By Abdulrazak Ibrahim
Last week, I shared an Amnesty International Nigeria post calling on the authorities in Katsina State to ensure that the rights of Sheikh Yahya Ibrahim Masussuka were protected. I made no comment of my own; I only shared the statement to amplify a principle of justice.
Yet the response was vicious.
In the comment section, several young men—most of them university-educated—hurled insults. They accused me of being a follower of Masasuka, of promoting “deviance,” and even questioned my faith.
One wrote that people “should go and check what I used to say about the existence of God,” a veiled attempt to brand me a blasphemer. That, of course, is the favourite tactic of the intolerant: when they cannot debate ideas, they weaponise accusation.
I warned him publicly that such defamation could have legal consequences. I made it clear that I would pursue lawful remedies against anyone who engages in cyberbullying, stalking, or defamation—online or offline. I am not naïve about these patterns; I know some of the individuals who hide behind these profiles (including those with anglicised screen names or deliberately altered spellings), and their behaviour has long crossed the line between disagreement and harassment.
But what stayed with me was not the insult—it was the realisation that this digital mob reflected a deeper sickness: how intolerance has seeped into the very pores of northern social life, where disagreement is treated as heresy and discussion as betrayal.
Still, when I speak of “the North,” I do not imagine a single, monolithic entity. The region itself is an intricate mosaic of histories, languages, and peoples—the Hausa, Fulani, Nupe, Kanuri, Tiv, Idoma, Birom, and numerous others who together form its human geography. To describe the North is, at best, to speak of a shared political fate rather than a single cultural or moral identity.
My critique is not of a people, but of a system—a structure of power and indoctrination that has, over time, allowed intolerance to flourish in the name of religion.
And as much as one tries to avoid writing about these matters—to preserve peace or stay above the noise—silence, too, becomes a form of surrender. At some point, it becomes more dangerous to remain a spectator than to speak, however uncomfortably, about unfairness and hypocrisy.
There is, however, another reason I am writing this. I am genuinely concerned for the region—and for Nigeria’s future. With its deepening vulnerabilities, recurring crises, and the constant inflaming of tribal and religious tensions, the possibility of fragmentation no longer feels abstract.
The growing insecurity, the rhetoric of “Christian genocide,” the alienation of parts of the Middle Belt, and the troubling tendency of some clerics to deodorize Fulani banditry—all these point to a region on the edge.
Since Nigeria was designated a “Country of Particular Concern,” and with Donald Trump’s infamous statement about a “Christian genocide,” the region has witnessed a dangerous escalation of insecurity. Banditry has intensified rather than receded.
As I write this, reports suggest that armed groups are already active in the vicinity of Kano—in the Shanono, Bagwai, and Tsanyawa local governments. These are not distant rumours; they are warnings that the crisis is closing in on the very heart of the region.
It worries me deeply. And I believe one way to shape a different outcome is to have open, honest conversations—no matter how uncomfortable or unpalatable they may be.
Rather than sit back and watch this slow unravelling, I choose to write, to provoke reflection, and perhaps, a little introspection.
As I wrote elsewhere, for nearly forty years, Northern Nigeria has chased a theocratic mirage—a dream of moral renewal that promised salvation through politics but delivered paralysis instead.
The region poured its energy into capturing democracy only to undermine it from within. The political class perfected corruption, while the clerical class baptised it with divine legitimacy.
In the name of purifying the state, we polluted governance. In the quest to enthrone faith, we dethroned reason. The pulpits that should have inspired reform became instruments of control; the mosques that once symbolised community now echo sermons that sanctify inequality.
Meanwhile, the real enemies—poverty, ignorance, and institutional decay—multiplied in silence. The North forgot that theocracy cannot substitute for justice, and that righteousness without equity is merely tyranny in sacred robes.
As I commented on Ahmad Sadiq’s wall, those who emotionally crave a theological utopia rarely understand the forces they unleash. It feels righteous, even exhilarating, to imagine a society ruled by divine law.
Yet history shows that when zeal is unchecked by reason and accountability, it mutates into theological totalitarianism that crushes both faith and freedom.
The result is never renewal; it is decay.
And the evidence is all around us. In every state where Sharia was introduced, for example, there has been no moral rejuvenation—only moral inflation: a deepening of hypocrisy, corruption, and violence. Theft has multiplied, immorality has become more hidden yet more pervasive, and fear has replaced faith as the regulator of human behaviour.
God’s law is perfect, but human interpretation and enforcement are not. When divine law is weaponised for emotional satisfaction rather than institutional reform, it becomes an idol—worshipped in form but devoid of spirit. That is the tragedy we now live with.
And those bent on realising this theocratic dream, it seems, will not stop until they hit the brick wall. It hardly matters that this stubborn obsession with theocracy inevitably gives birth to men like Shekau—the natural offspring of that ideology. This is the essence of a shiga daga ciki a gyara—the supposed idea of “reforming from within.” In practice, it means joining democracy only to corrode it from the inside. We can trace this spirit straight to the MSSN anthem: the seed of illusion planted in youthful zeal and harvested in violent extremism.
As this ideology matured, its contradictions grew grotesque. One cleric recently declared, without irony, that it is better to be afflicted by armed bandits than to coexist with Muslims he considers “deviant.” That single statement captures the full insanity of this theology—when moral inversion becomes virtue, and violence is more tolerable than diversity. It exposes the region’s most profound crisis—not political, but spiritual—a loss of moral compass disguised as religious fidelity.
This culture of intimidation is not new. We remember how, in 2015, crowds openly rejoiced at the massacre of Shi’a Muslims in Zaria, celebrating the slaughter as if sectarian killing were an act of piety. That moral collapse was not an aberration; it was the logical consequence of decades of indoctrination that equated uniformity with faith and cruelty with conviction. It prepared the psychological ground for today’s witch-hunts, where dehumanising others is no longer shocking—only expected.
Even now, a new class of gatekeepers dictates who qualifies as a “true” Hausa, who speaks for the faith, and who may critique the culture. They suppress dissent by denying people’s lived experiences—as though they have the authority to define how others may feel poverty, inequality, or exclusion.
This is why genuine dialogue has become impossible.
The same psychological machinery that justified theocracy now polices identity. It is the same reflex that weaponises religion to suppress thought. Words like bid‘a have become blunt instruments of conformity—not to protect faith, but to shield ignorance. When a young woman writes a book demonising marriages outside her narrow sectarian boundary, one sees how deep the indoctrination runs.
This is the harvest of an indoctrination industry built around the obsession with bid‘a. It has produced generations of shallow-minded zealots, brazenly convinced they know religion better than the very parents and grandparents who first taught them faith. I have said it before and will repeat it: today, countless forty-year-olds and below—and even their elders—in Arewa know no other way of practising Islam except by kafirizing others, as if their faith itself depends on finding someone to condemn.
A society that labels curiosity as rebellion and empathy as weakness cannot reform itself. It only multiplies its fractures and fears.
Amidst this chaos, a whole litany of reckonings has emerged.
Beyond the narrative of the so-called Christian genocide, the reawakening of suppressed identities, the revival of non-Muslim Hausa voices, and the growing resistance to Fulani domination are no accidents. They represent the inevitable recoil of a region that mistook religious homogeneity for unity and spiritual fervour for progress.
What we are witnessing is not rebellion; it is remembrance—the resurfacing of truths buried beneath four decades of theocratic self-deception.
The North is not being destroyed by unbelief, but by its refusal to believe in its own humanity.
As for those who believe the way to have this dialogue is by dehumanising others, hurling insults, or engaging in cyberstalking—I’ll say this: tread carefully. You may just find yourself facing a lawsuit.
Abdulrazak Ibrahim
25th November 2025