Sir,
I wonder how to address you now that time and eternity have merged your mortal titles into memory. “Ranka ya dade” holds no weight where you now dwell, but even in the silence of history, this letter must find you. This year feels different; it compels me to converse with you and Sir Tafawa Balewa—to report what has become of your legacy, and the inheritance left for your descendants.
Consider me a grandson, delivering a painful account to his grandfather, lamenting how your proud lineage has been squandered. The North, once a citadel of promise under your vision, is now reduced to a sprawling orphanage. The children you fought for roam the streets, begging, lost in a world that has failed them. Your name, once a beacon of pride, has become a mere currency in the hands of opportunists.
You would expect that by now, universities would proudly host a Chair of Sardauna Studies. Instead, those who chant your name are too busy with fleeting ambitions. It took a foreign scholar, John Paden, to document your life’s journey while your own children looked away.
As fate would have it, I now live in Sokoto, your homeland, as the Bishop of the Catholic Diocese. Sokoto remains peaceful, yet its progress is trapped in time. I have walked the soil of Rabah, stood before the humble house where you were born, and was struck by its simplicity—a reflection of true leadership. It reminded me of Julius Nyerere’s modest home in Dar es Salaam. I imagine the two of you might have shared stories by now, beyond the divisions of faith, in the embrace of eternity.
Sir, fifty years have passed since you and your courageous wife were brutally murdered. In a final act of devotion, she shielded you, and together you crossed into eternity. Her sacrifice remains one of the most profound acts of love history has known.
As a child, I never saw you, but your legend was larger than life. To us, your name evoked reverence, while Aminu Kano’s name ignited a rebellious hope—especially among village children like me who feared the harsh tax collectors of the Native Authority. Aminu Kano’s fight against “haraji” made him our champion. Yet, you were the architect who built institutions from scratch: Ahmadu Bello University, Kaduna Polytechnic, the Northern Nigerian Development Corporation, New Nigerian Newspapers, and countless others. You ensured your people had a future.
But today, Sir, your children are orphans. Those great institutions have been killed by greed and incompetence. What remains are mere shadows of their former glory. Farming has become a dangerous gamble. Graduates roam jobless, parents labor without pensions, and the leadership void is glaring. The army of hope you once marshaled has no one to lead them.
Despite the limitations of your time—no technology, no structures—you dared to dream. You fought to ensure the North was not left behind. You united diverse peoples with conflicting histories into a fragile but hopeful tapestry. Through your “Yaki da Jahilci” campaign, even the poorest farmers found literacy.
Now, the North bleeds. Boko Haram has ravaged it into a wasteland of despair. Millions are in refugee camps; countless women and children have perished or been displaced. The Chibok girls—over 200 of them—remain missing, while the North watches helplessly, waiting for salvation from a government that cannot solve a problem we helped create through negligence and disunity.
The distrust your controversial conversion campaigns sowed has deepened over time, creating fault lines that have now become canyons of division. Blood has soaked our land, filling countless unmarked graves.
Yet, amidst the ruins, there are flickers of hope. The North now boasts 19 states, with youthful governors born around the time of your death. Unlike their fathers, they are products of universities and more plural societies. They stand a chance to rewrite history—if only they can free themselves from the chains of their predecessors’ failures. Even here in Sokoto, our Governor was once Speaker of the House, supported by Southerners. Strange how time reshapes enemies into allies.
Ironically, those “scallywags” from Lagos, who jeered at you in 1956, helped elect General Buhari—a son of Daura—as President. Such is the unpredictable nature of history.
Sir, your heart would break to see the North today—a land of orphans, a region suffocating under the weight of betrayal by its own custodians. But there are stories that might still make you smile. Your grandson, Hassan, is now Magajin Garin Sokoto. Though I doubt he plays Fives as you did, he carries your name with quiet dignity. That brilliant boy from Kabba, whom you sponsored, became not a civil servant but a Cardinal of the Catholic Church. He might even become Pope one day!
I will write to the Prime Minister, Sir Tafawa Balewa, next week. But for now, I beg you—pray for us. Ask God to breathe into our leaders the spirit of foresight, humility, and deep love for the people that you carried in your time. And when you meet Col. Pam, his wife Elizabeth, and Justice Oputa, give them my warmest regards. Tell them their sacrifices are not forgotten, even if their dreams remain unfulfilled.
