Lamara Garba

From the moment Vice President Kashim Shettima touched down at Malam Aminu Kano International Airport, the ancient city shifted into a different rhythm. The roads leading from the airport were not merely crowded; they were alive. Traders, market women, civil servants, and artisans abandoned their stalls and workplaces for a glimpse of the visiting dignitaries. Young men climbed rooftops and signposts, while elderly men in flowing babbar riga stood shoulder to shoulder with restless students waving party flags.

The chants rolled like thunder along Airport Road, through Fagge quarters, down Murtala Mohammed Way, and into the arteries leading to the city’s historic heart. It was not the choreography of hired enthusiasm; it was organic, loud, and unmistakable.

By the time the convoy approached the iconic Sani Abacha Stadium, the streets had become a river of humanity. The stadium itself seemed too small to contain the emotion that poured into it. In that moment, one truth stood firm: this was no routine political reception. It was a public declaration of belonging — that Governor Abba Kabir Yusuf belongs to the people of Kano, and that the people, in turn, belong to him.

The formal reception of Governor Yusuf by the national leadership of the All Progressives Congress (APC) was described as a homecoming. Yet it felt deeper — almost philosophical. At its highest form, politics is about alignment: of interests, of vision, of destiny. On that day, Kano appeared to signal that its destiny must sit at the table where national decisions are shaped.

Representing President Bola Ahmed Tinubu, Vice President Shettima addressed the sea of supporters with deliberate clarity. Kano, he noted, is too strategic to stand at the margins of Nigeria’s future. His tone carried both political calculation and historical awareness. Kano has always been more than a state; it is a compass. When Kano moves, Nigeria feels it. When Kano speaks, the federation listens.

His remarks were not mere pleasantries. They underscored the significance of Governor Yusuf’s entry into the APC — not as a simple addition, but as the strengthening of a pillar. Kano’s economic vibrancy and political consciousness, he suggested, are integral to the broader national development agenda.

The Chairman of the Progressive Governors’ Forum, Hope Uzodinma, described Yusuf’s defection as a return home. In politics, the language of homecoming is potent; it softens rivalry and reframes past tensions as steps toward reunion. Uzodinma went further, calling Kano the “brain” of Nigerian politics — a metaphor that resonated deeply with the crowd. A brain directs, calculates, and interprets. By that logic, Kano’s alignment with the APC signals direction for the country.

Similarly, the party’s National Chairman, Nentawe Yilwatda, portrayed the moment as an infusion of fresh momentum. He spoke of progressive ideals and shared responsibility, emphasising that the governor’s entry would enrich rather than dilute the party’s character.

Standing like an elder statesman observing the unfolding of history, former National Chairman Abdullahi Umar Ganduje declared the party in Kano stronger and more united than ever. In Kano’s political theatre, unity is currency. His words suggested that previous fractures had been stitched into a single fabric.

Yet beyond the speeches was the quiet but powerful statement made by the crowd itself. No script can manufacture such enthusiasm. Thousands who lined the streets and filled the stadium were not merely witnessing a political transaction; they were affirming their governor. Their presence was a reminder that leadership, ultimately, is validated by followership.

Governor Yusuf balanced gratitude with principle. He pledged that his new political alignment would not compromise his pursuit of fairness and justice. Defections often invite suspicion, but he framed his decision as pragmatic rather than opportunistic — a strategic move to widen the channels through which Kano’s aspirations could be realised.

There was symbolism, too, in the earlier announcement of federal support for Kano’s recovery from recent challenges. The financial backing from the federal government and the governors’ forum was presented not merely as relief but as evidence of partnership. In politics, resources often follow relationships. By stepping into the APC fold, Kano was not simply changing party colours; it was strengthening its access to the levers of federal influence.

What unfolded at the stadium was layered. On the surface, it was a mega rally filled with music, banners, and applause. Beneath that surface, it was a recalibration of political equations ahead of 2027. Kano’s electoral weight can tilt national outcomes. Any party that secures Kano secures more than votes; it secures narrative dominance in the North.

Philosophically, the event underscored a timeless truth about power: it abhors isolation. In a federal system as complex as Nigeria’s, alignment between state and centre often determines the pace of development. The rally conveyed a shared understanding that Kano’s ambitions are best pursued in concert with the ruling party at the national level.

As the sun dipped over the ancient city and the crowds gradually dispersed, one could sense that something had shifted. Kano had spoken — not in whispers, but in waves. Whether history will judge the decision kindly remains to be seen. But on that Monday in February, the message was unmistakable: the political map of Kano had been redrawn, and the ink was still fresh.

Lamara Garba, a veteran journalist, writes from Kano.

Isyaku Ibrahim

It has become increasingly apparent that whenever the holy month of Ramadan approaches, the Muslim community begins to experience severe electricity outages.

Despite repeated assurances by the relevant authorities year after year, the situation continues unabated. The current circumstances clearly demonstrate this troubling pattern, imposing additional hardship on residents at a time when the community is only hours away from commencing the sacred month-long period of worship.

One may recall that during the late President Umaru Musa Yar’Adua’s administration, a minister once vowed upon assuming office to resolve the persistent electricity challenges to ensure that Muslim faithful could observe Ramadan without power disruptions. Unfortunately, that promise ultimately proved to be a pipe dream.

It is both disappointing and painful that a section of the community appears to bear the brunt of these outages during a spiritually significant period, especially in a secular society where public services are expected to be delivered equitably.

Public utility institutions such as the Kano Electricity Distribution Company (KEDCO) were established to serve the collective interest of all citizens, irrespective of religious, ethnic, sectional, or political affiliations. When that core objective is undermined, it creates frustration, erodes trust, and fosters resentment within the broader society.

Ramadan is a period of reflection, sacrifice, and devotion. It is also a time when families require stable electricity for basic needs—especially for preparing meals to break the fast and to sustain worshippers during long days of fasting. The inability to access reliable power during such a critical time deepens hardship and diminishes the comfort of an already demanding spiritual exercise.

As the holy month begins, it is my sincere hope that KEDCO and other relevant authorities will take urgent and practical steps to ensure improved electricity supply. Ramadan should be a time of spiritual upliftment—not avoidable suffering caused by preventable service failures.

Isyaku Ibrahim is a Director in Kano Civil Service. 

Lamara Garba Azare

There are men who pass through power, and there are men who redefine it. Murtala Ramat Mohammed belonged to that rare breed who carried authority lightly and conscience heavily. He was a comrade in uniform, a patriot in spirit, a true son of Africa whose love for this nation was not performed for applause but proven through action.

He rose to lead the most populous Black nation on earth, yet power never altered his posture or polluted his character. He remained simple in conduct, measured in speech, and humble in lifestyle. He never allowed the office to swallow the man. While others might have embraced sirens and spectacle, he chose restraint. His convoy moved without blaring horns. He obeyed traffic lights like every other citizen. He respected traffic wardens as custodians of public order.

There is that unforgettable moment when a traffic officer, having recognized his car, stopped other motorists to allow him to pass. The General was displeased. The warden was punished for denying other road users their right of way, and his driver was sternly warned for attempting to drive against traffic. In that simple but powerful incident, he taught a nation that no one is above the law—not even the Head of State. For him, leadership was not exemption from rules but submission to them.

His humility went even deeper. Often dressed in private attire, he would visit markets quietly, blending into the crowd to ask about the prices of food and daily commodities. He wanted to feel the pulse of ordinary Nigerians. He wanted to understand how families were coping. He believed policies should not be crafted from distant offices alone but shaped by lived realities. That simple habit revealed a leader who listened before he acted and measured governance by the condition of the common man.

When he assumed power in 1975, he did so without plunging the country into bloodshed. In a continent where coups often left painful scars, his intervention was swift and calculated, aimed at correcting a drift rather than destroying the state. It reflected firmness guided by restraint. He was a soldier, yes, but one who understood that strength without humanity is weakness in disguise.

In barely six months, he moved with an urgency that startled the establishment. Files that once gathered dust began to move. Decisions were taken with clarity. He restructured the civil service in a bold attempt to restore efficiency and discipline. He initiated the process that led to the relocation of the capital to Abuja—a decision born of foresight and national balance. He confronted corruption without apology and made it clear that public office was a trust to be guarded, not an opportunity to be exploited.

His voice on the continental stage was equally resolute. When he declared that Africa had come of age, he was not uttering rhetoric; he was announcing a shift in posture. Nigeria, under his watch, stood firm in support of liberation movements and insisted on African dignity in global affairs. He believed that the continent deserved respect earned through courage and self-confidence.

Then, just as the nation began to feel the rhythm of disciplined governance, tragedy struck on February 13, 1976. Bullets interrupted a vision. A country stood still in shock. Africa mourned one of its brightest sons. He had ruled for only a short season, yet the weight of his impact surpassed the length of his tenure.

Perhaps if he had remained longer, Nigeria would have charted a different course. Perhaps institutions would have grown around principle rather than convenience. Perhaps accountability would have become a culture rather than campaign language. We can only imagine. But what cannot be imagined away is the moral clarity he represented.

Today, when citizens speak about abandoned ideals and weakened standards, his memory returns like a measuring rod. When convoys roar past traffic lights with entitlement, his quiet obedience becomes a silent rebuke. When policies lose touch with the marketplace realities of ordinary people, we remember the Head of State who walked into markets in simple clothes to ask the price of garri and rice.

He was not perfect, but he was purposeful. He did not govern to decorate history books; he governed to correct a nation. He detested corruption because he understood the damage it inflicts on the weakest citizens. He valued humility because he knew that power is fleeting, but accountability before Almighty Allah is eternal.

Nigeria lost more than a leader. Africa lost a rare gem whose patriotism was sincere and whose heart beat for the dignity of his people. We pray that Allah grants Murtala Ramat Mohammed Aljannatul Firdaus and illuminates his resting place. We pray that his sacrifices count for him in the hereafter. And we pray that Nigeria rediscovers the discipline, courage, and sincerity that defined his brief but remarkable stewardship.

Some leaders occupy office; others transform it. Murtala Ramat Mohammed transformed it. His six months continue to echo across five decades because they were anchored in conviction and service.

Until Nigeria fully embraces integrity in leadership, until Africa truly stands in the maturity he proclaimed, his story will remain both our inspiration and our challenge. His life reminds us that greatness is not measured by duration in power but by depth of impact—not by noise but by noble action, not by privilege but by principle.

He came, he led, and though he left too soon, he still speaks through the standard he set.

Lamara Garba Azare, a veteran journalist, writes from Kano.