Opinion
Rarara’s Invective Barbs: Innuendoes, Body Shaming, and Kano Politics
Abdallah Uba Adamu
For the past 43 years that I have been a researcher, there were two areas I stay clear of: politics and religion. If you see my hand in any of these two, then the entry point is popular or media cultures. For instance, I have recorded a lot of Kano Qadiriyya’s Anfasu zikr, not as a devotee, but as an ethnomusicologist – focusing on the body percussion and movements (after studying the wonderful works of Margaret Kartomi on body percussion while in Morocco). Similarly – and to balance things somewhat – I recorded Tijjaniyya zikr sessions at Chiranci in the city of Kano as part of a larger study on religious performances. All my recordings were uploaded to a dedicated YouTube public channel. I was therefore amused when people try to pigeon-hole me either as Qadri or Tijjani. I am neither.
Politically, I am apolitical, meaning I really don’t care who rules the country. I don’t even vote, having done once long time ago (at the insistence of a dear friend), and promised never to do it again. But performance arts brought my attention to protest songs and the prosecution of singers in Kano. The end product was a paper, “Poetic Barbs: Invective Political Poetry in Kano Popular Culture” which I am sure is floating somewhere in a modified form. And I thought that was it.
In 2014 I came across a song that I found amusing. I was playing it on my laptop when someone exhibited surprise that I was listening to the songs of Dauda Adamu Abdullahi Kahutu, with stage name of Rarara. That was the first time I even heard the name. The song was “Zuwan Maimalafa Kano.” It attracted my attention in two ways. First, its lyrical construction as well as delivery was just amazing. Rapid fire. He should have been a rapper, a genre of music I am totally besotted on (old school DMX, 2Pac, Snoop Dogg, Ice Cube, Queen “The Equalizer” Latifah, y’all). It was clear Rarara was singing off cuff, not reading from a setlist or lyrical sheet. Second, it was the most detailed invective song I have heard in Hausa Afropop music genre. I started digging and latched on him and his songs. So, for the last seven years or so, I have been following every song he released using the invective matrix.
So, what is an invective song? Invective is the literary device in which one attacks or insults a person or thing through the use of abusive language and tone. If you like, “zambo/shaguɓe”. Invective is often accompanied by negative emotion. Invective can be divided into two types: high and low invective. High invective requires the use of formal and creative language, while Low invective, on the other hand, makes use of rude and offensive images. From 2010, Rarara became a master of popular Hausa invective oral poetry. He used his skills to abuse, insult and body shame anyone he was paid to insult. Including former masters and associates.
A pattern evolved. His switchbacks. Chronologically, his earliest non-invective song was “Saraki Sai Allah” (in honor of then Governor Ibrahim Shekarau’s turbaning as Sardaunan Kano in 2010 by the late Emir of Kano, Alhaji Ado Bayero). In 2011 – barely a year later – when Shekarau failed to anoint Rarara’s ‘master’, Deputy Governor Abdullahi T. Gwarzo to succeed him, Rarara became ballistically invective – and established a career in body shaming, abuses and innuendoes against various previous masters. Shekarau bore the blunt of colorist abuses – often a case of the kettle calling the pot black. No one was spared his invective barbs. Deeply cut. Insulting. Spread over 39 songs, from 2014’s “Malam Ya Yi Rawa Da Alkyabba”, to 2023’s “Tangal-Tangal.”
I have seen social media calling Rarara out on his not being a Kano indigene, getting rich in Kano through his songs, and yet insulting Kano’s leaders. This is all true. However, ‘da ɗan gari a kan ci gari’ (enemy within). Only about three songs in my analytical corpus by Rarara were free-standing (i.e., unsponsored). All the others were commissioned and paid for – by politicians from Kano, to abuse other politicians from Kano. Rarara always acknowledges his sponsors in the opening doxology of his performances.
Rarara was a highly unprincipled and unethical businessman. Show him the money, and he will praise his closest friend and abuse the friend’s enemy. Show him more money, and he will insult the same friend he praised, and heap praises on the enemy he insulted. Does anyone remember that the glorified “Ɗan Ƙaramin Sauro” (irritating mote) was part of the demeaned “Banza Bakwai” (Bastard Seven)? The bromance did not end well, did it? Business unusual.
In any event, Rarara’s invective braggadocio came back to hit him hard on 5th April 2023 when his opponents used his mother’s picture in unflattering terms and splattered it all over social media and gave her a feminine variation of an insulting name he used against one of his targets. Apparently when the shoe is on the other foot, it pinches.
Thus, instead of focusing on political ideology and promises of creating a better life for the electorate, often politicians in Kano (and I think Kano, as usual, is the only state that uniquely does this) would pay more attention to denigrating, shaming, and condemning opposing candidates, creating an unfavorable imagery of the politician to prevent his being voted. Rarara was a perfect malleable puppet in this process. He has the same emotional value to Kano politicians as an alien from Saturn. Despite his lyrical brilliance and acerbic wit, he was expendable. How many singers from Kano can you recall doing the same invective insults as Rarara to Kano politicians? Two? Three? Their corpus is not as extensive as that of Rarara. Conversely, how many politicians from Katsina pay Rarara money to insult other Katsina politicians? I can only remember one.
Wary of possible legal action against direct defamatory speeches, politicians often find it easier to engage what I call ‘political drones’ to communicate their defamatory messages through the popular medium of singing. In this way, when push comes to shove, it is the singer who would face legal – or in some cases, physical – wrath in one way or other. Unethical singers like Rarara – who was arrested, but not charged in 2014 over “Zuwan Maimalafa Kano” – were willing to pay the price in exchange for the stupendous amount of money they will receive. At least they will have enough for medical care when their houses were wrecked, assaulted and incapacitated to continue singing.
And the politician who caused it all? He can’t even remember the song that made him popular, having moved on to greener political pastures. Until the next election cycle when he will latch on another expendable drone to help him heat up the polity through more invective songs using campaign words he does not have the guts to utter himself.
Rarara’s defense of not uttering specific names in his invective taunts and body shaming do not stand up to scrutiny under Nigeria’s defamation laws, and demonstrates that while he was a brilliant lyricist, he needs to understand the law. This is because his invective defamation in the form of his songs is publicly available (indeed, he made them so), created a narrative about individuals that are easily identifiable either by their physical appearance or public behavior, created a negative impression on the person being so targeted, and was not misquoted as Rarara’s utterances (from his songs) were publicly available and subject to an only interpretation as intended. A clever prosecutor would have enough to jail Rarara on listening to any of his invective songs, if someone complained hard enough.
Invective songs can often have their positive sides in the sense of making politicians – or their targets – aware of public perception of their misdemeanors, or at most, errant behaviors. Rarara’s invective narrative in the selected songs I analyzed, however, do not demonstrate their oversight functions in public accountability for politicians. Regardless of whether explicit names were uttered or not, their narrative was focused on kicking them when they are down, and subjecting them to public ridicule. This questions the artistry of Rarara as a purveyor of aesthetic values of the Hausa oral arts.
Academicians ignore Rarara and his art – and I think that’s a mistake. True, some would argue that his songs have no aesthetic, intellectual or ideological value. On the contrary, they do. In their own way. They are beautiful as lyrical discourses. His delivery is truly artistic, even if the content is inelegant. Unlike other songs in the repertoire of political communication, his are not protest songs, and thus lack ideological focus. They neither educate, illuminate or illustrate any aspect of political culture. They only entertain – at the expense of the dignity of the people he attacks. His songs synthesize Hausa rural lexicon overlayered with abusive, often self-constructed urban jargon to enhance general appeal – and act as rabble rousers for politicians who think like him. It is a unique, if unadmirable business model in the performing arts.
Subsequently, Rarara’s songs cannot be compared, by any stretch of imagination, with the classical Hausa protest poets such as Sa’adu Zungur, Mudi Sipikin, Aƙilu Aliyu, Abba Maiƙwaru and Aminu Kano, whose artforms were fueled by educative political ideology, certainly not profit. Mudi Sipikin, for instance. used his poetry to attack the system of colonial rule. Aƙilu Aliyu wrote poems directly attacking the NPC. Abba Maiƙwaru wrote a 10-line NEPU poem for which he and Aminu Kano were arrested in the mid-1950s.
Zungur used his poetry originally to warn the emirs of the north of the necessity for reform, as illustrated in his central work, Jumhuriya ko Mulukiya [Republic or Monarchy]. In this work, he called for political and social problems to be solved on the basis of the existing Islamic institutions, rejecting alien political concepts. He later used his poetry to appeal directly to the common people. In a similar vein, one of the earliest poems written for a northern political party was by Aminu Kano, and called ‘Waƙar Ƴancin NEPU-Sawaba’ [Freedom poem for NEPU-Sawaba], and published in 1953 and put in the final form by Isa Wali. It was one of the earliest statements of Nigerian nationalism.
Despite all these, I argue that as researchers we can’t afford to ignore a current of knowledge flowing right at our feet. But the cold shoulder given to Rarara by our community, opposed to Aminu Ladan Abubakar (ALAN Waƙa) who is a toast to the academic and intellectual community, merely emphasizes the expendable and ephemeral nature of Rarara’s art. Ten years after the release of any ALA song, it will still have relevance. The relevance of Rarara’s songs rarely last to the next song release. Instantly forgettable.
Nevertheless, just as we struggled for the recognition and documentation (if not acceptance) of the Kano Market Literature in the 1990s when everyone was denigrating it, we need to also document the stream of popular culture, including Rarara – warts and all – flowing around us at all times. As far as I could see, only Maikuɗi Zukogi has focused attention on two of Rarara’s songs. More needs to be done.
As soon as I tell myself that I will wrap up the research, he will release a song insulting a former master or associate. Subsequently, I delayed publishing the research until he insults two people, and true to expectations, he did. These were President Muhammadu Buhari (Matsalar Tsaro) and Governor Abdullahi Umar Ganduje (Lema ta sha ƙwaya). With the ‘Hankaka’ barb against Ganduje in the Lema song, my fieldwork became almost complete. His destruction of “ɗan ƙaramin sauro” leaves only the references to be completed. As I argued, based on his corpus, Rarara sells to the highest bidder, with neither conscience or ideology. The huge profit he makes serve as an insurance against future loss of earnings when Kano politicians become mature enough to stop patronizing him to insult each other (and themselves) and utilize his skills in more constructive ways.
My thanks to a team of eager research assistants, headed by my ever faithful and close companion, Hassan Auwalu Muhammad – a former songwriter and lyricist himself. He was the one who mainly, patiently, transcribed the songs which I wove into a narrative going to almost 40 pages! I plan to upload the lot during my Summer break when the children are all here on holiday! By then the threatened wobbling ‘Tangal-Tangal’ had stopped and probably settled for a four-year legal battle.
Adamu is a Professor of media and cultural studies, Bayero University, Kano. He first published this article on Facebook.
Comrade Abbas Ibrahim
By all standards, the recent violent invasion of Kano’s bustling GSM Farm Centre Market by suspected political thugs is a dangerous development that must be condemned in the strongest possible terms. What transpired on Monday, April 27, 2026, was not merely an attack on traders and innocent citizens; it was an assault on public peace, economic prosperity, and the very foundations of democratic engagement.
Farm Centre is not just another market. It is one of the largest mobile phone and information technology hubs in Northern Nigeria, attracting traders, investors, and customers from across the country and neighbouring nations. Its vibrancy has made it a critical contributor to Kano’s economy and a symbol of the state’s commercial strength. Any attack on such a strategic economic centre is, by extension, an attack on Kano itself.
The scenes were deeply disturbing. Shops were looted, while vehicles and motorcycles were vandalised, and many innocent people sustained injuries. Traders—many of whom are still struggling to recover from previous devastating fire outbreaks—have once again been thrown into uncertainty, pain, and financial hardship.
Even more troubling is the fact that the Kano Passport Office is located within the vicinity. Such brazen violence near a sensitive federal facility raises serious security concerns and presents an unfortunate image of Kano to both local and international visitors.
Although the politician allegedly linked to the incident has denied involvement, the episode underscores a much larger and more troubling reality: the growing recklessness of political actors and their inability or unwillingness to restrain their supporters.
As the 2027 general elections approach, Kano cannot afford a return to the dark days when political contests were settled through violence, intimidation, and destruction. Democracy thrives on ideas, persuasion, and the ballot—not on thuggery, fear, and bloodshed.
Political leaders must understand that they bear both moral and legal responsibility for the actions of their followers. Silence in the face of violence is complicity, while ambiguity only emboldens criminal elements who exploit political rivalries for personal gain.
While the swift intervention of the police—including the deployment of teargas and the arrest of six suspects—helped restore order, the incident has once again exposed glaring limitations in the security architecture around Farm Centre. The police division is evidently overstretched and unable to respond effectively to large-scale disturbances in such a densely populated commercial area.
This is why the Kano State Government must immediately strengthen the operational capacity of the Kano State Vigilante Group and, more importantly, fully leverage the Kano Neighbourhood Safety Corps.
Established with an initial strength of 2,000 personnel drawn from all 44 local government areas, the Corps was specifically designed to complement conventional security agencies. The law establishing it wisely insulates it from partisan politics, ensuring professionalism, neutrality, and community trust. Under the capable leadership of retired Lieutenant Colonel Aminu Abdulmalik, the Corps possesses the discipline, structure, and local intelligence needed to provide rapid response and preventive security.
The time has come for its strategic deployment to critical economic hubs such as Farm Centre.
Recommendations for Immediate Action
First, all political parties and aspirants must publicly commit to peaceful conduct and take responsibility for the actions of their supporters.
Second, law enforcement agencies must thoroughly investigate the incident and prosecute all those found culpable, regardless of political affiliation.
Third, security presence at Farm Centre should be significantly enhanced through a joint task force comprising the Police, Civil Defence, and the Kano Neighbourhood Safety Corps.
Fourth, the Kano State Government should establish a permanent rapid-response security unit dedicated to protecting major commercial centres.
Fifth, political leaders must invest in civic education, teaching their supporters that elections are contests of ideas, not battles for survival.
Finally, traditional rulers, religious leaders, civil society organisations, and the media must intensify advocacy against political violence and promote a culture of tolerance.
A Test for Kano
Kano stands at a critical crossroads. The state can either allow desperate politicians and criminal elements to drag it backwards or rise above violence and preserve its proud reputation as the commercial heartbeat of Northern Nigeria.
The attack on Farm Centre must serve as a wake-up call. Political ambition must never be allowed to supersede public safety. The livelihoods of hardworking citizens must never become collateral damage in the pursuit of power.
Kano deserves better. Its traders deserve protection. Its democracy deserves maturity.
The journey to 2027 must begin with a firm and collective rejection of political violence in all its forms. Anything less would be a betrayal of the people.
Comrade Abbas Ibrahim writes from Kano and can be reached at abbasibrahim664@gmail.com
Jamilu Uba Adamu
Last week, while writing a tribute to the late Alhaji Ibrahim Galadima, one question kept haunting me: who will fill his shoes?
Kano, with its long tradition of producing great men across every sector—from business and politics to academia and sports—has never failed to replace its icons.
In sports administration, Kano’s roots run deep. At independence, the Premier of the Northern Region, Sardauna of Sokoto, Sir Ahmadu Bello, appointed the late Alhaji Muhammadu Danwawu of Kano as the Northern Region’s sports administrator. Decades later, in 1991, the state produced the Chairman of the Nigeria Football Association, Alhaji Yusuf Garba Ali.
That tradition was sustained by the immense contributions of stalwarts like the late Alhaji Isiyaku Muhammed, the late Alhaji Usman Nagado, and the late Alhaji Abdullahi Abba Yola—men who served the game with distinction and left footprints in administration, mentorship, and institutional growth. Alongside them were other excellent administrators such as Alhaji Tukur Babangida, Alhaji Ibrahim Abba, Dr. Sharif Rabiu Inuwa Ahlan, Bashir Ahmad Maizare, among others.
Now, with the passing of Alhaji Ibrahim Galadima, a pressing question emerges: *who will fill his shoes?*
Galadima was not just an administrator; he was an institution. As a former NFA Chairman, he brought credibility, order, and dignity to Nigerian football during turbulent times. His shoes are large—not merely because of the offices he held, but because of the integrity, courage, and vision with which he led.
Yet, if history is any guide, Kano’s well of leadership has never run dry. From Alhaji Danwawu at independence, to the era of Isiyaku Muhammed and Usman Nagado, through Yusuf Ali in 1991, and down to Galadima in the 2000s, the state has consistently raised men of character to step into moments of transition. The challenge before us is not whether Kano can produce another Galadima, but whether we can create the environment that allows such leaders to emerge and thrive.
The vacuum is real. The legacy is intact. The question remains: who among the next generation will rise to it?
Adamu writes from Kano and can be reached via jameelubaadamu@yahoo.com
Opinion
A Baby in 1956, A Granny in 2026; An Idol in 2096: Abdalla Uba Adamu’s Yesterday is Tomorrow
Prof. Aliyu Barau
Professor Abdalla was barely 11 years old when the 1967 science fiction film, Tomorrow is Yesterday, written by D.C. Fontana, was released. The film explores the possibility of traveling back and forth in time. I chose this caption with the understanding that science has shaped Abdalla’s trajectory in academia. Even as a child, he vigorously pursued science. He would ride his bicycle to the commercial side of Kano to buy books from the Kano-based missionary bookstore—the Challenge Bookshop—whose worn-out structure I once knew along Niger Street.
What exactly happened in 1956, and what connections does he have with that year? This is interesting because some events of 1956 may have shaped Abdalla into who he is today. For instance, anyone close to him knows of his fascination with the Kingdom of Morocco, which gained independence in 1956, just as Sudan did. I am not certain whether the Professor has any strong connection with Sudan; however, I would not be surprised, given his work in neo-Ajamisation scholarship. If you know his passion for popular culture, then you should also know that 1956 marked the rise of Elvis Presley. He made his debut on The Ed Sullivan Show and topped music charts, fueling the rock-and-roll era. If you wonder why Abdalla has ventured deeply into the worlds of media and communication, consider that the world’s first transatlantic telephone cable was commissioned in 1956. And if you admire the way Professor Abdalla writes and speaks English with a Midlands sharpness, you should recall that Queen Elizabeth II visited Kano in 1956. These moments symbolically map his journey through time since his birth in 1956.
Professor Abdalla is already something of a scholarly “grand old figure,” as even the students of his students became professors a few years ago. I often find it difficult to call him merely a professor; he is more of a mallam in the true sense of the word in Hausaland, and even more a mwalimu in the truest sense of Swahililand.
Like him or hate him, Abdalla Uba Adamu remains one of the most genuinely apolitical intellectual vanguards Kano has ever produced. Whether you acknowledge it or not, no position has ever—and will ever—distract him from true scholarship. Agree or disagree, nothing can rob him of his golden joviality. You may tower over him physically, but he will dwarf you intellectually. What is striking about Abdalla’s scholarship is its velocity—like a supersonic missile traveling at Mach 15 (a hypersonic speed roughly equivalent to 18,500 km/h, or 11,500 mph). I have yet to see any of his students come close to matching his intellectual range, even as age and retirement approach him. Allah ya kara lafiya. Truly, in Abdalla, we have a rare scholar.
Personally, I say with confidence that I share a genuine and natural relationship with Professor Abdalla Uba Adamu. With all humility, I can say that this rare scholar holds me in high regard. Whenever I call him and he misses the call, he always returns it, and I leave the conversation uplifted by his humour. Za mu sha hira. I know the people in his good and bad books. Throughout Bayero University Kano, I doubt there is anyone who has taken as deep an interest in my academic progress as Abdalla. I can proudly say I am among the few he trusted to co-author a journal article, even though we come from different disciplines but share common interests. He constantly tracks my progress, often calling to congratulate me: “I have seen your paper on ResearchGate or Google Scholar. I am happy. Please keep working.” Many people do not know how humble and philanthropic Professor Abdalla is, but Allah knows. May Allah reward his hidden deeds and guide him to Jannah. One example is his remarkable act of building a house for a homeless blind man.
In 2006, Professor Abdalla served as the team lead for Celebrating Arts in Northern Nigeria, a project by the British Council and the Prince’s School of Traditional Arts, London. The project culminated in a visit by His Majesty King Charles III, then the HRH Prince of Wales. Abdalla ensured that Nasiru Wada Khalil and I participated fully in the activities, giving us the opportunity to benefit. He stepped aside to create space for us. When the Prince arrived and engaged with us at the British Council, I seized the opportunity to present him with a copy of my book, Environment and Sustainable Development in the Qur’an (with the approval of the British High Commission). I still remember Abdalla telling me, “Kayi daidai; nima da ina da shi, wallahi da na ba shi.” Just imagine—such humility.
At his retirement, social media was filled with tributes celebrating this rare scholar. I am optimistic that by 2096, long after both Abdalla and I are gone, the Hausa world will be idolising and drawing inspiration from his erudition and service to humanity. Even in death, his scholarship will continue to shape the future. One final lesson I have learned from him is that one should be in the university not for money or political positioning. This is a principle he firmly believes in—and one I also uphold.
Abdalla na Allah. Allah ya sa mu cika da imani. Abdalla conquers yesterday and tomorrow.
Prof. Aliyu Barau teaches at
Bayero University, Kano.
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