The title of this article was inspired by a novel written by the Senegalese author, Aminata Sow Fall, published in 1979 at a time when African literature inspired college students and helped shape our thinking while fostering a culture of reading and writing throughout the 1970s and 1980s. It was a sharp social satire set in Dakar that explored the neocolonial mindset of African bureaucrats who attempted to rid the streets of beggars in order to appease the booming tourism industry as foreign visitors poured into the city. The architect of the campaign, Ndiaye, supervised the crackdown and the resulting beggars’ strike. Driven by his ambition to become mayor, he was told by a marabout that the only way to secure victory was by distributing generous alms. But the beggars had disappeared, leaving his political ambition in jeopardy. Eventually, Ndiaye had to go down on his knees and beg the beggars to return—but they refused.
Northern Nigeria, as a whole, may soon follow in Ndiaye’s footsteps if we do not collectively do the right thing. In 2022, at the Arewa Summit held at Arewa House, I had the privilege of chairing a session and presenting a paper titled “Curbing the Menace of Almajiranci in Northern Nigeria” under the Almajiri theme. My paper was the product of years of extensive research into the Almajiri system, tracing its origins to the Prophet’s inner circle during the first century of the Hijrah. It followed the system as it spread across the conquered Muslim lands before reaching Andalusia, where it was perfected into a structured system for the training and dissemination of knowledge. It became a reservoir for imams, judges and teachers who shaped and elevated Islamic civilisation.
Continental Europe, witnessing the splendour and grandeur of the twin cities of Córdoba and Toledo, began sending its brightest young minds to the Iberian Peninsula to study under the scholars of the Al-Muhajirun. Among them was Gerbert of Aurillac, later Pope Sylvester II, who studied mathematics and astronomy in Andalusia. He became the first person to introduce Arabic numerals (1, 2, 3, 4…) and, most importantly, the concept of zero to Europe—knowledge he acquired through the Almajiri tradition. Zero transformed mathematics forever, elevating it from a mere counting tool into an advanced science that ultimately paved the way for modern computing.
Gerbert of Aurillac was richly rewarded upon his return to Europe. Having begun as an Almajiri, he rose to occupy the highest office in Christendom when he was crowned Pope in AD 999—the same year Bagauda was crowned the King of Kano.
Pope Sylvester II replicated aspects of the Andalusian Tsangaya system, particularly at the Cathedral School in Reims, France, where he taught the children of Europe’s most powerful rulers. Owing to his extraordinary mastery of mathematics and astronomy, this Almajiri-trained scholar was regarded by many as a sorcerer in league with the devil.
The same educational tradition later evolved into the modern university system we know today, with many of its customs borrowed from Muslim institutions. The academic gown evolved from the alkyabba and rawani worn by Andalusian scholars; the academic “chair,” the degree derived from the ijazah, and the thesis defence from the munazarah. Indeed, by the late twelfth century, European universities had adopted the Andalusian structure of Bachelor’s, Master’s and Doctoral degrees. In Hausa educational terminology, these correspond roughly to Kolo (primary), Titibiri (secondary), Gardi (higher education), Malam (teacher), Alaramma (master), Gwani (professor), and finally Gangaran, which has no exact equivalent in Western education.
The Almajiri system crossed the Strait of Gibraltar into the Maghreb before traversing the Sahara into West Africa. In the fourteenth century, the Wangarawa scholars under Al-Fazazi introduced both Islam and the Almajiri system to Kano. The court of Rumfa embraced Islam and institutionalised the system. Sheikh Usman dan Fodio himself emerged from this tradition, and his reforms transformed a vast territory covering much of present-day northern Nigeria and the Niger Republic. The Sokoto Caliphate continued to rely on the Almajiri system as its reservoir for teachers, judges and imams.
Unfortunately, colonial rule deliberately crippled the system by withdrawing its funding while replacing it with Western education—a system that had itself benefited enormously from the intellectual legacy of the Almajiri tradition.
But let us not place all the blame on others. Where did we fail as a people?
Over time, Almajiranci gradually drifted away from its original purpose until it became synonymous with bara—begging. This decline was compounded by the unhealthy cultural practice of having large numbers of children without the capacity to care for them, believing that sheer numbers alone constitute a blessing.
In the traditional agrarian economy, large families indeed represented economic strength. The more children a household had, the more hands were available to cultivate the farms, resulting in greater harvests and increased prosperity. That reality has long since changed. Today, many people bring children into the world only to abandon them on the streets. Society, too, is complicit, exploiting these vulnerable children as cheap labour in our homes and businesses.
The Jonathan administration made perhaps the most significant attempt to reform the Almajiri system by approving 57 Tsangaya Model Schools. Sadly, owing to our short-sightedness, the initiative gradually went into a coma.
Now that the National Commission for Almajiri and Out-of-School Children Education is operational, with a Northerner serving as both Chairman and Chief Executive, one must ask: what impact has it made?
I remember making several unsuccessful attempts to reach both the Commission and the Office of the Vice President because I believed that, with the right policies, the Almajiri system could not only reclaim its original mandate but also be transformed into a manufacturing and skills-development hub, modelled after China’s vocational education system.
The Commission later invited proposals for a national conference, and many of us submitted papers. We subsequently learnt that only a handful of individuals were selected for a retreat in one of the South-South states.
Last week, we saw a Daily Trust report, widely circulated on social media, alleging that the Almajiri Commission had awarded a road construction contract worth over one billion naira in Ogun State. The outrage on social media was both widespread and understandable.
I have never seen a people as self-defeating as we are in Northern Nigeria. We claim to be Muslims, yet so little of our social conduct reflects Islamic teachings. We are consumed by jealousy, stinginess and selfishness, with little sense of sacrifice or collective responsibility.
A Northerner may drive a ₦600 million car and live in a ₦300 million rented house while his own blood brother cannot afford three square meals a day—and yet he calls himself a Muslim. No. One cannot truly claim to embody Islam while ignoring the Prophet’s teaching that you should love for your brother what you love for yourself.
We rush to fill our mosques while our hearts remain empty of empathy. We neglect zakat, ignore the poor, and turn away from the needy and the weak. How, then, can we expect divine succour?
The warnings represented by Boko Haram, banditry and kidnapping may pale into insignificance compared with the day our beggars decide to strike. Sooner or later, they will—unless we learn from Ndiaye, acknowledge our collective responsibility for creating this crisis, and recognise that only through collective action can we solve it.
