Tribute

By Sulaiman Maijama’a

My elder brother’s call – Bello, requesting that I show up at our family house on Sunday morning, August 10th, 2025 – is the most difficult phone call I have ever answered in my life. Immediately, I overheard crying in chorus from the background; I knew what it meant and told my wife that the inevitable we have all been waiting for is here: Baba is no more.

Our father, Alhaji Maijama’a Iliyasu, first fell sick on August 5th, 2023, but later recovered and was taken to go about his business by us (his children). His illness resurfaced on November 24th, 2024; he was bedridden for some weeks at ATBUTH, later discharged and has remained home since then. Seeing his body was not recuperating, yet he was discharged from the hospital, we understood the doctors’ body language and got to a point where we believed that it was terminal. Consequently, whenever I received a phone call from any of my siblings, I picked up with a nervous disposition, fearing what they had to tell me.

On the fateful day, I went home. I found the dead body of our dear father surrounded by my brothers and sisters, uttering “Inna Lillahi Wa Inna Ilaihi Raji’un,” submitting to the will of Allah and crying profusely. I felt that my imagination of how it feels when one loses a father failed me, as I never thought the magnitude of the pain and sense of despair it creates is to that extent. The feeling defies expression. But the crowd of sympathisers trooping to the house and visitors making speeches of eulogy and testimonies of the person our father was were what consoled us the most.

Testimonies of people on earth about the good reputation of a deceased can be a means of his entry into Jannah, as reported in an authentic Hadith, where our beloved Prophet says, “…the believers are the witnesses of Allah on the earth…” That is why it is Islamically encouraged to amplify the virtues of a dead person, but judgment belongs to the Merciful.

An old man who came to sympathise with us stated and emphasised our father’s respect for his parents and elders. The man said he was a living witness that when our father was in active business in Central Market before he relocated his mother to our house, he used to go and check on her three times every single day: in the morning before he went to the market, in the afternoon after Zuhr prayer, and in the evening when he closed. I’m not surprised because my mother always tells me that, in the years he had lived with his mother Innah, his goodness for her could fill the earth.

I personally did not grow up seeing his mother, but I mistook his elder sister for his mother because of the respect he had for her. Even his granddaughters, named after his mother, and his daughters-in-law bearing the name were called “Innah” or “Mamana” and enjoyed special treatment from him.

His closest childhood friend, Alhaji Sule Sarkin Kasuwa, told us that one day in the 1980s, Innah directed our father to go to Kaduna and apprehend a relative who ran away and refused to return home. There was no intelligence report of the man’s whereabouts, no telephone to call, and the man was of no fixed location. However, Baba, out of obedience to his late mother, requested Alhaji Sule to escort him to Kaduna, and they searched all over but could not find him. Our father became deeply concerned that his mother would not be comfortable, but Alhaji Sule assured him that God knows he had complied.

I grew up seeing my father as a very disciplined man with a strict daily schedule. After the dawn prayer, he recited his Warsh copy of the Glorious Qur’an until around 8 a.m., took breakfast, and went shopping in Central Market. Returned home around 6 p.m., went to Bauchi Central Mosque to pray Magrib and waited for Isha, returned home, ate dinner, and listened to the radio before he slept. His philosophy on the education of his children is “Qur’an first.” All of his eighteen children were never enrolled in a Western school until we learned to read the Qur’an alphabetically and possessed reasonable proficiency in reciting the Qur’an when we were around seven years old. I can still see in my mind’s eye the day I was enrolled in primary school in 2004, when I was 8 years old, meeting Malama Safiya and Mrs. Roda as my first primary female teachers.

By Allah, I cannot remember a day that passed without him reciting his Warsh copy of the Qur’an. I never saw him sitting by the roadside, talking ill of others. As strict as his schedule was, he ensured that his children followed suit, never allowing us to enjoy leisure time since childhood. We would be woken up at dawn, sent to “Makarantar Allo“, and returned around 7 a.m. We would then be sent to primary school, returned in the afternoon, and sent to Ismiyya until around Magrib. By the time we finished primary school, we would be sent to learn different skills, and that is why we realised the realities of life early and were relieved of many responsibilities.

Our father exemplified a firm belief in the power of the Qur’an and Dua. Whenever he or any of his children had something profound to pursue, he would sit on his mat, spread out in a slight angle in his room, and spend hours reciting and praying for us. Any act of goodness we did, he prayed for us, all the goodness of this world and the hereafter, until you got tired of answering “ameen”. Until he fell sick, when any of his daughters was about to deliver in her matrimonial home, he would personally inscribe Qur’an verses and send them to wash and consume the water. Regardless of our age, if he gave any of us a certain Qur’an verse or dua as a “lakani” and then asked us to recite it back the next time, and we failed, we would be scolded accordingly. I still have small papers containing his inscriptions.

Now that the crowd of sympathisers has dispersed, my recollection of his prayerful and caring nature sparks a sense of nostalgia in my subconscious mind. I remember that whenever I was late at work, Baba would call to ask why, and whenever I was on the road at night, he would call several times to check on my safety and would never retire to bed until I was home. We will forever miss this. Standing on truthfulness and imposing strict rules on his family were some of the qualities Allah blessed him with. In the house, none of us could dare tell lies on phone calls in his presence, gossip, or insult. If you talked ill of others, he would ask, “Can you say the same if the other person were here?” His family setting was highly regimented and fully localised.

Our father departed this world without owing anybody a Kobo on earth. To us, it is no surprise because we know his philosophy of living within one’s means and never taking credit, no matter how little. When he fell sick, he sent someone to the market to buy him something. When I told the man of his illness, he said, “Allah sarki, baban nan da ba ya cin bashi.” No matter how close to him you were or how many years he spent buying from you, he would never agree to take credit for a single penny. A certain government official once approached him with a form for a loan scheme the government had designed to disburse funds to support businesses. Still, Baba rejected it, saying he preferred to live and die well without a burden. When the news reached us, we tried our best to convince him, telling him, “Irin bashin gwamnati ne da su ke yafewa,” but he insisted on his stance.

Indeed, Allah fulfilled his wish: he lived well, built a solid foundation of discipline for his family, mentored his children to understand life early, stood for righteousness, and, in fervent service to his Creator, eschewed taking any burden of his fellow human beings. Baba passed away peacefully, leaving us full of nostalgia. May Allah be merciful to our beloved father, forgive his shortcomings, shower illumination into his grave, accept his good deeds, and admit him into Jannatul-Firdaus. I’m grateful to all the people who prayed for him, visited us, sent a text message, or called to sympathise with us. I acknowledge and thank you gratefully, once again.

Sulaiman Maijama’a

Manager, Admin & Commercials

Eagle Radio Bauchi.

By Kabir Musa Ringim

15/08/2025

My father, Alhaji Musa Muhammad, was an orphan who lost his father at a very young age. He was nicknamed Musa Lare in reference to his mother, Lare. His father, Mallam Mamman Aminu, a staff member of the Nigerian Railway Corporation and a native of Daura in present-day Katsina State, was transferred to Ringim to work at the corporation’s train station. There, he met Lare, a Fulani widow, and they married in the early 1940s.

Their first child, a very handsome boy, was named Musa. Sadly, destiny decreed that Mallam Mamman would not live long enough to have another child or witness his son’s growth and achievements.

Alhaji Musa Muhammad was born in 1945 in Ringim. After completing mandatory Qur’anic school, he was enrolled at the age of seven in Ringim Elementary School (now Katutu Pilot Special Primary School) in 1952, finishing in 1955. In 1956, he proceeded to City Senior Primary School, Kofar Nasarawa, Kano (now Government Girls Secondary School, Shekara, Kano), and graduated in 1958. In 1959, he entered Kano Provincial Secondary School (now Rumfa College, Kano) with school number 230.

His first job came in 1963 when the University of Ibadan, in collaboration with the Federal Ministry of Agriculture and Natural Resources, offered him a one-year temporary position. He conducted a market study on the quality, quantity, and price of selected farm produce – millet, sorghum, and beans – at Kurmi and Sabon Gari markets in Kano. The results were sent monthly to the Nigerian Stored Products Research Institute (NSPRI) Kano for onward transmission to the University of Ibadan. During this period, as a federal government worker, the Emir of Kano, Sir Muhammad Sanusi I, provided him with accommodation at the palace.

In 1964, Alhaji Musa Muhammad joined the Forestry Division of the Federal Ministry of Agriculture as the pioneer Government Forest Guard. He attended the Government Forest Guard Course at the Regional School of Forestry, Jos, after which he was posted to Zaria. In 1966, he was transferred to Kaduna Parks and Gardens as Officer in Charge of nurseries.

When states were created in 1967, he was deployed to his home state, Kano. Following directives from CP Audu Bako, the then Military Governor, he was posted to Kuda Gangara in Kazaure Emirate to establish Bagaruwa plantations for producing pods used in the state’s tanning factories. These plantations were established at Kuda Gangara Forest Reserve along Achilafiya – Karkarna Road.

In 1968, he applied for a change of cadre from Forester to Forest Assistant in training. His application was approved, and he was sent to the Federal School of Forestry, Ibadan, for a six-month Forest Assistant Course, running from May 1970 to October 1971. He completed the course with a Second-Class Certificate and was posted to Kano North Central Administrative Area, headquartered at Dambatta, as Area Forest Officer in charge.

In January 1973, he was selected for a one-year Diploma Course at the Federal School of Forestry, Ibadan. He graduated with a First-Class Diploma, becoming the first Northerner to win a prize in silviculture (the cultivation and management of trees). Due to his outstanding performance, he was posted to Hadejia Administrative Area as Forest Officer in charge. There, he established three new forest nurseries in Hadejia, Diginsa, and Kafin Hausa, upgraded the Birniwa nursery, and created shelterbelts in Diginsa and Birniwa, along with numerous roadside plantations.

In 1975, at the age of 30, while working in Hadejia, he met my mother, who was then fifteen years old. They married that same year and remained together for fifty years until his death.

In 1976, he was transferred to Kano, attached to the Forest Management Division (West), and placed in charge of the Savannah Investigation Unit, which conducted soil and vegetation surveys, produced soil maps, and interpreted aerial photographs.

In 1977, he was transferred to Kano South West Administrative Area, headquartered at Rano, as Forest Officer in charge. In 1978, following the local government reforms, he applied for the position of Head of the Local Government Agriculture Department, in line with a Ministry of Agriculture circular inviting qualified diploma holders to apply. He was appointed and posted to Ringim Local Government as the pioneer Head of Agriculture.

In 1980, he was transferred to Tudun Wada Local Government. While there, he expanded his qualifications by enrolling with the British Institute of Engineering Technology, Aldermaston Court, Berkshire, England, to study Tropical Agriculture, Agricultural Engineering, and Animal Husbandry in the Tropics via correspondence. He completed these courses in three years.

In 1983, he returned to Ringim Local Government, and in 1984, he was transferred to Gezawa Local Government as Head of Agriculture. In 1987, he was moved to Dutse Local Government. That same year, the Kano State Government decided to professionalise the Inspectorate Division of the Ministry for Local Government. Heads of Departments in Agriculture, Works, Health, and Social Welfare were selected on merit through interviews. He was appointed Assistant Chief Local Government Inspector, joining three colleagues.

This role gave him opportunities to attend various courses, including:

1. Project Management Implementation and Control at the Agricultural and Rural Management Training Institute, Ilorin.

2. Rural Development Project Formulation and Management at Ahmadu Bello University, Zaria.

3. Leadership and Management at the Nigerian Institute of Management.

4. Various workshops, seminars, and committee assignments within and outside Nigeria.

Following the creation of Jigawa State in 1991, he was deployed as Assistant Chief Local Government Inspector. With civil service reforms, his post became Assistant Director of Agriculture Inspection. In 1992, he was transferred to the State Council of Chiefs as Council Secretary. He was promoted to Deputy Director, then substantive Director in 1997, a position he held until his retirement on 31 August 2001.

Twenty-four years after retirement, on 3rd July 2025, he passed away peacefully at home in Ringim without any known illness, leaving behind my mother and 19 children. Among his sons are two classroom teachers, four lecturers, and a consultant neurosurgeon.

My late father was a man of strong faith, selflessness, and patriotism. When asked how all his children found good jobs, he replied that it was Allah who provides and that he had prayed for his children’s success. He detested corruption, avoided politics, and never sought personal favours. He refused cash gifts even from his children and was meticulous about keeping records and time, locking his house himself every day at 8 p.m.

He was the healthiest person I have ever known. I never for once saw him bedridden or visiting a hospital. Even at 80, he could drive, walk upright, and retained his senses of smell, hearing, and sight. He ate in moderation – only twice a day – favouring healthy, traditional foods such as fura, zogale, bread, tsire, and tea, with oranges, mangoes, and bananas as his preferred fruits.

While in service, he also farmed, growing millet, sorghum, beans, tomatoes, and other crops for home consumption. After retirement, he devoted his time to prayer and religious duties, declining all job offers. Though considered an elder statesman in Ringim, he kept few friends and preferred to stay indoors, coming out after late morning prayers until Zuhr to interact with neighbours.

His enduring message was: “Be resolute, fear your Creator, and surmount every difficulty to achieve your objective. It is not the beginning that matters but the end.”

May Allah (SWT) forgive his shortcomings, accept his good deeds, and grant him Jannatul Firdaus. Ameen.

By Usman Abdullahi Koli, ANIPR 

Muhammadu Buhari, former President of Nigeria, is no more. For a moment, I felt very shocked and touched. Not because I expected him to live forever, but because I had never honestly imagined a Nigeria without him somewhere in the background watching, guiding, deciding, or simply being present. I asked myself why the end of some lives feels heavier than others. Perhaps it is because those lives were never ordinary. Buhari’s life was one of service, controversy, silence, and symbolism. Now that the chapter is closed, what remains is the long shadow of his presence, a legacy that will be remembered, questioned, and reflected upon for years to come.

Buhari was never a man you could ignore. You were either with him or against him. I, more often than not, stood in opposition. I challenged his approach to national security, criticised his handling of the education system, and voiced strong concerns about his oversight of Nigeria’s crude oil sector and economy. My criticisms were never born out of malice, but out of conviction. I believed, and still do, that our country deserves better. I thought it was our duty to demand it.

Yet, amid my disagreements, I never lost sight of the man behind the decisions. In 2020, during the #EndSARS movement, when the nation was boiling with fear and fury, I felt compelled to offer a different perspective. I wrote an article titled “Calming the Tide: Buhari’s Antidote.” In that piece, I tried to humanise him. I described him as a lanky man, often caught smiling with his teeth in full view, yet known for the signature frown that defined his public image. Something was striking about how he carried himself in his flowing babban-riga, standing tall and firm like the general he once was, even in the calm of civilian leadership.

Buhari’s story began long before he entered Aso Rock. As a young man, he embraced the uncertainties of military life. He rose through the ranks with grit, ultimately becoming a general in the Nigerian Army. He ruled Nigeria first as a military leader and returned, decades later, as a civilian president. His reemergence was not merely a political move; it was deeply personal. He saw his return as a duty to complete a mission he once began in uniform. Whether he succeeded or fell short, Buhari believed in his cause, and that belief fueled his resolve.

He was undeniably a man of sharp edges. His stubborn adherence to principle often came at a cost. He preferred silence when the nation needed clarity and stood firm when compromise was necessary. His integrity, once lauded, became the subject of scrutiny. Some wounds were self-inflicted; others were inherited from the complexities of leadership. Regardless, they will shape how history remembers him.

Despite it all, Buhari remained anchored in a modest way of life. He never sought extravagance. He governed in the way he understood best—that is, through order, discipline, and restraint. These traits, while admired by some, alienated others. Yet, behind that stoic exterior was a man deeply invested in the idea of service, even if the methods failed to reflect the expectations of many.

The end of a life always casts a different light on it. Legacies are never truly complete until the final chapter has been closed. Buhari’s legacy will be debated in homes, classrooms, and political circles for years to come. But today is not for judgment. Today is for remembrance. For the man, not just the president. For the soldier who once stood on the frontline, and for the leader who walked through the dust of Daura into the marble halls of national power.

At over eighty, he still had something to give. Not in speeches or policy, but in presence, in counsel, in memory. Nigeria needs his wisdom, perhaps now more than ever.

I mourn him, not because I always agreed with him, but because I respected the weight of the burden he carried. He did not lead perfectly. But he led. And in many ways, he led with sincerity.

Now he is gone. But his footprints remain on the battlefield, in the ballot box, and in the hearts of those who watched, waited, and sometimes wept. His story is one of contradictions, courage, convictions, and consequences. But above all, it is a Nigerian story.

Rest in peace, General Muhammadu Buhari. The march is over. The bugle has sounded. And history, in all its fullness, will remember you.

Usman Abdullahi Koli wrote via mernoukoli@gmail.com.

By Amir Abdulazeez

During the early and mid-months of 2002, I would often visit an uncle (now deceased) who generously provided me with newspapers before he had even read them himself. On one such visit, I picked up a copy of the Daily Trust, a relatively new publication at the time, and while flipping through its pages, I read the delightful news that not only made me happy but also propelled me into a brief career in partisan politics. Retired General Muhammadu Buhari had decided to join democratic politics and announced his entry into the All Nigerian Peoples Party (ANPP).

At the time, the Obasanjo-led administration was widely perceived as underperforming, failing to address Nigeria’s mounting challenges sincerely. The PDP had morphed into a formidable political giant, while the ANPP was weakening steadily; other newly registered parties existed only in the briefcases of their founders.  Buhari’s decision to enter politics at that time represented the single most decisive move that changed the Nigerian democratic landscape over the last 25 years. Youths, pensioners, activists, comrades, veterans and even fence-sitters found a new rallying point, and almost everyone else joined the new messiah.

Although many harboured reservations about Buhari, especially those whose interests had been hurt during his military regime or the post-1999 established elite who saw him as a threat, I was among the countless young Nigerians who adored Buhari to a fault. My admiration for him was so intense that another uncle once felt compelled to caution me. It was just before the 2003 presidential election when he walked into my room, saw a large framed portrait of Buhari on my wall, smiled, and advised me to moderate my obsession.

My love for Buhari began about 30 years ago. The establishment of the Petroleum Trust Fund (PTF) by General Sani Abacha’s administration in 1994 coincided with our early years in secondary school. By the time the Fund was a year old in 1995, the name of Muhammadu Buhari was on the lips of virtually all Nigerians. In my estimation, then, he was the only tangible positive aspect of the Abacha government. In fact, he appeared to be more popular than Abacha himself; a hypothesis that reportedly inspired Obasanjo to scrap the Fund in 1999 to avoid ‘running a government inside a government’.

I vividly recall a day in 1995 or 1996 when I accompanied my father to a bookshop. The PTF low-price edition of every book we went to buy was available at a 50% or so discount without any compromise in quality. While paying the money, I could see the smile on my father’s face reflecting deep satisfaction and appreciation for the work of the PTF. That was the first time in my life that I truly felt and understood the direct impact of government on the people. In pharmacies, PTF drugs were sold at subsidised rates. There was no propaganda, rhetoric, cosmetics, or media packaging; the work of Buhari’s PTF was there for everyone to see and touch. I was fortunate as a young lad to join elders on travels across the country from 1995 to 1997. I got tired of seeing the PTF road projects that I once asked: “Why won’t this Buhari return as president to fix Nigeria?”

Muhammadu Buhari, a constant figure in Nigerian political discourse since 1983, is no longer with us. Few anticipated his death, as the brief illness he suffered in London seemed either a rumour or a routine medical trip. Ironically, many of his detractors had “killed” him multiple times in the past; some of them dying before he did. In 2014, former Ekiti State Governor Ayo Fayose ran a notorious advertisement predicting that Buhari wouldn’t last in office for months if elected. Yet he won, served for eight years, and died just months short of turning 83.

Buhari lived a long, dedicated, and enduring life of service and commitment to Nigeria, spanning about six decades in both military and civilian capacities. Save perhaps for Obasanjo, there’s no Nigerian, dead or alive, who matches his array of public portfolios. His personal reputation for discipline, honesty, integrity, and austerity endured throughout his public life. He stood as a symbol of principled and stoic leadership, leaving behind a legacy that will continue to resonate for generations.

Just before his death, the debate of who made him president in 2015 resurfaced with an exchange of tantrums between some pro-Tinubu and pro-Buhari gladiators. While I found the debate outdated, my position remains that Buhari ought to have become president 12 years earlier. For the avoidance of doubt, Muhammadu Buhari did not lose the 2003 presidential elections; it was brutally rigged to return Obasanjo for a second term. That year’s election ranks among the most fraudulent in modern global history. In 2007, the presidential election results were allegedly fabricated, so we can’t even call that an election, let alone determine who won or lost.

Despite my immense love for Buhari, I was left with no choice but to join his critics after 2015. Less than a year in, it became clear that his government lacked the vision and effectiveness many had hoped for. In 2015, I queued until about 10:00 p.m. to vote for him, believing he was Nigeria’s last chance. By 2018, I was disappointed and called for him to serve just one term. I argued then that if he couldn’t lead like Nelson Mandela, he could at least exit like Mandela. By 2021, while in his second term, I was so disillusioned that I openly advocated for his impeachment.

It remains a mystery how our much beloved, tested, and trusted (his campaign slogan in 2003) Buhari failed to meet expectations so short. Some blamed his arrogant and underperforming appointees; others cited a fractured and directionless party. But ultimately, he bore the responsibility. His inability or unwillingness to discipline ineffective ministers eroded his credibility. In 2022, during the eight-month strike by university lecturers, I contacted one of his aides (a relative), who confirmed that it was Buhari’s ministers, not Buhari himself, who opposed paying the lecturers. Another indicator that he wasn’t really in charge. 

In the midst of the storm, Buhari’s administration achieved several landmark milestones in infrastructure, social welfare, and the fight against terrorism. He delivered the elusive Second Niger Bridge, the Lagos-Ibadan and Abuja-Kaduna railways and upgraded numerous critical road networks. His government implemented the Treasury Single Account (TSA), which significantly improved public financial transparency and curbed leakages. Buhari’s war against Boko Haram yielded mixed results but succeeded in reclaiming substantial territory from insurgents. He introduced arguably the largest Social Investment Program in the history of Africa, targeting millions of beneficiaries through initiatives such as N-Power, Trader Moni, Survival Fund, Anchor Borrowers Scheme, and conditional cash transfers.

Nigerians are free to hold divergent views on Buhari. But there should be decency in how we express those views. No one is without flaws; we all have our good and bad sides. One day, we too shall pass, and others will speak of us. Buhari had both triumphs and failings; some reaped benefits, others suffered losses. If you can pray for him, please do. If not, be measured in your words.

The past few days have witnessed a flurry of deaths, a sobering reminder that life is fleeting and death is inevitable. Today’s giants will one day lie lifeless. When Garba Shehu broke the news of Buhari’s death, I immediately made up my mind to put up a tribute. A few minutes after the announcement, I visited his Wikipedia page to verify some information about the general. To my surprise, the information about his death had already been updated: “Muhammadu Buhari (1942-2025)”—so swiftly? I said to myself. Baba is gone. May Allah forgive and grant him Jannatul-Firdaus.

By Hadiza Abdulkadir

It has been fifteen years since Nigeria lost one of its most respected and selfless leaders, President Umaru Musa Yar’Adua. 

Today, Nigerians across the nation reflect on the life and legacy of a man whose brief presidency profoundly impacted the nation’s democratic and developmental journey.

Former President Goodluck Ebele Jonathan, who served as Yar’Adua’s vice president and later succeeded him, paid a heartfelt tribute to his late friend and leader. 

In his message on social media, Jonathan described Yar’Adua as a patriot and a servant leader who was driven by a commitment to unity, justice, and national progress.

“President Yar’Adua’s life was defined by service and selflessness,” Jonathan stated. “Whether as a teacher, governor, or president, his stewardship was guided by hard work, patriotism, accountability, commitment to justice and adherence to the rule of law.”

Yar’Adua’s presidency was marked by his efforts to reconcile a divided nation, foster unity among its people, and mobilise collective action towards building a just and peaceful Nigeria. Though his time in office was cut short by illness, his administration is remembered for significant reforms and a leadership style rooted in humility and inclusion.

Jonathan praised Yar’Adua for his unwavering dedication to democratic ideals and for laying a foundation of peace and accountability. “Fifteen years after his passing, he continues to stand as a reference for good leadership and a legacy of impact,” Jonathan remarked.

As the nation remembers President Yar’Adua, many Nigerians continue to honour his contributions to building a better country and celebrate the enduring example he set in public service.

By Muhammad Ahmad Iliasu

When Barr. Ammani recommended Hillary Clinton’s Autobiography ‘Living History’ to me back in 2018, I said to myself where could I find it? Because, among others, one thing was certain; books that are authored across the ocean are not easy to find. And if, in the rare case, they are available, a young student like me was most likely priced out of contention.

Then one day, during one of my trekking braggadocios between Kantin Kwari, Bata to Sabon Gari, I stumbled upon an intensely greying old man of modest stature, smiley and incredibly alert and mobile for a man of his age. What pulled my attention to his makeshift shop wasn’t him, but rather the large book carrying the face of Herbert Hoover – USA’s 31st President.

At that time, there were a lot of debates in our Macro class in BUK on Buhari’s Protectionist policy. And with Yanis Varoufakis’s dominance on my bookshelf, how protectionism backfired against Hoover as stated in his ‘Global Minotaur’ became of great interest to me. I didn’t only want to know all about protectionism in the 1930s but the whole lifetime of President Hoover and his administration.

Therefore I stepped to the old man, pointed at the book and asked ‘how much is that one, Baba?’ ‘It’s price is two-thousand five-hundred Naira, boy’ – he replied. I responded ‘what?’ – almost terrified by its incredible cheapness, even though I didn’t have that amount at the time. To which he incredibly remarked ‘if you are truly serious, I will leave it to you at one-thousand seven-hundred Naira’. I laughed and borrowed the money from my boss’s change to settle the payment. I asked him once again ‘do you by any chance have Living History?’ The old man smiled and said ‘That will be Hillary Clinton’s Autobiography. I sold it two days ago. But I have ‘Women in Charge’. He put my curiosity into perspective with that response. Because I didn’t think he would know that instantly. And from then my relationship with him became very close. I admired his familiarity with books, genres and authors. And he became fond of how much I was willing to spend on books.

Interestingly, we never exchanged contacts. I usually stopped by his place anytime my boss sent me to Sabon Gari. And whenever he had a book he knew I’d like, he would keep asking his customers if they knew one big lad from the core metropolis who is crazy about books – I knew that because he asked three people who knew me and passed the message.

Beyond the unbelievable cheapness of his books, what made Alaji Garba special wasn’t his eagerness to sell, but knowing what his customers wanted to buy. He had a way of profiling people’s interest perfectly. For example, anytime he had an autobiography of a famous leader or historical figure he would try his best to see me acquire it. I recall how he kept the biography of Joseph Stalin waiting for weeks even though many wanted to get it ahead of me. Funny enough, I didn’t know who Stalin was at that time. He just believed I would like it. And he was right.

From him I acquired more than 20 biographies of US presidents including those of Washington, Maddison, Jefferson, Lincoln, FDR and Reagan. I first heard about The Bourbons, House of Windsor and The Bolsheviks from him. Better yet, he supplied deep readings on them. I got classics authored by Rousseau, Locke, Homer, Byron, Marx, Calder, Orwell, Dante and Dumas from Alaji Garba.

He introduced me to the artistic savagery of Mario Puzo’s Mafia and the boiling horror of Stephen King. I know Jenni Calder and her father Angus Calder because of Alaji Garba, and thanks to that I know Thomas Carlyle and whoever he mentioned in his analysis of Heroes. I’ve forgotten to mention the book “Heroes” by Jenni which Alaji Garba gave me almost for free, the very book whose analytical dexterity formed the earliest foundation of my ability to conflate history with literature, personality with reality, and what an author seeks to achieve with every detail of his book.

On the afternoon I bought Eisenhower’s biography, Alaji Garba gave me ‘Thirty Centuries of Command’ for free. And beyond acquiring familiarity with the military-industrial complex, the misinformations in the Thirty Centuries of Command on Sultan Muhammad al-Fatih rattled me into reading the history of the Ottoman Empire since Sulayman Shah and Ertugrul up to Lawrence of Arabia and Mustafa Kemal Attaturk.

Indeed, I am nothing without my bookshelf, and my bookshelf would be nothing without Alaji Garba’s heavenly supply. There are five times more books on my shelf that were supplied by Alaji Garba than any other bookseller. And he’s probably only edged by Jakara City on the quantity of my readings supplied. The poor man, whom I truly loved, probably had no idea what he was doing jumping from one shadow to another under a bridge with those small sacks of old treatises. He was probably just trying to put food on his table, unsure of who next will buy, and whether that will be enough to pay the fare home. But he was more than that. And I wish he knew it. I wish he knew how many lives he changed with that materially unrewarding trade. I wish he can get recognition for the volume of knowledge he worked very hard to put into the hands of people who otherwise would never have gotten the chance to get.

I wish he knew how much I loved him and how much I understood his efforts and how much I admired him and his trade. I wish he knew how people like him inspire me to be great despite having no independent ambition to be so, just so that when I tell their story to the people who should’ve known them it will bear some weight. I write, partially, so I could tell the stories that may never be told. And Alaji Garba’s is truly one of a kind. May Allah rest him in His eternal peace. May ‘Iqra’a’ rescues him from the wrath on the day of judgement. For certainly very few have dedicated more to the love of reading.

Muhammad Ahmad Iliyasu is Strategic Communications Officer at the Center for Fiscal Transparency and Public Integrity. He can be reached via his email: Muhada102@gmail.com

By Sani Mu’azu

I am still reeling from the news of Souleymane Cissé’s passing. As a young filmmaker, I had the privilege of meeting him at the Shitengi Film Festival in Cape Town and later at Fespaco in Ouagadougou. His presence, wisdom, and generosity left an indelible mark on me.

Cissé’s cinematic legacy is a testament to his unwavering commitment to African storytelling, deep humanism, and profound political engagement. His iconic film Yeelen (Brightness) was a turning point for me. Its powerful narrative, stunning visuals, and masterful storytelling ignited a fire within me to tell African stories that matter.

Yeelen‘s exploration of traditional Bambara culture, the struggle for power, and the quest for knowledge resonated deeply with me. It was a cinematic experience that not only inspired me but also challenged my perspectives on African identity, culture, and history.

As I grew in my filmmaking journey, I often reflected on Cissé’s words, wisdom, and work. His passion for African cinema, dedication to mentoring emerging filmmakers, and unwavering commitment to telling our stories with dignity and authenticity continue to inspire me.

Papa Cissé, as I affectionately called him, may be gone, but his cinematic legacy, his wisdom, and his impact on African cinema will continue to illuminate our screens, our hearts, and our minds.

Rest in peace, Souleymane Cissé. Your brightness will continue to shine.

Farewell, Papa Cissé.

By Hafsat Lalo

“I might have just seen my father for the last time,” was the message I sent to my husband on WhatsApp as I sat in the car that was to take my niece, Fatima and me to Kano a day before I travelled to Japan. My husband responded, “Why, nobody knows; life is not in our hands.” I told him that Baba was very old, though he was very strong, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he lived another year. We both prayed for him, leaving the conversation there. 

Earlier that morning, I went into Baba’s room to say goodbye. As I entered, I was met with the familiar scent of the room, his unmistakable charisma and the aura that has always surrounded him. I could have sensed his presence even if he were not in that room. 

Baba was sitting on the couch wearing a brown jallabiya, having just performed his Fajr prayer. I greeted him; his calm demeanour contrasted with the wave of emotions inside me. He asked, “Kin fito?” (Are you ready to leave?). I nodded. After a brief silence, I said, “Baba, ka yafe min” (Father, please forgive me). Another silence followed, and both of us were lost in our thoughts. I thought about how this might be the last time I saw him. I don’t know what he was thinking, but I am sure he understood what I was implying. 

He asked, “A yafe miki?” (Should I forgive you?). I replied affirmatively, almost crying at this point. He said, “Toh Na yafe miki, ki je ki rike karatun Qur’ani da sallah a kan lokaci”. Those were his exact words.

It was no coincidence that he had given me a prayer mat (darduma) as a gift two days earlier. He mentioned he was planning to give me a prayer mat and a Qur’an. He handed me the prayer mat and gave me N2500 to buy the Qur’an, explaining that he had asked for the price and intended to buy it himself but hadn’t had the chance to stop on his way home. It took him a while to locate the money from his pocket. So I told him to leave it since I had money, but he insisted.

At the time, I didn’t fully grasp the significance of the prayer mat and the promise of a Qur’an. They seemed like Baba being Baba – I had received similar gifts from him before. In 2019, my younger sister brought me a prayer mat and Riyadussalihin, which Baba had asked her to give me. I gave out the prayer mat when I was getting married, but I still have the Riyadussalihin. It wasn’t until the day he died, as I was about to pray Asr that I noticed the prayer mat I was about to use was the very one he had given me. The realisation hit me very hard, and I again broke down in tears, sitting there and thinking about that one last encounter. I began to reflect deeply on their meaning. I realised they were no ordinary gifts—they were symbols of his life, the values he held dear, and a message to keep faith at the centre of my life, no matter how far I am from home.

Baba’s love for the Qur’an was unwavering throughout his life. Even as recently as five years ago, he remained a student of the Qur’an despite his age. He would stop at the market with my elder brother to learn the Qur’an. He also had teachers who came to the house in the evenings to teach him. His relentless pursuit of knowledge, even in his later years, was a testament to his humility and passion for learning.

Baba ensured that we all had access to (Western) education, something he was not privileged to have. I remember how he would often call and ask me to translate the news on TV for him. While I was doing it, I would see him looking at me with the pride of a father who was able to give his daughter what he couldn’t have.

As I was overwhelmed by these thoughts, I couldn’t help but think back to the day Baba passed away—a day that started like any other but carried an inexplicable heaviness. I had woken up unusually sad after seeing a picture of Baba at the hospital at around 2:30 am. I couldn’t go back to sleep after. The morning came, but I had no appetite and was in a foul mood. I couldn’t eat.

The hours dragged on, clouded by unease, until that message from Ahmad came: ‘Baba ya rasu.’ When I read it, time seemed to stop, and my body went numb. It wasn’t just the news of Baba’s death; It was the fact that the message brought back the pain of losing my mom. It felt as though I had lost both of my parents all over again, and I cried for the two people who brought me into this world and shaped who I am. 

Baba, your death has torn me apart, and the fact that I wasn’t there with you in your final moments will haunt me forever. But I promise to hold on to your final gifts; no matter where life takes me, I will hold on to them. Being your daughter is the second most incredible honour of my life. Thank you for leaving us a good name and a legacy of integrity, Baban Umma. May Allah grant you eternal rest, forgive your shortcomings and grant you the highest rank in Jannah. 

He left behind a remarkable family: six wives, three of whom are deceased, 50 children (nine of whom are deceased), 116 grandchildren, and 55 great-grandchildren.

Hafsat Lalo wrote from Japan via hafsahlalo@gmail.com.

By Dr. Aliyu Dahiru Muhammad

The late Malam Ahmad Garba Amin (1962-2024) was a remarkable individual I first met in the 1990s as my secondary school Islamic Studies teacher. Subsequently, he rose to the post of Vice Principal before being transferred to the Kano State Welfare Pilgrims Board as a Director of Operations, a position he held for almost a decade. He later moved to the Kano State Sharia Commission, where he finally retired. 

I became close to Malam Ahmad during school and after graduation. He used to ask about my progress in Quranic education even years after my bachelor’s degree. I introduced him to my parents, and we became a family. Gratefully, he made a significant impact on my life to the extent that he was behind some of my achievements – Alhamdulillah. 

When the news of his death broke out to me on Thursday, 5^th September 2024 (2^nd Rabiul Awal, 1446), I reacted by saying, “Innalillahi wa inna Ilaihi Rajiun” as it is the only action that can relieve me of that material time. After confirmation, I shared it on my platforms, where I received many condolence messages and prayers. What also consoled me was the kind of lovely comments I have received from many who knew him and those who did not know him. Alhamdulillah. 

Imams Al-Bukhari and Muslim reported, on the authority of Anas ibn Malik, that a group of the Prophet (SAW)’s companions were sitting with him when some people came and passed by them carrying a corpse. Some of the people sitting around the Prophet (SAW) made nice comments about the dead person, and the Prophet (SAW) promptly reacted, saying, “Confirmed” (wajib). A similar scenario happened, but on the contrary, the comments were nasty, and the Prophet (SAW) reacted by saying, “Confirmed” (wajib). Wondering why the Prophet said so, the companions asked him for an explanation. 

In the case of the first corpse, the Prophet said what it meant was that their comments about him thus confirmed his entry to Paradise (al-Jannah). The same thing applied to the second person for whom Hellfire was confirmed similarly. The Prophet further explained to them the significance/implications of the comments that people usually make about the dead by either extolling their virtues or otherwise saying bad things about them. He said, “You are the witnesses of Allah on earth (against His servants).”

Allahu Akbar! Whoever knew Mal. Ahmad could testify that he was deeply involved in promoting social welfare and peace in the community. This earned him respect among the youths, women, and elderly, as I noticed every time I visited him, especially during his daily teaching of Islamic books (taalim) outside their family house. 

He was the former Chairman of Safinatul Khair Foundation, which, to my knowledge, is one of the few community-based organisations that have contributed to the socio-economic development of his community. The foundation has a special scheme for education for children through scholarships, extramural classes for candidates who intend to sit for WAEC and NECO examinations, and job opportunities for youths, among others. In the aspects of social development, especially for widows and orphans, the Foundation, at a time, conducted a census of all widows in the area it covered and supported them. During my PhD studies, I interviewed him about their achievement, and I was so excited about it. 

On the aspect of health, the Foundation and Late Mal. Ahmad, in particular, was instrumental in setting up a clinic serving the people, especially the needy patients of Kofar Naisa and beyond. The clinic named after the foundation is the Safinatul Khair Foundation (Kofar Naisa PHC). Thanks to Dr Hassan Sulaiman Kofar Naisa, a resident of the area who worked under the office of the then Senior Special Assistant to former President Muhammad Buhari on Sustainable Development Goals (SDGs), brought this project. 

According to my close associate Mal. Usman Muhammad (Dr. Shehu), the clinic is grade-A in primary health care. It is well equipped with an ambulance, solar system, and water system that serves patients 24/7 uninterruptedly. They invite medical personnel from neighbouring general and specialised hospitals like Aminu Kano Teaching Hospital for weekly medical outreach and to settle the bills for the less privileged patients. 

As we mourn the loss of Mal. Ahmad, we pray that Allah accepts his legacies, forgives his shortcomings, and grants him entry into paradise. “Indeed, we belong to Allah and to Him we shall return. Indeed, only Allah is the place of return. O Allah, record (the deceased) among the righteous, and place the record in the highest place. Replace the goodness for the family left behind. Do not make the reward forbidden, and do not test us after their departure.”

Dr. Aliyu Dahiru Muhammad is an associate professor in the Department of Economics at Bayero University Kano and a Visiting Scholar at the National University of Malaysia (UKM). He can be reached via alitahir797@gmail.com.

By Dr. A. M. Lawal

Until fate brought us together at the Federal University Gusau, Professor Muhammad Lawal Mayanchi was an uncle I hardly knew. Growing up, he was a military man who lived far away from home and rarely visited. The few times he visited after his compulsory retirement, I was away in school. So, my first major interaction with him was at FUGUS. 

The first day we met, his attention was divided. On the one hand, he was trying to make up for the lost time he had with me and, on the other, as the then Dean of Students, he was busy trying to control and keep students in line so they could board the University shuttle to town in an orderly fashion. From there, I witnessed first-hand his discipline and how obsessed he was with entrenching the same to the students. Watching him, I could not help but admire his drive to make his children, as he called his students, as disciplined and driven as he was. 

From that day, Prof. usually called me to ask about my progress as a man and as an academic. Where I erred, he often reported me to Professor Ahmad Galadima for reprimand. Thereafter, he would call me to either his house or his office for counselling. In shaping me, Prof. Galadima was the carrot to Prof. Galadima’s stick. And it worked—perfectly. 

Whenever and wherever I met Prof, he always told me his life stories and the challenges he faced post-military career before asking me the lessons I learnt from them. Spending time with him was like being in a class where one is taught the dynamics of life. 

In hindsight, it is clear that during my last physical interaction with Prof, he had a premonition of his death. We discussed some family matters after which he told me, ‘as we are leaving the scene, the leadership of our families both immediate and extended, will fall on your shoulders. You have to be ready. I have a feeling it will be sooner than we think.’  

And then Prof left us. Now we have to fill in the void he left behind. Or at least try to. A task as daunting as it is challenging. 

May his soul continue to rest in Allah’s bosom, amin.

Dr. A. M. Lawal wrote from the Department of Chemistry, Federal University Gusau, Zamfara.