Every civilisation carries within it traditions that define its identity and shape its collective memory. Some traditions withstand the test of time because they continue to serve the purpose for which they were conceived. Others gradually lose their essence, becoming shadows of their original intent, until they begin to produce consequences diametrically opposed to the ideals they once espoused. Wisdom therefore demands that societies periodically interrogate their customs, not with the intention of erasing them, but of preserving their virtues while courageously confronting their deficiencies. Few institutions in Northern Nigeria embody this paradox more markedly than the almajiri system.
For centuries, the system represented discipline, scholarship and spiritual refinement. Young boys travelled from distant communities in pursuit of Islamic knowledge under the tutelage of learned scholars whose influence extended beyond religious instruction to moral formation. Communities embraced the responsibility of caring for these pupils, while the teachers regarded them as their children rather than burdens to be managed. The almajiri system, in its pristine form, produced jurists, judges, administrators, scholars and community leaders whose intellectual contributions shaped the social and religious landscape of Northern Nigeria. What confronts us today, however, is scarcely a reflection of that noble heritage.
It is germane to aver that what many now defend in the name of tradition is, in reality, a tragic mutation of the original institution. Thousands of children roam our streets barefoot, hungry and vulnerable, not because Islam prescribes destitution as a pathway to knowledge, but because decades of poverty, rapid population growth, weak public institutions and societal neglect have gradually transformed an educational model into a humanitarian crisis. We have retained the name but abandoned the substance. We celebrate the tradition while ignoring the conditions that have stripped it of its dignity. The consequences have become too glaring to ignore. Across Northern Nigeria, one encounters children of school age at traffic intersections, markets, motor parks and major highways, stretching out tiny hands for alms instead of reaching for books. Their classrooms have become the streets. Their libraries are the pavements. Their lessons are often dictated not by teachers but by the harsh realities of survival. Every help dropped into their bowls may momentarily satisfy hunger, but it does little to nourish the mind that should ultimately liberate them from the cycle of dependence.
Perhaps the gravest implication of this unfortunate reality lies in its intersection with the insecurity that has continued to plague the region. It would be intellectually dishonest to suggest that every almajiri becomes a criminal. Such a proposition would be unfair, insensitive and patently false. Many have risen from humble beginnings to become respected scholars, professionals and public servants. Yet it would be equally dishonest to deny that large populations of abandoned, uneducated and economically vulnerable children provide fertile ground for recruitment into criminal enterprises. Bandits, terrorists, kidnappers and violent extremists rarely manufacture vulnerability; they exploit it. A hungry child is easier to manipulate than a satisfied one. An ignorant youth is easier to deceive than an educated one. A boy who has never experienced the dignity of opportunity may readily embrace the illusion of belonging offered by criminal networks. This is the painful arithmetic confronting Northern Nigeria today. The stream that once irrigated scholarship is gradually watering insecurity, not because its foundation was defective, but because society abandoned its responsibility to sustain it. The security crisis engulfing Arewa cannot therefore be divorced from the educational crisis confronting the region. Every out-of-school child represents not merely a statistic but a potential casualty of failed governance, economic deprivation and collective negligence. The region has the highest number of out of school children in the world. This frightening population of children outside formal education should disturb every parent, every traditional ruler, every religious leader and every public office holder. It is not simply an educational emergency; it is a national security emergency disguised as a social challenge.
Poverty compounds this tragedy in alarming proportions. Families struggling to secure their next meal often perceive education as a luxury rather than a necessity. Parents burdened by economic hardship relinquish responsibilities they are ill-equipped to shoulder, while many Qur’anic teachers themselves grapple with inadequate resources. The result is a vicious cycle in which deprivation reproduces deprivation across generations. Children born into poverty frequently inherit not only economic disadvantage but educational exclusion, creating an endless conveyor belt of vulnerability.
Culture, too, demands honest interrogation: Respect for tradition is a virtue, but no culture should become impervious to reform when overwhelming evidence demonstrates that its present manifestation inflicts avoidable suffering upon those it was originally designed to uplift. Our forefathers were products of wisdom, not rigidity. They adapted to changing realities without compromising their fundamental values. We dishonour their legacy when we mistake resistance to reform for fidelity to tradition.
The path forward therefore lies neither in abolishing Qur’anic education nor in preserving the status quo. Both extremes are fundamentally flawed. What Northern Nigeria requires is thoughtful integration; an educational model that harmonises religious scholarship with modern knowledge, allowing children to acquire sound Islamic education alongside literacy, numeracy, science, technology and vocational skills. Faith and formal education are not adversaries. They are complementary instruments for developing complete human beings capable of contributing meaningfully to society.
The responsibility for rescuing the North from this precipice cannot be placed upon government alone, though government undoubtedly bears the greatest burden. Parents must reclaim their primary role as the first custodians of their children’s future. No society can outsource parental responsibility indefinitely without paying a devastating price. Bringing children into the world is not merely a biological accomplishment; it is a lifelong commitment to nurturing them intellectually, morally and emotionally. Every father who abandons that sacred obligation contributes, however unintentionally, to the reservoir from which insecurity continually draws its recruits. Religious scholars equally occupy a position of profound influence. The reverence they command across Northern Nigeria places upon them an enormous moral responsibility to champion reforms capable of restoring the dignity of Qur’anic education. There is nothing inherently contradictory about a child memorising the Qur’an while simultaneously learning mathematics, science, languages and digital literacy. Indeed, the earliest Muslim civilisations flourished because they pursued revealed knowledge alongside intellectual inquiry, producing physicians, mathematicians, astronomers, philosophers and jurists whose contributions transformed human civilisation. The false dichotomy between religious and western education has inflicted immeasurable damage upon our society and deserves to be discarded with urgency.
Traditional institutions must also become active participants in this transformation. Emirs, district heads, village chiefs and community leaders remain the custodians of values and possess the moral authority to mobilise their people in ways government policies alone cannot achieve. Throughout history, the North has relied upon these institutions to preserve peace, resolve disputes and safeguard communal interests. The educational future of our children should command the same level of commitment.
Government, on its part, must continue to expand access to free, compulsory and qualitative basic education. Building schools alone will not suffice. Schools must be adequately staffed, properly equipped and strategically located to ensure that no child is denied education simply because of geography or poverty. Teachers must receive continuous professional development and appropriate welfare, for no educational reform can surpass the competence and motivation of those entrusted with delivering it. Beyond infrastructure lies the equally important responsibility of making education attractive enough for parents to embrace and accessible enough for every child to benefit from. Poverty alleviation must accompany educational reforms if lasting success is to be achieved. It is unrealistic to expect families struggling to provide a single daily meal to prioritise education without meaningful economic support. Social investment programmes, school feeding initiatives, conditional cash transfers and vocational empowerment schemes all possess the capacity to reduce the economic pressures that often compel parents to withdraw children from school. The fight against insecurity is therefore inseparable from the fight against poverty. One reinforces the other, just as their solutions complement one another.
Equally imperative is the need for governments at all levels to treat the alarming number of out-of-school children as a national emergency rather than an inconvenient statistic recited during conferences. Every child roaming the streets today represents a future that remains unwritten. Within that child may reside an accomplished surgeon, an innovative engineer, an exceptional teacher or a visionary leader whose potential may never find expression if society continues to look away. Nations are diminished not only by the talents they fail to produce but by the opportunities they fail to provide. Technology, too, offers unprecedented opportunities to bridge educational inequalities. Digital learning platforms, community learning centres and innovative teaching methods can complement conventional classrooms, particularly in underserved rural communities. While technology cannot replace teachers, it can significantly expand access to knowledge and reduce educational disparities if deployed thoughtfully and equitably.
Perhaps the greatest obstacle confronting meaningful reform is neither finance nor policy but our collective reluctance to confront uncomfortable truths. For too long, conversations surrounding the almajiri system have oscillated between sentimental nostalgia and political correctness. We have feared that honest criticism may be interpreted as hostility towards religion or Arewa culture. It is neither. On the contrary, the greatest expression of love for any tradition is the courage to preserve its strengths while correcting its weaknesses. A physician who diagnoses an illness does not hate the patient; he seeks to save him.
Northern Nigeria now stands at a defining moment in its history. The region can continue to watch generations of children drift through lives circumscribed by ignorance, poverty and vulnerability, or it can summon the courage to embrace reforms that reconcile faith with modern education, tradition with progress and cultural identity with contemporary realities. Neutrality is no longer an option. Every year of hesitation condemns another generation to circumstances they did not choose. History is replete with societies that transformed themselves through education. They discovered that classrooms are stronger than prisons, that books are cheaper than bullets and that teachers often accomplish what soldiers cannot. Security agencies can arrest criminals, but only education can reduce the number of those willing to become criminals. Military victories may restore temporary peace, yet enduring peace is cultivated in schools where children are taught not merely to read and write but to think, innovate and hope.
Northern Nigeria has produced some of Africa’s finest scholars, administrators and statesmen. It possesses an enviable intellectual heritage that should inspire confidence rather than despair. Our challenge is therefore not one of capacity but of commitment. We must refuse to surrender our future to a cycle that has already extracted too heavy a toll on our people. We owe our children more than sympathy; we owe them opportunity. We owe them more than charity; we owe them dignity. Above all, we owe them an education capable of liberating both their minds and their circumstances. The almajiri question is not fundamentally about children begging on our streets; it is about the future of Northern Nigeria itself. Every neglected child diminishes our collective tomorrow, while every educated child expands it. The choice before us is remarkably simple, though decisively consequential. We may continue to irrigate the fertile fields of insecurity through neglect, or we may redirect that same stream towards the cultivation of knowledge, productivity and hope. Posterity will judge us not by how passionately we defended inherited systems, but by how courageously we reformed them for the benefit of generations yet unborn.
Long Live Northern Nigeria, Long Live the Federal Republic of Nigeria.
Sani Abdulrazak, PhD, is a researcher, writer and public commentator based in Zaria, Kaduna State.