In contemplating the external forces that seem to hinder our progress, we might overlook that these very forces are often the wings we’ve spread beyond our sight. In Nigeria, there are children from extremely low-income families scattered across major cities. These children aren’t orphans or disabled; they are healthy and capable of competing with any child in the developed world if given the right education and care.
These children, citizens of Nigeria, lack any formal identity except their village names. If you’re lucky, a wise one might know their village head’s name. They walk around the cities barefoot, with torn trousers not as a fashion statement but as a sign of decaying clothing they’ve worn for months. You can identify them more by their clothes than their faces.
They are not orphans since both parents are often alive, and they are not disabled, as they can run swiftly when needed. Their voices echo through every corner of Northern Nigeria’s major cities. These children are known as Almajirai, derived from the Arabic word Al Muhajiroon. Traditionally, they were sent from villages to study the Holy Qur’an and become Hafizi (those who can recite the Qur’an by heart). Their teachers, called Alaramma, often have overcrowded schools with children from all over Northern Nigeria, sometimes hiring assistants to help manage the large numbers.
In Nigeria, there are three categories of disadvantaged children: orphans, the disabled, and the Almajirai. However, I prefer to call them the “internally displaced” children of Nigeria. Their living conditions are akin to refugee camps, with overcrowded accommodations, sleeping on mats, and taking weekly baths before Friday prayers. Their health, hygiene, and education are severely neglected, leaving them disconnected from basic social amenities. The situation is dire; you feel compelled to help when a child knocks on your window begging for money to buy detergent or food.
This grim reality begs the question: who is at fault? Frankly, it is our fault—yours and mine, and everyone who feels they’ve escaped this social divide. Before 2008, the notion of suicide bombings or militancy in Northern Nigeria was unthinkable. Today, we face a different reality. The social and ideological disconnect has grown so severe that we mistakenly attribute our problems to external forces.
The Nigerian government’s introduction of Almajirai schools misses the root cause of the issue. It’s an insult to the children, their parents, teachers, and all Northerners. The term “Almajiri” is intrinsically linked to Northern Nigeria, much like creating special schools for Lagos’ “Area Boys.” These children wouldn’t refuse conventional schooling if given the chance; only a small fraction might be influenced otherwise by their parents.
Why not incorporate Qur’anic studies into conventional Northern Nigerian schools and employ the Alarammas to teach in their own villages, allowing children to stay with their families? Why not establish a welfare system to provide food and clothing for children from impoverished families? Why not place donation boxes for their benefit in major shopping areas and affluent neighborhoods in the North?
I believe in action and results. We need solutions, not just discussions. In football, you win by scoring goals, not by playing stylishly without results. Likewise, we must act now to save these children, our brothers. We have numerous problems, but we must address those within our reach. Their future is intertwined with the future of our children. We want them to become the next brightest engineers, programmers, doctors, pilots, teachers, and professionals who will drive Northern Nigeria’s development.
I ask you, the reader, for a simple yet significant task. The next time you see an Almajiri child, call him over, ask his name, and ask what he aspires to be when he grows up (“me kake so ka zama idan ka girma?”). This is the same question we ask more privileged children because they are no different. Let us start the change today; let’s not wait for tomorrow.