcare. It’s about saying no woman should die giving life — simply because there’s no light.” The HealthVoltaic Initiative aligns with Sustainable Development Goals 3 (Health) and 7 (Clean Energy) and presents a practical, low-cost, high-impact solution that is community-owned, climate-smart, and scalable.

But to take this movement beyond Barden Barade, funding is needed. Grants, private sector partnerships, and donor support can help replicate this success in other underserved communities — places where light is still a luxury, and delivery rooms are still covered in shadow.

Barden Barade was once a forgotten village, its hospital a symbol of abandonment. Today, it’s a beacon of what’s possible when communities believe, when organisations act, and when the world chooses to care. As the sun set on the day of the launch, the lights inside the hospital remained on — glowing quietly, confidently, like a promise kept. And in that light, babies cried, midwives smiled, and hope was reborn.

By Abdulrahman Sani

I went to Sudan to study Arabic. That was the beginning, simple and deliberate. But in truth, Arabic was only the surface. Sudan offered more than language. It stirred old questions I had carried with me since adolescence. Questions about memory, exile, and what remains after collapse.

My first encounter with the Sokoto Caliphate’s legacy wasn’t through archives or oral traditions. It was through theatre. I was in secondary school when I read Attahiru by Ahmad Yerima. The image of the Caliph fleeing colonial forces, defiant to the end, burned itself into my mind. I didn’t fully understand the politics then, but I felt the tragedy. That single text became a spark.

Later, I found the writings of Dr. Usman Bugaje, measured and searching. And then came Muhammad Shareef, the African American founder of Jamaa’at Danfodio in the United States, whom I had the pleasure of interviewing [here: https://youtu.be/_5Uj1S0lXQM?si=1BpJ9vusnW2HqWf4]. His writings were rich, wide-ranging, and full of overlooked geographies. It was through him that I first read about Maiurno, a small village in Sudan that held the echoes of Sokoto’s fall.

The very idea of it intrigued me. Remnants of the Caliphate had not only survived but also resettled, rebuilt, and renamed. I wanted to know what happened after Burmi. I wanted to know what exile looked like, generations later.

I mentioned this to my friend Malam Hassan, and soon after, we were on our way — me, him, and our guide. Before Maiurno, I spent some time in a Hausa village in Sudan. The familiarity was immediate. I saw areas named after Illela, heard idioms that sounded like home. It was as though Sokoto had sent a whisper into the desert, and it had echoed back in Sudanese tones.

Maiurno came into view quietly, without ceremony—a flat, sun-beaten village, carrying itself without fanfare. But history rarely announces itself. You feel it in the silences.

We made our way to the Sultan’s palace early in the morning. As we approached, an elderly man greeted me in Fulfulde. I hesitated, then responded in Arabic, admitting I didn’t understand. It was one of those quiet humiliations. A Fulani, abroad, unable to answer in the language of his own people. He smiled politely and said nothing.

We waited. There were others before us, people from another town in Sudan who had come to report a case. In the meantime, I noticed the crocodiles. Yes, crocodiles. They lay in their enclosure like royal guards, unmoving. It felt surreal but somehow fitting. The Sultan was no mere figurehead. He was the acknowledged leader of Hausa and Fulani communities in Sudan, a man of both presence and authority.

When he finally emerged, he received the guests before us. He listened without interruption or impatience. Then he settled their matter with a wisdom that didn’t need to explain itself. That kind of clarity is rare.

Then he turned to me.

I told him why I had come. I said I was interested in the Fodiyawa manuscripts said to be preserved in Sudan. He nodded with understanding, but explained that the key lay with the Sardauna of Maiurno, a scholar of great standing who, ironically, had travelled to Nigeria, my own country.

The Sultan was fluent in Hausa, Arabic, and Fulfulde. He spoke with the calm rhythm of someone used to being listened to. He smiled and said, “I know in Sokoto your Fulfulde doesn’t go beyond Balinjam.” It was said lightly, but it landed with accuracy.

He spoke of his relative, Professor Mukoshay, the author of the Fulani-Hausa dictionary. Then, briefly about Hayat ibn Sa‘id, a name that deserves more telling than time allowed. Before long, I realised I should be recording this. I asked his permission. He agreed with grace.

He began narrating how their ancestors had come to Maiurno after the fall of the Caliphate, how they had built their homes, mosques, and memory on Sudanese soil, and how they still kept contact with their families in Nigeria. He spoke too of the Jamaa’at Danfodio in America with quiet admiration, amused by how history had found new shapes and tongues.

After the conversation, he did something unexpected. He asked, gently, for my contact. I gave it. We shook hands, and I took my leave.

What struck me wasn’t just the story. It was the clarity with which he carried it. My visit to Maiurno took place in 2019. At the time, the country was in a fragile transitional moment, unsure of what lay ahead. But even then, the Sultan stood out–quiet, composed, and principled. In later years, during the war with the RSF militia, I would hear that he remained steadfast and stood with the state when others hesitated. The president himself visited to thank him.

Maiurno wasn’t just a trip. It was a quiet, necessary crossing, from curiosity to memory, from story to place. The Sokoto Caliphate may have fallen in Burmi, but it lives on. In names. In speech. In places like Maiurno, where its sons still remember.

Abdulrahman Sani can be reached via X: @philosopeace.