Prof. Ibrahim Bello-Kano (IBK)

Double Professor Uba Abdallah Adamu has angered many non-Kano people resident in Kano by his famous, widely circulated quip, an aphoristic description of Kano in which says the anyone tired of (living in) Kano is tired of life. Prof Adamu’s appraisal of Kano is based on a sound premise and a powerful emotional logic. Prof. Adamu’s comment has a powerful pedigree. On the arguments of the highly acclaimed French sociologist and space theorist, Henri Lefebre in “The Production of Space” (1974), it can be shown that Kano, especially the city and the metropolitan area, has three characteristics, typical of the greatest cities in the world since Antiquity: 

1. It is a conceived space (an urban area, complete with a series of interlacing and interloping and interlocking urban designs since the 9th century). Kano was already a city and an urban space well before 1903. It’s one of the oldest urban areas in the Sudan.

2. It is a lived space, complete with the everyday experiences of its inhabitants and their emotional identification with it. Hence the many “quarters of the city”— from Alkantara, Alfindiki, Ayagi, to Mubi and Gwangwazo and beyond those.

3. Kano is also a practiced/practised space, with its inhabitants, visitors, and emigré population working to “practice up” the city in their daily lived experiences and within its urban and emotional spaces. That’s the truth of Prof. Abdallah Uba Adamu’s hyperbolic reference to Kano as a barometer of happiness or depression.

Prof Adamu is also correct in that most immigrants to the city never leave it, even if their last name may indicate other towns or cities. Already, Kano is one of the most truly cosmopolitan cities in Nigeria, surpassed only by New York, London, and Abidjan. In 1958, almost a decade before Lefebre’s book, the philosopher of science and urban studies, Gaston Bachelard published “The Poetics of Space” in which he argues that to live, or to choose to live, in a place, say the Kano metropolis, is already to enact an emotional act, and an existential event, in and for which Kano is already a resonant space of intimacy, or an intimate place of lived subjectivity. This is the case because one cannot live in Kano, even for a brief period, without (seeking to) creating a home, a nest, and an intimate space of “Kano beingness” or a Kano-based “being- in-the world”. That’s why Kano evokes and resonates with a strong emotional identification with it. When I was about 8 years old, I was told, on visiting the Dala Hill, that God had planned to create a holy city in Kano, but a dog urinated on the hallowed ground, and that’s how the divine plan was moved elsewhere. Of course, that story is clearly apocryphal, yet it shows how the Kano people are intensely proud of their places and spaces. So, Prof. Abdullah Uba Adamu’s hyperbolic and surreal description of Kano is essentially correct and pleasingly poignant. Many emigré groups are unhappy with his remarks, but if you live in a place, earn a living in it, or draw opportunities of all kinds from it, then you have got to love Kano, the most romantic of cities, a city full of dreams, aspirations, emotional highs and lows, and learn to identify with its fortunes. Kano, the city of gold and piety, recalcitrance and hope, modern politics and ideological contestations; the city of majestic royalty; the city of women and cars, as Shata once described it. Kano… the great Entreport. Kano, your name will endure through the ages. Cheers.

Ibrahim Bello-Kano (IBK) is a Professor of English at Bayero University, Kano. 

By Huzaifa Dokaji

Kano is not a place you reduce to a headline or dismiss with a stereotype. It is a city with too many layers for that- too much memory, too many voices. This is the Kano of Muhammadu Rumfa, the ruler who gave it form and vision, and of Ibrahim Dabo, the scholar-king. The Kano of Kundila and Dangote, where wealth meets ingenuity.

It is the Kano the British once described as the ‘London of Africa,’ the Tripolitans praised as ‘a city like a thousand others’, each one magnificent—and its own people, knowing its complex social and ideological chemistry, named tumbin giwa, the intestine of an elephant: vast, winding, and full of hidden depths.

Kano has always carried many lives at once. It is the home of Shehu Tijjani Na Yan Mota and the sanctuary of Abdullahi dan Fodio when he felt the revolution had been betrayed. It is Madinar Mamman Shata and the home of Aminu Ala, the author of the philosophical Shahara and masterfully composed Bara a Kufai. This is the same Kano that made Dauda Kahutu Rara, the master of invective lyrics, and Rabiu Usman Baba, the Jagaban of Sha’irai.

Here, contradictions do not cancel each other, they coexist. It is the city of yan hakika and yan shari’a, of Izala and Tariqa, of Shaykh Rijiyar Lemo and of Shaykh Turi. It is the Kano where people will argue passionately about doctrine, then share tea afterward. Where silence and speech, mysticism and reform, are all part of the same long interesting yet boring conversation.

This is the Kano of the diplomatic Emir Ado Bayero and combatant Muhammad Sanusi II. Of Rabiu Kwankwaso, the red-cap-wearing jagora, and of the agreeable Ibrahim Shekarau. It is that same Kano of the incorruptible Malam Aminu Kano and Dollar-stuffing Ganduje. The cosmopolitan city of Sabo Wakilin Tauri and of the saintly Malam Ibrahim Natsugune.

If not Kano, then what other city could birth Barau Kwallon Shege, the bard of the profane, and welcome Shaykh Ibrahim Nyass, the towering saint of the mystics? Where else but Kano would you find Shaykh Nasiru Kabara- scholar and Sufi master- sharing the same cityscape with Rashida dan Daudu and all the remembered and forgotten Magajiyoyin Karuwai? This is the Kano of yan jagaliya and attajirai, of the sacred and the profane, the pulpit and the street. The Salga and of Sanya Olu and Ibedi streets. Kano has never pretended to be a city of one truth, its greatness lies in the multitude it carries.

So when people speak carelessly about Kano, they miss the point. Kano is not a relic. It is alive. It debates itself. It holds its tensions with pride. And like Adamu Adamu said, “the story of this enigmatic city is simple and straight backward – and , in the end one can only say Kano is Kano because Kano is Kano – and that’s all; for; it is its own reason for being.”

You don’t explain Kano. You respect it.

This was first published on Huzaifa Dokaji’s Facebook account. 

Abdulrazak Ibrahim

During my undergraduate years in the 90s, I spent countless hours offering private lessons to the children of the affluent in Kano, especially within the Lebanese community around Bompai. 

What began as a modest hustle blossomed into a wide-reaching network of tutors that spanned the city. That was just within the realm of teaching.

But as a son of Kano, my connection to the city runs far deeper. I’ve walked its pulse-literally. I would trek from BUK to Bata, soaking in the rhythm of life on every street.

I lived once in Kabara, where I was fully immersed in the city’s rich traditions, especially during the annual Durbar festivities at my late uncle’s house-he was the then Sakin Hawa of Sarkin Kano.

I watched Kano expand before my eyes. 

I spent countless evenings at Wapa Cinema and served as a census enumeration officer, counting the people of Tudun Nupawa, Marmara, and Soron Dinki.

I travelled across the state-from Albasu to Zakirai-witnessing its cultural and economic breadth.

I’ve seen immigrants from across the Sahel flock to this city, drawn by its promise of life and trade.

My own town of birth, Kura-a local government in the state-is now home to some of the largest rice production and processing clusters in Africa, a true testament to Kano’s agricultural prowess and enduring relevance in food systems development.

I frequented Kofar Ruwa market, where my father’s spare parts shops were located, and where I regularly interacted with Igbo traders from across Nigeria.

I was creditworthy to the newspaper vendor at Bata and the Tuwo seller near a filling station in Kabuga.

Life in Kano was textured and vibrant

As university students, we attended musical concerts at Alliance Française and danced the night away at Disco J.

As secondary school students, we debated fiercely and won inter-secondary school quizzes and competitions, sharpening minds and building futures.

Almost every doctor, engineer, pharmacist, or scientist from Kano passed through one of our renowned science secondary schools-many of them going on to set records on both national and global stages.

Kano is not just a city-it is a living legacy. It pulses with innovation and enterprise. From agriculture to industrial production, logistics to sustainable manufacturing, food and nutrition to textiles and services, Kano is a mosaic of possibilities.

Here, livelihoods are not stumbled upon-they are forged with creativity and intent.

In this city, it’s nearly impossible not to find a means of sustenance. Kano is, indeed, abundance in motion.

Our story is not a modern miracle. Our industries and institutions are rooted in antiquity, stretching back thousands of years.

Perhaps that is why Kano is so often misunderstood-and even envied, as seen in the recent uproar sparked by a misguided, lowbrow TikToker with neither education nor depth.

From distant corners, individuals from places ravaged by material lack and intellectual barrenness often log on to the internet to hurl slurs at a people and culture they neither understand nor care to.

But we know who we are.

And we will protect that identity.

We will labour to ensure that Kano continues to flourish, to lead, and to evolve-technologically and economically-without losing its philosophical soul or cultural roots.

As Professor Uba Abdallah so wisely declared: “When a man is tired of Kano, that man is tired of life.”

And Kano-our Kano-is still full of life.

Still bold, still brilliant, still ours.