A Father s ’

Legacy
Mohammed Bukar
 Copyright © 2015 Mohammed Bukar

First edition 2015

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any

form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording

or any information storage or retrieval system without permission from the copyright

holder.

The Author has made every effort to trace and acknowledge sources/resources/

individuals. In the event that any images/information have been incorrectly attributed

or credited, the Author will be pleased to rectify these omissions at the earliest

opportunity.

ISBN 978-0-620-64748-9

eISBN 978-0-620-64749-6

Published by Author using Reach Publishers’ services,

P O Box 1384, Wandsbeck, South Africa, 3631

Printed and bound by Mega Digital Printers

Edited by Bronwen Bickerton for Reach Publishers

Cover designed by Reach Publishers

Website: www.reachpublishers.co.za

E-mail: reach@webstorm.co.za
 Contents

Comments 5

Dedication 15

Acknowledgements 17

Abbreviations 23

PART ONE - Introduction 29

PART TWO - The Formative Years 37

PART THREE - A Twist Of Fate At Arabic

Teachers’ College, Song 75

PART FOUR - Back To Gembu 89

PART FIVE - Odyssey At University Of Maiduguri 121

PART SIX - Internship At Specialist Hospital, Maiduguri 139

PART SEVEN - National Youth Service Corps At

Ogugu, Kogi State 151

PART EIGHT - Sojourn At Bama General Hospital 173

PART NINE - The Fellowship Training At Gombe 183

PART TEN - The Journey To Yola 221

PART ELEVEN - Lecturer By Chance 229

PART TWELVE - Tribute To My Parents 257

PART THIRTEEN - Meeting My Wife 279

PART FOURTEEN - The Birth Of Recipe For

Successful Residency Training 289

PART FIFTEEN - The Dark Days 299

Appendices 321

Index 347
COMMENTS

Y ou are perfectly right. Your decision to write the

book, which to all intent and purposes makes it your
autobiography, is not only courageous, but also timely, an
immeasurable service to your colleagues in the medical
profession and, a sobering vade mecum for the general
reader. It is both a fruitful source of inspiration as well as
a book of “lessons’’ to everybody. I have been regarded
as notorious for keeping to time but I can see that you
have beaten me to it. The other thing is that, I have
not read as widely as you have done! People have been
peddling rumours about me that I have even memorised
the dictionary. They have not stated which of the different
types of dictionaries. Given the number and variety of
publications you have read, you deserve to be regarded as
a walking encyclopaedia. Keep it up! It is great.
Specifically, the following are my observations or
comments on the book:

I. The author is incredibly well read outside the area

of his specialisation. The only scientist that I can
liken to Dr. Bukar is Professor Tam David West, the

5
A Father’s Legacy

famous Virologist of the University of Ibadan and

former Minister of petroleum. Even scholars of
humanities and social sciences will envy Dr. Bukar
regarding the diversity of the works he has read.
II. The book has been crafted in such a manner that,
whoever picks it to read will not put it down until
he/she had gone through it, cover to cover. This
is so because each page is “spiced’’ with words of
wisdom, proverbs, advice and how Nigeria “works’’.
III. It is a treasure for all professionals, full of extremely
useful pieces of advice, inspiration and silent
admonishment, lessons and the near uniqueness of
the Nigerian condition. It could serve as a guide to
all categories of people; young and old; women and
men.
IV. His forthrightness, courage, frankness and honesty
cannot be matched. It is difficult to find a person
who would be brave enough to say some of the
things he has written about himself.
V. The exposition and narration are philosophical and
hilarious; driven by rich words of wisdom; full of
insights into human behaviour; wits and humour.
VI. It is readable, with good command of written
expression in English language.
VII. The style of presentation, starting every chapter
with a quotation from statesmen, philosophers and
scholars and literacy icons, is refreshing.
VIII. It is highly recommended.

6
 Comments

Professor Abdullahi Mahadi, CON

Former Vice Chancellor, Ahmadu Bello University,
Zaria and President, The Mahadi Foundation

I have gone through your book and I must confess that

I am highly impressed and very appreciative of your
contributions to humanity. Your reading habit, knowledge
and experience as epitomised in this book are, to say the
least, fantastic. I therefore feel that the university is your
rightful place. You should not regret being there because
your potential for intellectual contributions is enormous.
Your Frank Herbert quotation, ‘that there is no real ending.
It’s just the place where you stop the story’ is very apt. Your
intellectual contributions should continue without real
ending while you live. I wish you the best in your future
endeavours and I look forward to reading more of your
books.

Abubakar B. Jauro, OON

Retired Federal Permanent Secretary & Former
Secretary-INEC

It is an amazing unique biography of the author set on

a societal background. While some aspects dwell on
captivating day-to-day life in northern Nigeria, others are
chilling, cold narratives bordering on the brink of abyss…

7
A Father’s Legacy

It is a must-read inspiring piece to those interested in how

fate, choice and society mould an individual.

Dr. Ibrahim Modibbo Umar, PhD

Foreign Affairs, Abuja

I have known the author since 1987 when we enrolled

into the remedial programme at UNIMAID. I became
close to him because we shared many things in common
including honesty, sincerity, forthrightness and dedication
to duty. I have known him to be a writer since our
undergraduate days. There are so many things the author
had told me when we were undergraduates. The fact that
he has written about those issues much the same way he
had told me over 20 years ago speaks volumes about his
truthfulness. The book touched on virtually all aspects
of human endeavour and people from all walks of life
would learn from it. It is indeed a book of inspiration.
A big lesson to learn from, as exposed in part 15, is the
case of his driver who was killed. If he had not reported
the case to the police in good time, the story would have
been different. This teaches us that doing the right thing
at the right time is a fantastic attribute.

Dr. Mohammed I. Guduf

Federal Medical Centre, Gombe

8
 Comments

This is a brilliant retentive memory of life events. Last

chapter was, however, unfortunate.

Dr. Donatus D. Kizaya

Kwali General Hospital, Abuja

To my knowledge this book contains stories told the

way they happened without exaggerations. It is therefore
a book that gives a true and practical lesson. All people
from all facets of human endeavour stand to gain from it.

Dr. Aliyu Mohammed Kodiya

University of Maiduguri

I enjoyed reading through the book. It is truly original

and full of experiences to learn from. If one looks at
the society in general, I think parents will have a lot to
gain from the book and, if translated into actions, the
society will be better off. It will undoubtedly serve as an
inspiration for the youth.

Dr. Mohammed Abdullahi Talle

University of Maiduguri

9
A Father’s Legacy

The most interesting part of the book is your life in

Auno. It was really pathetic. The book is full of events. I
read it almost at one sitting. It was when I read this story
that I realised that despite all that I had been through
with you from secondary school days to university, at the
Teaching Hospital, during your internship, during visits
while you were in Gombe, Yola, in your brother’s house
in Maiduguri, etc., I knew you so little. Your life as corp
member is really a nice episode: My eyes were filled with
tears when I read through the days of your NYSC. I now
realise the Bukar I thought I knew is beyond what I had
imagined. You have indeed achieved what is desired of
you in life and I still believe that the sky is your limit.

Alhaji Suleiman Bashir Abba

University of Wukari

Congratulations on the penning of a very stimulating and

inspiring manuscript. Generations of Nigerians will have
you to thank for telling them your story – a story of hard
work, integrity and of the fear of God.

Dr. Ayo Ojebode

University of Ibadan

10
 Comments

A Father’s Legacy is a book I read with nostalgic memories.

It was like my history written by a bosom friend. For me
the book is a must-read companion, a masterpiece that
reminded me of my distant past.

Dr. Bashiru Aliyu

Modibbo Adamawa University of Technology, Yola

A person will always be what he is destined to be under any

situation. A pupil admitted first into an Arabic Teachers
College ending up as a medical doctor and eventually as
a gynaecologist. This has been the result of hard work
and persistence. This is a must-read book for the younger
generation.

Hajiya Dijatu Balla

Proprietor, Nadi International School, Yola

Authorship has become part of Mohammed’s life. This

book reminds me of my struggles, a significant part of
which we shared together. I think this is the best of the
books he has written so far.
Dr. Ahmed Mayun
University of Maiduguri

11
A Father’s Legacy

It is very impressive the memory recall; how the author

can recall with canny details events of yesteryears. The
book is highly inspirational and shows that with good
parental guidance and perhaps with ‘good luck’, a village
child could achieve ‘uncommon transformation’ and
have his name written in the books of who-is-who.
The book also, I believe, will be an inspiration to others
to write their history so that at the end of the day our
collective histories will be available to future generations.
The story also gives hope to the ‘street urchins’, as he
called the almajirai and the downtrodden; that no matter
your background, you can reach the pinnacle in your life.
All that you need is supportive parents, and perhaps a
mentor. The book is a must-read for youngsters as well
as for the ‘elders’ who should learn to mentor.

Dr. Alkali Umar

National Assembly, Abuja

The book is adequately educative and informative.

The author has captured a true-lifetime experience
which touches a lot of individuals. The lesson therein
encompasses experiences that will be very useful to the
younger ones and to our leaders.

Musa Halilu
Modibbo Adamawa University of Technology, Yola

12
 Comments

The book is written with an unbiased mind. The writer

is objective with no inclination to a particular region,
religion or tribe. The book needs to be taught to our
children in nursery schools where seeds of sentiments
are often planted in their minds.

Pharmacist Usman Buba Awak

Federal Medical Centre, Gombe

13
 Dedication

In memory of my parents, Alhaji Bukar Bagomna and Aishatu

(Asta) Bukar

15
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

T he list is endless. In the course of writing this book,

I interviewed many people and each person gave
account(s) of what he/she knows about the event(s)
or person being asked about. The questions about my
father started ‘in house’ when I received responses to
my queries from my cousin Mallam Abdullahi Bukar who
is still in Gembu, Mambilla Plateau, in Taraba state. He
not only clarified some issues about my father’s early
days in Gembu, but also about my childhood period
before and after Auno. My cousin had to make additional
consultations before some of my questions were cleared
up. I thank him for the pains of having to go from one
place to the other in search of answers for me. Another of
my cousins who I invited from Marte Local Government
Area of Borno state was Mallam Modu Kellube. He gave
me most of the events of my father’s early life from
Warabe in Gwoza Local Government Area of Borno
state to Bama, in Bama Local Government Area and then
finally to Gembu, Sardauna Local Government Area of
Taraba state. I thank him for accepting my invitation to
come to Maiduguri and to give me useful information

17
A Father’s Legacy

about my father.
I am grateful to Mallam Gana Alkali Abiso, a retired
principal who is also my in-law. He threw some light into
the days when my father was in Gwoza and into his early
stay in Gembu. He also gave a glimpse about my mother
before she joined my father in Gwoza. He also helped to
clarify some issues which made the story flow. To Alhaji
Kaka Mallam Usman Manyama and Alhaji Mustapha
Usman Manyama, brothers and stepsons of my father’s
benefactor, Alkali Umar Abiso, I say a big thank you
for shedding some light into the relationship between
my father and Alkali Umar Abiso. They also told me
the type of life that my father lived and of his immense
humanness and generosity.
Mohammed Habib Alkali Tijjani, a retired judge with
Borno State Government, was in Gembu with my father
before Nigeria’s independence in 1960. He confirmed to
me with unbelievable precision the month and year that
my father went to Gembu. I remain grateful to him for
granting me the interview.
Most of the information regarding my mother was
obtained from my elder sister, Hajiya Fanta Mandara.
She gave a detailed account of my mother as if she
had been her sister. Surprisingly, even my mother’s two
surviving sisters do not have as much information about
my mother as Hajiya Fanta Mandara has.
Some information was obtained from my elder
brothers, Umar Alhaji Bukar and Barrister Babagoni

18
 Acknowledgements

Alhaji Bukar. Although their contributions were more in

reading and correcting the initial draft of the manuscript,
their comments and suggestions really improved the
quality and the flow.
My wife, Bilkisu Mohammed Bukar, through her
retentive memory, reminded me of events and dates that
I had forgotten. I am not good with numbers such that
I do not even remember the dates of the births of my
children. I had forgotten certain events that happened
while in Ogugu in Kogi state, Bama in Borno state and
Gombe in Gombe state. I thank her for reminding me
of these events, the absence of which would have taken
away the flavour of the manuscript.
There is no contribution that is insignificant when it
comes to writing a book. Some people just helped me
to confirm names of some of my teachers in secondary
school, while others helped in the locations of places,
in distances from one place to another, in names of
friends and acquaintances and in some words and their
translations. Pharmacist Usman Awak and Dr. Anjikwi
Ali Msheliza from Federal Medical Centre, Gombe,
fall into this category. Others are my secondary school
friends; Alhaji Suleiman Bashir Abba (Federal University
Wukari, Taraba state), Mallam Yahaya Hammanjoda
(Sardauna Local Government Area, Taraba state),
Mallam Musa Halilu (Modibbo Adama University of
Technology, Yola) and Mallam Ahmed Imam (Jada
Local Government Area, Adamawa state). Dr. Yerima

19
A Father’s Legacy

Suleiman Yusuf (Federal Medical Centre, Yola), Dr.

Adamu Dahiru, (Federal Medical Centre, Yola) Dr.
Mohammed I. Guduf (Federal Medical Centre, Gombe),
Dr. Ahmed A. Mayun (University of Maiduguri) and Dr.
Ibrahim Sanusi Mohammed (University of Maiduguri)
also confirmed some issues for me. To all these people
I say thank you for the information. I appreciate the
enthusiasm that Mallam Yahaya Hammajoda exhibited
during his search for answers to the many questions with
which I bombarded him.
Professor Bala M. Audu, Dr. Ahmed A. Mayun, Dr.
Aliyu M. Kodiya and Dr. Mohammed A. Talle, all of
University of Maiduguri, and Dr. Alkali Umar (National
Assembly Clinic, Abuja), Dr. Bashiru Aliyu (Modibbo
Adama University of Technology, Yola), Dr. Ibrahim
Modibbo Umar (Ministry of Foreign Affairs, Abuja)
and Hajiya Dijatu Balla (Nadi International School
Yola, Adamawa state) all made useful contributions and
criticisms to the initial draft which no doubt improved
the quality of the book. I thank them for painstakingly
going through the book despite their tight schedules. Dr.
Ayo Ojebode (University of Ibadan) and his team did a
fantastic job during language editing and really polished
the work and made it easy to read.
It was through Mallam Ali Ahmad Geidam of Daily
Trust Newspapers, Abuja, that Brisca Aquila of the same
address was drafted to make the three illustrations for the
book. I was amazed with the first draft when the former

20
 Acknowledgements

showed it to me. Brisca’s professional touch was palpable.

The illustrations really reinforced my belief in consulting
professionals in whatever I intend to do.
Professor Abdullahi Mahadi, the pioneer Vice
Chancellor of Gombe State University did a fantastic
review of the manuscript and injected historical
perspective into my ancestors and ancestral home. I am
eternally grateful to him for sparing his time as a very
busy chief executive to go through my manuscript. I also
thank him for his wonderful and inspiring comments. My
bosom friend, Dr M.I Guduf, of Federal Medical Centre
Gombe helped in no small measure in facilitation of the
review. I thank him for the patience he exhibited with my
plethora of ‘annoying’ reminders about my manuscript
which he followed up without any complaints.
I am highly indebted to Abubakar B. Jauro, a retired
federal permanent secretary, for finding the time despite
his very busy schedule to go through the book. His
insight into the history of Mambilla Plateau really set the
record straight and polished my work. I am also grateful
to Mallam Gidado Hammajoda of TETFUND, Abuja for
facilitating my manuscript review by Alhaji Bobboi Jauro.
My appreciation also goes to Mallam Mala Kasuwa
(the Sarkin Kasuwa of Gwoza) for taking the pains to
go to my father’s birthplace to obtain some additional
information for me regarding my father’s early days in
Warabe in Gwoza Local Government Area of Borno
state.

21
A Father’s Legacy

I am also deeply indebted to the editors of Reach

publishers for their outstanding editorial work.

DR. MOHAMMED BUKAR. MBBS, CERTS.

[GCC, MFTS, D&ICT] PGDS (OBGY), AMNIM,
MHPM, FWACS, FMCOG, FICS

January 2015
Maiduguri
mbukar1967@gmail.com

22
ABBREVIATIONS

AGM ANNUAL GENERAL MEETING

APE ANNUAL PERFORMANCE
EVALUATION
ARD ASSOCIATION OF RESIDENT
DOCTORS
ATC ARABIC TEACHERS’ COLLEGE
AK-47 AVTOMAT KALASHNIKOVA
BOMSA BORNO MEDICAL STUDENTS
ASSOCIATION
B/F BROUGHT FORWARD
CBN CENTRAL BANK OF NIGERIA
CMAC CHAIRMAN, MEDICAL ADVISORY
COMMITTEE
CMS COLLEGE OF MEDICAL SCIENCES
CMD CHIEF MEDICAL DIRECTOR
CEO CHIEF EXECUTIVE OFFICER
CSO CHIEF SECURITY OFFICER
DA DIRECTOR OF ADMINISTRATION
DSTV DIGITAL SATELLITE TELEVISION
ESR ERYTHROCYTE SEDIMENTATION
RATE

23
A Father’s Legacy

EFCC ECONOMIC AND FINANCIAL

CRIMES COMMISSION
FMCG FEDERAL MEDICAL CENTRE
GOMBE
FMCN FEDERAL MEDICAL CENTRE,
NGURU
FMCY FEDERAL MEDICAL CENTRE, YOLA
GCE GENERAL CERTIFICATE OF
EDUCATION
GNPP GREAT NIGERIA PEOPLES PARTY
GRA GOVERNMENT RESERVED AREA
HOD HEAD OF DEPARTMENT
IBB IBRAHIM BADAMOSI BABANGIDA
ICS INTERNATIONAL COLLEGE OF
SURGEONS
IG INSPECTOR GENERAL
JAMB JOINT ADMISSION AND
MATRICULATION BOARD
JAR JOINT ANNUAL REVIEW
JTF JOINT TASK FORCE
JUTH JOS UNIVERSITY TEACHING
HOSPITAL
LASER LIGHT AMPLIFICATION BY
STIMULATED EMISSION OF
ELECTROMAGNETIC RADIATION
MAC MEDICAL ADVISORY COMMITTEE
MD MEDICAL DIRECTOR
MDCAN MEDICAL AND DENTAL

24
 Abbreviations

CONSULTANTS’ ASSOCIATION OF
NIGERIA
MEPIN MEDICAL EDUCATION
PARTNERSHIP INITIATIVE IN
NIGERIA
MOPOL MOBILE POLICE
MSS MUSLIM STUDENT SOCIETY
MTR MID-TERM REPORT
NAFDAC NATIONAL AGENCY FOR FOOD
AND DRUG ADMINISTRATION AND
CONTROL
NEC NATIONAL EXECUTIVE COUNCIL
NSHDP NATIONAL STRATEGIC HEALTH
DEVELOPMENT PLAN
NMA NIGERIAN MEDICAL ASSOCIATION
NYSC NATIONAL YOUTH SERVICE CORPS
PGDE POSTGRADUATE DIPLOMA IN
EDUCATION
PMO PRINCIPAL MEDICAL OFFICER
PRO PUBLIC RELATIONS OFFICER
RTA ROAD TRAFFIC ACCIDENT
TED TECHNOLOGY, ENTERTAINMENT,
DESIGN
TETFUND TERTIARY EDUCATION TRUST
FUND
TMS TOP MANAGEMENT STAFF
UCH UNIVERSITY COLLEGE HOSPITAL

25
A Father’s Legacy

UMTH UNIVERSITY OF MAIDUGURI

TEACHING HOSPITAL
UMMESA UNIVERSITY OF MAIDUGURI
MEDICAL STUDENTS ASSOCIATION
UNIMAID UNIVERSITY OF MAIDUGURI
US UNITED STATES

26
PART ONE
INTRODUCTION

“The man who writes about himself and his own time is the only
man who writes about all people and all time.”

George Bernard Shaw

T he idea of writing this book was mooted in 2013,

and the proposed title was From Arabic Teachers’
College to the Zenith of Medical Practice. It was later changed
to A Tribute to my Father before I finally settled for A
Father’s Legacy as suggested to me by Dr. Ayo Ojebode
of the University of Ibadan. The original title appeared
more like an autobiography which many accomplished
people dare not attempt until they have seen it all. Barack
Obama, in the introduction to his book Dreams from My
Father, wrote, “An autobiography promises feats worthy of record,
conversations with famous people, a central role in important events.
There is none of that here. At the very least, an autobiography
implies a summing up, a certain closure that hardly suits someone
of my years, still busy charting his way through the world.”
Nasir El-Rufai in his book The Accidental Public Servant,

29
A Father’s Legacy

also notes that, “So this is neither a full-scale autobiography nor

a memoir because I think it is premature at my age, and I have
achieved too little to write either an autobiography or a memoir.”
But when I read the two books, I could not place them
outside either autobiography or memoir despite the fact
that the authors were too humble to admit that what they
had written were autobiographies or memoirs.
Here, I chose to differ from these two famous achievers.
I believe that people of all ages and accomplishments can
actually put down for posterity their experiences at any
given time in their lives, not necessarily when they have
got one of their legs in the grave. If we all have to wait
until old age or until we have taken some giant strides,
then there will be few autobiographies/memoirs as is the
case in Nigeria now. It is important to remember that not
all people will live to retirement age. What if some people
who have had wonderful experiences to share with the
rest of the world cannot share them for the shame that
they have not achieved much? Abraham Lincoln said, “In
the end, it’s not the years in your life that count. It’s the life in your
years.” Malala Yousafzai, the Pakistani girl who was shot
by the Taliban for advocating girl-child education, had a
story to tell and she told the story as a teenager. Not only
that, the book, I am Malala was at one time among the top
10 bestselling non-fiction books.
If Dr. Ben Carson did not write his story because he
was ‘still busy charting his way through the world’, what would
have happened to the wonderful story of that ghetto

30
 Introduction

child from the streets of Detroit who later became one

of the most celebrated neurosurgeons at a young age?
What would have happened to the many street kids who
he had given bright hope to? And to the many youths
around the globe who see him as their role model?
I have achieved very little but I have a story to tell.
Although one cannot control those who will read the
book, I have a target audience. If my story will help to
change a few lives and make the younger generation think
and act positively, then I consider my job done.
It is because of the unfounded reason that one cannot
write an autobiography at this stage in one’s life that I
had to change the title of this book to A Father’s Legacy.
But as a matter of fact, the main reason that I wrote this
book is to pay a tribute to my parents. All along I had
thought of immortalising my father but I do not have the
resources to build a monument in his honour. If I had
the wherewithal I would have built something like the Taj
Mahal because my father deserves nothing less.
But come to think of it, what is wrong with someone
writing his autobiography in two volumes? If volume one
presents the morning period of one’s life when one is
still struggling to survive – the stage to which I belong
now – volume two then presents the period of great
achievements, ‘a summing up, a certain closure’, as Obama
puts it.
The book is divided into 15 parts. Part 1 is the
Introduction which gives an insight into why the book

31
A Father’s Legacy

is written and emphasises the need for us to write our

experiences at any stage of our lives, not necessarily at
retirement from active service.
Part 2, The Formative Years, presents the life of a typical
rural boy growing up in Mambilla, the highest plateau in
Nigeria.
Part 3, A Twist of Fate at Arabic Teachers’ College, Song,
captures the turns and twists of fate that ultimately
changed my destiny.
Part 4, Back to Gembu, contains the many experiences
acquired during those days which helped shape my way
of life.
Part 5, Odyssey at University of Maiduguri, chronicles the
life of a bookworm undergraduate and the challenges
faced by an average student. It also highlights the role
of responsible and futuristic government in providing
succour to students through monthly salaries paid to
natives of Borno State during the tenure of Brigadier
General Mohammed Buba Marwa.
Part 6, Internship at Specialist Hospital, Maiduguri,
documents the experience of a young doctor fresh
from medical school with little supervision in a busy
government hospital.
Part 7, National Youth Service Corps at Ogugu, Kogi state,
covers the experiences of working as a solo doctor in a
hinterland with no basic social amenities and in a hospital
with no laboratory back-up.
Part 8, Sojourn at Bama General Hospital, is a story of

32
 Introduction

working under the supervision of experienced medical

officers who guided me during the formative stage of my
medical practice in a semi-urban location.
Part 9, The Fellowship Training at Gombe, is a period of
trials and tribulations which, nevertheless, culminated in
the award of a fellowship after failures interspersed with
successes.
Part 10, The Journey to Yola, presents a situation of ‘a
prophet is not celebrated in his hometown but elsewhere’.
Part 11, Lecturer by Chance, tells the story of how I
stumbled into teaching and excelled against many odds.
Part 12, Tribute to my Parents, is the principal reason
for writing this book. The story is told of a father who
ensured that his children had the western education that
he so desired but never had.
Part 13, Meeting my Wife, is a story that will make
Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet come a distant second!
Part 14, the birth of Recipe for Successful Residency Training,
details how the idea was conceived of writing my first
booklet, and the success story so far.
Part 15, The Dark Days, re-echoes the fact that no
matter how careful and authentic one is, trouble may still
skulk and find one somewhere, somehow, someday.
The appendices contain some of my write-ups from
medical school to the residency days. I picked only a
few to highlight the passion I have for writing despite
the busy schedule in a country where the doctor-patient
ratio is 1:3,500 against the World Health Organisation’s

33
A Father’s Legacy

(WHO) standard of 1:600.

In this book, I relate my experiments in life as I tell
the story of my parents. Part 12 is devoted entirely to
the tribute but that alone does not make the book. What
I have done is not to write an autobiography, but I have
done what Mathew Kukah writes in his book Witness to
Justice, “I consider myself saddled with the task of trying to tell a
story. I want to tell the story of Nigeria.” Similarly, what I have
attempted to do is to tell my story. As Chinua Achebe
said, “If you don’t like someone’s story, write your own.” This is
probably what we need in this country so that many more
people will tell their stories. This way Nigeria, and indeed
the world, would learn useful lessons.
To maintain the privacy and even the security of some
people, I have changed their names and in some instances,
their locations, but the story is told the way that it is.

34
PART TWO
THE FORMATIVE YEARS

“Do not pray for an easy life; pray for the strength to endure a
difficult one.”

Bruce Lee

G rowing up in Mambilla Plateau was great fun. A

land literally filled with milk and honey. Although
my parents were from Gwoza Local Government Area
of Borno state, the place that I know as home is Gembu
town in Mambilla Plateau. That is where I had my primary
and secondary school education. Many of my childhood
friends and acquaintances are from the plateau. It is
generally believed that the friends that a person makes
during his or her formative years are likely to be that
person’s source of strength, rather than the friends made
when a person is already established, although with some
exceptions. On 27th May 1967, I was delivered in Gembu,
at home into a black calabash, which my mother later
showed me when I was in primary school. The calabash
was stony hard and as black as a pot. I also had the

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A Father’s Legacy

privilege of seeing the towel that I had used as a new-

born. In those days, there were no nursery schools in the
plateau. All that we had were primary schools, a secondary
school, a teachers college and a vocational training centre.
In fact, I was already a university student when I learnt of
nursery schools.
The population of Gembu then was such that
everybody knew virtually all the inhabitants. Our house
is located at about 100 metres from the chief ’s palace in
Fadawa quarters, formally known as ‘Gada’. Adjacent to
the west of our house then was the forestry office and the
area court. The central masjid (mosque) lay opposite our
house while the prison is still a stone’s throw from our
house. My father was among the wealthy in Gembu by
the standards of those years.
My childhood was really great and full of unforgettable
experiences. I do not have photographs of my early days
in Gembu as photographs were luxuries in those days.
The only photo that I have was taken when I was about
10 years old. It was my elder brother, Umar Bukar, who
organised for the picture in 1977. When he explained
to us that we would go for a picture that evening after
meals, I was understandably excited. I do not remember
whether we had a class photograph before then, but this
was the first photograph that I remember. Then I was so
used to the habit of over-eating that my elder brother, I
remember, advised me to eat less in preparation for the
picture. I do not remember whether I complied or not,

38
 The Formative Years

but what I still remember vividly is that my elder brother

instructed me to fold my arms over my belly so that it
would not protrude and ‘spoil’ the picture. It was after I
had given a draft of this manuscript to my elder brother,
Barrister Babagoni Bukar that he stumbled across a
picture taken during my early days in primary school. It
was a treasure indeed.
My eldest son, who is now 16 years old, also engages
with great pleasure in the act of over-eating. I do not
know whether this is coincidental or genetic. His eating
habit is such that his weight now stands at 76kg at 16
years of age, a deep source of worry for me that perhaps
never disturbed my parents as the understanding of such
weights differs between then and now.
My father was devout and faithful. I was like his
‘handbag’ when I was growing up. Whenever he went to
the mosque, I was always with him. This endeared me to
many of his contemporaries. I remember that the deputy
imam, Mallam Belal of blessed memory used to shower
me with presents. The one that I still remember was a cap,
with green and white stripes, similar to today’s ‘damanga’.
That was while I was in primary school.
The house adjacent to ours to the east was where the
alkalis (native judges) were usually housed. As was the
tradition in those days, everybody was truly his brothers’
keeper and neighbours were treated with utmost courtesy.
So, our families became very close to all the native judges
in the neighbourhood. Specifically, there were two of

39
A Father’s Legacy

them who shaped my life, one positively and the other

negatively. In fact, those experiences remind me of a
Chinese proverb which states that, ‘A child’s life is like a
piece of paper on which every person leaves a mark’.
I was about seven years old then when our neighbour,
Alkali Karimu of blessed memory requested of my father
that he liked me so much that he would want to take me
with him when he was transferred out of Gembu. My
father agreed. I learned later that my mother, an introvert
who spoke only when necessary, protested against my
father’s decision but her view was overruled. My mother’s
reaction was understandable because I was the youngest
child; the chemistries of a mother and her youngest child
are usually intricately interwoven. There are very few
women in the class of my mother, so noble and non-
materialistic.
When Alkali Karimu was transferred out of Gembu,
he took me along with him. Although he had two wives
then, he was childless. That may have been the reason why
he had wanted to foster a child. I do not remember the
journey to Auno in Borno state, but I do remember with
unimagined precision the events that played out while I
was in Auno. I was enrolled into a school and I remember
a very close friend whose name I cannot now recall. I
doubt that he still remembers me anyway. The house that
we lived in was located close to the main road. It was
the typical traditional setting with the head of the house
having a separate apartment from the wives. I still cherish

40
 The Formative Years

this arrangement compared to what we have today. I lived

in the room of the first wife, although with my own bed.
What I went through in Auno at the hands of the
husband and wife betrayed the love the former professed
to have had for me when he took me away from the
angelic arms of my mother. Whenever I have a flashback
on my unpleasant experience in Auno, I often liken it
to Kunta Kinte’s travails in Alex Haley’s book, Roots.
Whenever I misbehaved, I would receive the beating
of my life. I became so pathologically fearful that, in
whatever I did, I was always careful not to incur the wrath
of my foster parents. I remember one incident when my
amulet (laya) fell under the bed. I could not complain
to my foster mother because that would mean a severe
flogging. Up to the time that I left Auno, that amulet was
never recovered. This also suggested to me that I was not
really looked after because if the amulet was not hanging
around one’s neck, it should be obvious and questions
should ordinarily be asked about the whereabouts of the
amulet. Another incident was when the wife cooked up a
story of what I did not do on an errand that she had sent
me on. When the alkali came, she told him the fabricated
story. He splashed hot water on me and I ran out, but like
the goldfish I had no hiding place!
Professor Abdullahi Mahadi, after reviewing my
manuscript added some insight into the use of laya.
He wrote: “In those days, the late 1950s and early 1960s, the
wearing of laya, amulets, guru, and other forms of what we now

41
A Father’s Legacy

frown at was fashionable, in fact, an act of necessity, either for

“protection’’ against evil people or “shatan’’, or attracting fortunes.
Nothing was taken for granted. Imaginary enemies were all over
the place then. I can recall, vividly that many women tacked laya in
their plaited hair. Virtually all children wore laya. Venal mallams
made a fortune out of ignorant Muslims.’’
I still remember, vividly, that whenever my father came
to visit, the impression Alkali Karimu gave him was that
he was taking very good care of me. I remember once my
father came and the alkali invited me to his room where I
met him seated with my father. He appeared very friendly
to me in the presence of my father, but I am sure that
my father would have observed the stage play directed
and acted out by the alkali. My father was too intelligent
to have missed such window dressings. My father always
gave some money for my upkeep but sincerely, I never
felt really taken care of. At other times, probably my
father sensed that I was not cared for adequately, so he
would give me some money, but immediately he left I had
to surrender the money to the ‘rightful owners’.
I remember yet another incident when my father
brought me a balloon. As a child I was very excited. On
his return from work, the alkali saw me excited with my
balloon. He then collected it and blew it until it burst.
He then laughed. I cannot find a word to describe the
laughter, but fiendish would probably be the closest to
it. That attitude, to a child, was the height of hatred and
disdain.

42
 The Formative Years

Sometimes during evening meals, I would be ordered

to give the rest of my meal to the almajirai when I was not
done with it yet (the almajirai is explained by Ahmed Joda
in the Daily Trust Newspaper of Wednesday, 9th April 2014,
page 49 under the title Almajirai and other challenges of the
North as, “The actual meaning of the word almajiri (singular),
almajirai (plural), is student and students. However, because of
the way the system has come to be viewed, it conveys a meaning of
‘beggar children’, not its real meaning of children seeking knowledge
for its sake. In real life today, these children are not actually in
Quranic schools learning Islam and imbibing its teachings. They are
children born and abandoned by their parents. They are children at
the most tender and vulnerable stages of their lives uncared for by
their parents and unrecognised by the authorities and society. They
grow to adulthood without the parental care or guidance that every
child is entitled to. No-one knows, or cares, where they sleep, with
whom they interact or what kind of lives they lead. Their permanent
abodes are in the motor parks, market stalls, brothels and drug and
drinking joints. Few, if any, are actually in the so-called Quranic
schools.”) But in order not to incur their wrath I would do
it without protest. Getting to the almajirai, I would quickly
take a portion of the food and swallow it before dashing
back to the house.
Whenever I see almajirai on my way to work or
while travelling, I often weep for my country and I feel
aghast at successive governments that have abandoned
my country’s future leaders to rot away. Some of the
security challenges that Nigeria is facing today are a direct

43
A Father’s Legacy

consequence of this neglect. But the government alone

cannot clear the Augean stables. As privileged Nigerians,
we also owe Nigeria a duty to be part of the education of
this unfortunate collection of the dregs of our society. If
for example, I decide to train one or two almajirai and my
neighbour does the same thing, wouldn’t the number of
these street urchins go down? By so doing we would also
be indirectly securing the future of our children as the
almajirai would not go to bed hungry and so would allow
our children to enjoy the good things that life can offer.
By looking the other way, we are also putting the lives of
our children in peril as these uneducated youngsters will
grow into gangsters and become a menace to all.
The first incident that almost cost me my life happened
after a hunting exercise. Many of us were in the back
of a Land Rover, while the alkali and his driver were in
the front. After the hunting – I do not even remember
what we had actually hunted that day – I was left in
the bush. That was my home for the night. Where I lay
still, curled up in the harmattan cold, an animal came
very close to me, sniffed for a while and then left. To
date, I cannot tell the kind of animal that it was. All I
remember though is that I was terribly frightened. I lay
still without any thought. One can only make conjectures
as to the kind of animal that it was and what could have
happened to me that night. Was it a dog, a hyena, or any
of the predators that were looking for prey in the dark?
The following morning, a good Samaritan found me and

44
 The Formative Years

asked me where I was from. I told him that I was from

the house of Alkali Karimu and he graciously took me
there. Coincidentally, we arrived at a time when the alkali
was on his way out. The good Samaritan handed me over
to a man who expectedly should have been happy, but
whose expression, if I still remember very well, did not
show any sign of joy upon the discovery of a lost child.
Back in Gembu, a new judge had assumed office. So
we had a new neighbour. His name was Alkali Shettima
Bukar. I do not know what took him to Auno, but he
took me away from Auno and we headed for Gembu. I
cannot remember the type of car that it was but in those
days the cars that could withstand the rough terrain of
the plateau were mostly Land Rovers. I sat at the back
with the son of the alkali named Mamman Shettima. On
our journey, it rained cats and dogs and more often than
not I saw Mamman drop, chase some animals away and
return to join the moving car. Years after my graduation
from the university, I asked Mamman what he had chased
away while we were on that journey, but he could not
remember the episode.
The road to Gembu was terribly bad, yet the incidence
of accidents was low. In those days, during the rainy season,
people spent days getting to Gembu from Serti (Baruwa),
which is just about 148 kilometres from Gembu. When
Ali Mazrui of blessed memory observed that, “In some
parts of Africa, when you see someone driving straight, he must be
drunk”, he was probably referring to Gembu road!

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A Father’s Legacy

On arrival at Gembu, my mother cried the whole

day because I was brought back sick, untidy and with
smelling wounds on my forehead, knees and legs – the
typical almajirai trademarks. I was truly a shadow of my
former self, as I was told later. My mother was vindicated
after all for her initial protest against giving me away to a
stranger. Nagarjuna, a philosopher, said, “The logs of wood
which move down the river together are driven apart by every wave.
Such inevitable parting should not be the cause of misery.” To
my parents and me, such parting was really a big cause
of misery! Yes, indeed. If I had not been rescued early
enough by Alkali Shettima who took me back to my
parents, I might have been with my ancestors by now. I
remain eternally grateful to Alkali Shettima of blessed
memory and to his son, Mamman Shettima.
Thankfully, I was able to show my appreciation to
Alkali Shettima when he retired to his home town in
Bama Local Government Area of Borno state. As fate
would have it, I also spent one year in Bama as a medical
officer, when Alkali Shettima was the Mai kinendibe (one
of the king makers) of Bama Emirate Council. Whenever
I visited the family in Bama, we would discuss more of
family issues. I never asked him the issue surrounding
how and why he took me away from Auno, but for the
benefit of hindsight I should have asked him. My father
probably requested him to do so, just as he sent my cousin
Mallam Abdullahi to Maiduguri, to take my elder brother,
Umar Bukar, back to Gembu. My father did that when he

46
 The Formative Years

observed that the training that he intended for Umar was

not what he was being given in Maiduguri.
Alkali Shettima Bukar died on 28th August, 2008.
It was a reunion of sort at his burial in Bama with his
children who we had lost contact with for a long time.
I was glad that I attended the burial of someone who
had pulled me away from the precipice. Because of my
sojourn in Auno, my friends nicknamed me mammadu
Auno. I considered it derogatory and I often fought back
at those who called me such names.
Some years after my graduation from the university, I
narrated to someone the bitter experience that I had had
in Auno under Alkali Karimu. I condemned in strong
terms the culture of a child leaving his or her parents
where he or she gets three square meals, for a faraway
location where he or she is forced to depend on the
crumbs from the table of other people, some of who
may not be as wealthy as his or her father back home.
He argued that such experiences were necessary for a
child to succeed in life. I totally disagreed but he insisted,
using me as an example. I explained to him that my case
was different because I went back to my parents after
those years of torment. I challenged him to give, from
the street urchins that littered and still litter the streets of
Maiduguri and other northern states, examples of those
who have eventually become successful. As the whole
argument and justification for the harmful tradition
dragged on for too long, I remembered what Edward

47
A Father’s Legacy

Murphy said, “Never argue with an idiot. They drag you down to
their level and then beat you with experience.”
I lost some time before starting school because of
my sickness. Daily, I was taken to the dispensary. It was
about a one kilometre walk from our house. Different
people took me to the dispensary at different times.
Along the way, some of them, frustrated by the daily
routine, would knock me hard on the head whenever my
pace became too slow for their patience. Mr. Stephen, a
calm, fine gentleman, was the head of the dispensary. He
and his staff painstakingly cleaned my wounds until they
had healed completely; although both the physical and
emotional scars still remained. Sometime in 2011 I was
told by my neighbour in Maiduguri, the capital of Borno
state, that Mr. Stephen was admitted at the University of
Maiduguri Teaching Hospital where I now work. I was
glad to hear that he was still alive as he was already of
middle age when I was in my first decade of life. I had
plans to stop by in Serti, Gashaka Local Government
Area in Taraba state, whenever I took that route, to say a
big thank you to Mr. Stephen. Although I was a child at
the time, I still remember the commitment and dedication
to duty exhibited by Mr. Stephen and his colleagues.
After my recuperation in 1976, at the age of nine I was
finally enrolled at Nurul-Ulum Primary School. It was at
Nurul-Ulum that I made friends like Musa Halilu, Ahmed
Halilu, Bashiru Aliyu, Umaru Hamman, Isa Sarkin
Zongo, Musa Hamman, Halilu Hamman and Barkindo

48
 The Formative Years

Saidu. Others were Abubakar Usman Girei, Ali Aji Goro,

Kabiru Sa’ad, Ya’u Salihu, Shuaibu Mansur, Ali Mansur
and many others who I cannot now remember, but who
were by no means less important to me. One incident
that devastated me as a boy was when Bashir Aliyu left
Gembu. Before then I had dreamt that they would leave
Gembu, but I had prayed that the dream would not come
to pass. But unfortunately, it did come to pass. As children,
we were very close and even our parents recognised the
special bond that existed between us.
I also remember that I saw in a dream Prophet
Mohammad (peace be upon him) on a horse. When I
narrated the story to some senior colleagues the following
day, one of them responded that it was not possible for
me to dream about the prophet. Whatever gave him that
impression, I do not know. But my story was cast in stone.
Is it written anywhere about who should and who should
not dream about matters of spirituality? Can any mortal
control the nature and subject of his dreams?
My first three years in primary school were really rough
as I often took positions near the lowest rung of the class
ladder. I still remember that once I came 26th out of 28
pupils. It was a very dismal performance by any standard.
When my colleagues would eagerly run home with their
academic performance reports I, very reluctantly, would
wander aimlessly until dusk. But that hardly changed
anything as my father would always inquire about my
performance. My father would make me a laughing

49
A Father’s Legacy

stock whenever his friends came on a visit. He called me

mammadu last; I hated this phrase with a passion because
it was really embarrassing to me. Interestingly, I have tried
the same thing on my eldest son but it appears not to
bother him at all. So, like father like son really does not
hold at all times. However, Umar and Aisha in primary
five and four respectively, are among the top ten in their
classes.
One incident that still appears fresh in my memory
was when my father asked me to read to him a letter
written by an acquaintance. At that level, I had difficulties
reading and understanding the contents and so I had just
made a guess of what I assumed was written. Soon after,
his friend came on a visit and he decided to give him the
letter to be read and alas, what the friend explained was
at variance with what I had told my father. The bashing
I received left me weeping all day and I felt terribly hurt.
Perhaps those were the challenges I needed to ginger me
up.
From my fourth year in primary school, there was a
noticeable improvement in my academic performance.
That year I was seventh in position. This was truly a giant
leap from position 26 to position seven. Prior to that
time rumour had it that some water with healing powers
had been discovered somewhere in Borno state around
1979/1980. My father had this troubling asthma which
was quite disturbing. So, he decided to take me along to
where the water was discovered. We got to the place near

50
 The Formative Years

dusk and the beehive of activity there was revealing. My

father paid someone who got us the water. After my dad
had gulped his share, he had handed over the bowl to
me and had asked that I should pray about my dismal
academic performance before drinking the water, and I
did just that. This reminds me of a saying that, ‘the pains
of a father are secret, so are his joys’.
Childhood experiences in a rural setting are mostly
interesting to recall. When it rained in Gembu then, we
would run out to pick ice blocks. At times the pieces of
ice would be so big that they would leave holes in the
rusty roofing sheets popularly called zinc. Any child who
grew up in a rural area will remember also the mud game.
We would go out in the rain, run into pools of water
and go back home soaked in mud. Our parents would
just take off our dress and have us put on another one.
Parents in rural areas realised long ago that such types of
play are part of the developmental milestones of a child –
something which scientists discovered much later. Today,
our children in the cities do not have such luxuries. They
miss out on opportunities to interact, as it were, with their
peers from different backgrounds and when they grow up
they become less witty than the typical village boy. Even
within cities, those who grew in the ghettos can easily
be distinguished from those who grew in highbrow areas
like the Victoria Islands, Maitama’s, GRAs, and the like.
Today, what we have in the cities are what the Americans
call ‘helicopter parents’. We always want to hover over

51
A Father’s Legacy

our children thinking that they are safe only when kept
in view. One would want to ask, what happens if one
suddenly drops dead?
Certain experiences like bed-wetting can be
embarrassing, especially if they happen at a time when
one is expected to have outgrown such behaviours. Many
of my contemporaries then had the challenge of bed
wetting and even today many of our children do. It is
such a common phenomenon that it could be considered
a part of normal childhood development process. In
fact, the problem of bed-wetting then was as endemic as
corruption is in Nigeria today.
Something dramatic happened before one of my very
close friends finally stopped bed wetting. Our house
in Gembu was always a beehive of activities and many
Islamic scholars (mallams) who came from Borno were
accommodated in our house. One of such mallams, named
Mallam Ali, heard about the plight of my friend and wrote
something for him on a wooden slate (allo), gave it to him
to wash and instructed that he drink the solution. That
was how he bade farewell to bed wetting. Whether what
Mallam Ali gave him really was magic water or whether
it was just a coincidence, I do not know. But what is
important is not the academic exercise or the science
behind it; it is the fact that he stopped bed wetting. This
reminds me of a joke that we were told about a down-
to-earth professor who did not believe in superstition or
fetishism. The professor went on sabbatical to a troubled

52
 The Formative Years

area where men of the underworld held sway. One day,

his old friends from the university visited him and found
a stick with some charms hung on it at the entrance to
his house. It was the type of charm used in the area for
protection against attack by men of the underworld.
The visitors were bewildered to see such things because
they knew the professor’s stand on such issues. After
exchanging pleasantries, they asked the professor to
explain the meaning of what they had seen hanging
outside. The professor just smiled and assured them that
he still did not believe in such things. But because of the
happenings around town he had just decided to hang it
there in case it worked!
I recall my encounter with one of the mallams who,
in retrospect, I suspect was a fraudster. He asked me to
get some clean water for him in a bowl. He then spread
some Arabic inscriptions on the cover of the bowl and
asked me to open the bowl. He then asked me what I saw
in the bowl and I replied ‘nothing’. He then instructed
me to cover the bowl. After that he chanted some
incantations and asked me to open the bowl the second
time. Behold, the bowl was filled with freshly minted
money of different denominations! He then emptied the
bowl and spread the naira notes on a rope. When they
dried, he gave me 10 naira only out of the bounty and
promised to show me how to make money using mystic
powers as he had demonstrated to me if I gave him my
new pyjamas. The pyjamas were brand new and I could

53
A Father’s Legacy

not just part with them. Later, I realised that the mallam
had just wanted my pyjamas and so decided to play a hoax
on me. I thank God that I did not give him the pyjamas
because it would definitely have been a double tragedy
for me – there would have been no mints (newly printed
naira notes), and no pyjamas. But I actually asked him for
the explanation of what had happened. He told me that it
was the jinni that brought the money either from the bank
or from somebody’s pocket! He said the unfortunate man
would just discover that his money was missing. One
would wonder what difference there is between his action
and outright theft or even robbery. The only difference is
that bank theft and pick-pockets are physical thefts while
his is spiritual. The former is admissible in court, whereas
the latter is purely a spiritual crime not admissible in any
western court.
During Ramadan, our parents often encouraged us to
participate in the fasting exercise. They often reminded
us that we had come of age and so should start gradual
participation in the exercise. But for us as children, fasting
was more of a deprivation than a fulfilment of any
religious obligation. I remember an episode with Halilu
during one of the fasting periods. We got some money,
bought bread and milk and went straight to the football
field of Nurul-Ulum Primary School. We sat there behind
the goal post, did justice to the bread and milk and then
headed back home. When it was time to break the fast, we
all joined the family in breaking the fast as no-one knew

54
 The Formative Years

or suspected our exploits.

Although ours was a well-to-do family, when I was in
primary school, rice and stew was an occasional delicacy.
It was mostly reserved for festive periods. The meat
served on our meals was usually not big enough to satiate
our appetite for animal protein but my father’s dish was
often replete with meat. Late Professor Dora Akunyili, in
her book The War Against Counterfeit Medicine-My Story also
wrote, “We only ate rice on Sunday afternoons, as a luxury.” So,
village life in Nigeria has some similarities irrespective of
the region.
When a delicacy was prepared in our house, we often
made noise about it. The superior delicacy was rice with
chicken soup. After the meal, we deliberately washed our
hands only partially so that the aroma would stay around
our hand for a while. When we went out to play, we then
put our hand on or close to the nose of a friend and the
message thus passed.
Another event that almost took my life happened when
I went to swim with my childhood friend, Ya’u Salihu. He
was conversant with the geography of the river while I
was not. As I stepped into a deep portion of the river, the
wave just dragged me forcefully. I struggled with straw
and with anything that was handy but that didn’t help
until my friend, who was close by, rushed towards me
and pulled me out. This reminds me of the saying that,
‘A drowning man will clutch at straws but straws are of little help
in heavy seas’.

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A Father’s Legacy

There was a man named Ngemda who often visited

our house. One day, as I stood beside him on the balcony
of our house watching a traditional dance in front of the
Emir’s palace, he asked me to open my mouth. Lo and
behold, he cleared his throat and spat into my mouth.
To this day, I still feel nauseated when I remember the
ugly episode. Just like it is written on drug labels ‘keep all
medicines out of the reach of children’, so people like Ngemda
are dangerous to children and so children should be kept
far away from their reach.
When I was in primary five, two young princesses
joined our class; one of them I shared a bench with was
named Dadaji. Years later, Dadaji became the mother-
in-law of Musa Halilu, a childhood friend of mine.
Whenever I see Musa’s wife, Hadiza (who now has five
lovely kids), I remember the bench that I shared with her
mother over three decades ago. Whenever I reflect on
such events I do appreciate the saying that the world is a
small place.
By the time that I was in my final year in primary
school, I was among the top 10. In fact, I knew enough
to help the weaker pupils like my old friend Yusuf, while
I was also being helped by a brighter pupil, Ahmed Halilu
Hong. However, when we wrote the exit examination
(known as common entrance), I failed. Many of my
colleagues were surprised; so was I. During one morning
assembly, the headmaster, Mallam Iliyasu, a dedicated and
principled fellow of blessed memory, asked anyone who

56
 The Formative Years

had expected to pass but who had not done so to indicate

by raising his or her hand. I did not. Shuaibu Mansur, a
very good friend, insisted that I should raise my hand,
but I refused. My refusal was purely out of anger and
annoyance that many who knew little had passed while
one of the so called ‘top guys’ had failed! This was
another bitter experience during my formative years. So,
my classmates proceeded to secondary school while I had
to repeat the class.
Because of the embarrassment associated with that
failure, my cousin Mallam Abdullahi Bukar, who was the
headmaster of Wuro Ardo Primary School, transferred
me to his school. After completion with flying colours,
I attended an interview for Arabic Teachers’ College
(ATC) and three of us were selected. The joy that I
felt when the result was announced was immeasurable.
My father had not wanted me to go to ATC which was
located at Song Local Government Area of the defunct
Gongola state, now Adamawa state. His reason had been
that it was far away from home. Probably the neglect that
I had suffered at Auno also played a part in his hesitation.
But for me it was either ATC or no further education. I
remember protesting vehemently when I was asked to go
to a secondary school. I had no particular reason for the
preference; I just wanted to be in ATC.
Despite the fact that he had no formal education,
my father was so interested in education. He wanted his
children to have both western and Quranic education

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A Father’s Legacy

simultaneously. So, we would go to western school in the

morning and to Quranic school in the evening. Despite
this tight schedule, we still found time to have some
fun. The Quranic school we attended was not actually a
school; we took the lessons in the parlour of the chief
imam of Gembu, Baba Liman. Baba Liman was a learned
elderly man. He was a full-time imam and his focus was
not on the mundane things but on the hereafter. By the
time that I was in primary six, I had already completed
the Holy Quran and had read three other books – Ahlari,
Qawaidi and Ashmawi. Achieving such feats at primary
school level requires determined parents. While weekends
were the holidays from the western school, Thursdays
and Fridays were the holidays from the Quranic school.
We always looked forward to these days, as they were the
opportunities that we had to go wild. The Quranic lessons
that we obtained are not the same with the Sangaya system
where the children go begging after lessons. In fact, at
that time in Gembu, there were no almajirai.
I was in secondary school when the news spread one
morning that Baba Liman had passed on. When we got
close to his house, the sea of people we saw sent tears
flowing. That day, Gembu literally stood still and paid
homage to a colossus. Shakespeare wrote, “When beggars
die there are no comets seen, but the heavens themselves blaze forth
the death of princes.” I think that Shakespeare’s description
captures well the honour that attended the demise of
Baba Liman of blessed memory.

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 The Formative Years

My father took a third wife who we popularly called

‘Yawo’. She was the middle-aged and light-complexioned
sister of one Alkali Bakari Mayo-Balwa who was a bosom
friend of my dad. Yawo had no child of her own. She
played many tricks on us when we were young. When
she sent us on errands and wanted us to make it snappy,
she would spit on the dusty ground and say that we
must return before the saliva dried up otherwise we
would be dead. We would then dash out and return with
such a speed that would have made Usain Bolt envious.
Whether such tricks were helpful or not, is debatable,
but they sure would not delay the meal. I remember an
episode when she scolded me and said that I looked like a
monkey, when I had frowned after many errands in quick
succession. I was visibly annoyed but then she reminded
me that comparing a person to a monkey is a compliment
as monkeys are beautiful creatures. I then relaxed because
there was a monkey in our neighbourhood which did not
look ugly anyway. But much later I realised that there
were many species of monkey.
Certain things that happen in the hinterland are
difficult to explain logically or with any scientific basis.
On a rare sunny day in Gembu, a durbar was organised
for the Sallah celebrations. There was an elderly man
named sarkin bambadawa (the head of the palace band).
He did three things simultaneously, an act which up to this
date remains inexplicable to me. Riding gently on a horse
towards the front of the palace, he played the drum and

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blew the flute simultaneously. How a man on horseback

can display such skill is something extraordinary. Also,
it was not a circus performance; it was just an ordinary
durbar! The way that this elderly man displayed a mastery
of complex skills simultaneously could place him in the
Guinness Book of Records if it were in this digital age.
My father once had an extraordinary experience.
I was with a friend whose name I cannot now recall.
There was a heap of timber in front of our neighbour’s
house. The timber belonged to my father. There came a
water hawker (these people were popularly called garuwa,
literally meaning ‘here is water’ and were mostly of the
mumuye tribe) who just picked a piece of the timber. My
father, who was standing in front of our house with
Alkali Shettima Bukar of blessed memory, queried the
garuwa for the theft but the garuwa did not even answer
my dad. He went away with the timber. When the garuwa
returned to pick a second piece of timber, we saw what
he was doing but my dad did not even turn to his side
and so, with impunity, the garuwa stole all the timber in
broad daylight. This again is something that I found no
explanation for. We have had stories of the mysticism of
the mumuyes. Could that be one story of such mysticism?
There was also a mystery man who played with
chickens. One day during a show, he challenged anyone
who could hold down a chicken. Both the lean and the
hefty men tried to hold down his chicken but no-one
succeeded. Then came a childhood friend of mine called

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 The Formative Years

Bada who succeeded in doing that and he was rewarded

with a certain amount of money that I do not remember.
After that show, Bada literally became a hero among
his peers. Why others who were heftier than Bada were
unable to hold down the chicken was something that
many could just not explain.
Superstitious beliefs abound in rural settings. For
instance, when one’s palm itches, the belief is that one
will make money. Surprisingly, sometimes it happens.
Again, whether this superstition holds or whether it is
just a coincidence is debatable. However, when the palm
of my cousin, Mallam Abdullahi Bukar itched, he would
ask me to scratch it so that I could also enjoy the blessing
by proxy. I would do that with all seriousness but it never
worked. Not even once! The other one that I remember
is that when birds’ excreta drop on one’s head, one will
make money. In several instances this one came to pass.
But occasionally when I was broke I would stay under a
tree hoping that the excreta would drop on my head. Often
times this exercise was, to say the least, frustrating and
fruitless. These are, however, harmless beliefs. One belief
that may be harmful is a misconception about Ha’aram
day, in the Muslim month of Muharram. On that day, we
engaged in over-eating. We were told by our peers that on
that night nothing bad would happen to anyone. We also
erroneously believed that things that were considered to
be unlawful became lawful for that night only. We often
visited the stream on that night to bathe because we were

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made to believe that nothing bad would happen to us.

Nothing bad did ever happened to us anyway despite our
exploits. Unfortunately, this information was obtained
from peers and not handed down to us from our parents
or from religious leaders. This is a dangerous belief that
should not be passed down to the younger generation.
Giving the youths a night of absolute freedom to do
anything can lead to unimaginable consequences not only
for the youths but for society at large. There is a world of
difference between the analogue youths of the past and
the digital youths of the 21st century.
Childhood innocence did attract some unpleasantness
at times. One evening, I sat with my father on the veranda
of his apartment after having conveyed a message to him
from my mother. Then, he asked me who I loved more
between him and my mother. My answer was swift and
straightforward – my mother! My father then said that
henceforth, whenever I had problems I should go to
the one I loved to solve my problems. That was when
it dawned on me that I had goofed. I gave the honest
answer which turned out to be like a trigger; once it had
been pulled, it could not be retracted. The same scene
played out in my home when I asked my eldest son the
same question. But my youngest daughter, at six years
of age, did answer the question differently. Whenever I
asked her in the presence of her mother who she loved
more, her answer would always be both of us. This was
what her father failed to realise when he was even much

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 The Formative Years

older than she now is.

My father was a disciplinarian. That was why
whenever I had problems I often ran into the warm and
willing embrace of my mother. As a child, I was very
adventurous. Because of my exploits, I often tore new
clothes in a matter of days. My mother became so fed up
with this recurring problem that she sewed a tarpaulin for
me. That brought only a short respite to my parents as
the tarpaulin soon went the way of its predecessors. I had
a similar challenge with my eldest son when he was about
10 years old. The tarpaulin we sewed for him also went
the way that my tarpaulin had gone when I was about his
age.
In the course of our adventures, Ahmed and I did run
into troubles. We once hired a bicycle and rode towards
the Government Rest House in Gembu, which was
located behind the football field of Nurul-Ulum Primary
School. Ahmed sat at the back while I rode the bicycle.
As we took off, we asked Musa to give us a little push,
and that push almost ruined us. As the bicycle sped off
towards the steep, I realised that we had overshot the
‘speed limit’. It was when I tried to apply the brakes
that I realised that there were really no brakes or that
the brakes had failed. We narrowly escaped falling into a
stream and headed down a valley. Down in the base of
the valley we hit a hill and Ahmed flew from the rear and
hit the valley just as I fell off the bicycle. When I stood
up after some groaning, Ahmed remained on the ground

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A Father’s Legacy

groaning and speechless. It was after a while that he was

able to talk. Soon after, we dusted our clothes and limped
home, with some minor bruises and a bicycle that could
no longer convey us back home. All three of us sustained
injuries: Ahmed, the bicycle and I. As a matter of fact,
the bicycle was terribly damaged as we had to drag it the
way one drags an unyielding goat to the slaughterhouse.
Some years later, we had a similar experience, but by that
time we had already graduated to a motorcycle. It took us
many months to complete the payment for the repair of
the motorcycle as we had concealed from our parents the
misfortunes that had resulted from our adventures.
When we were growing up, my immediate older
brother, Babagoni and I often had little brotherly conflicts.
I often underrated him and for that he never resisted from
beating me up whenever we were far from the presence
of my mother. Whenever I teased him and he wanted to
go after me, I would run to my safe haven – my mother.
Being my mother’s last child, I was overprotected and over-
pampered and that irritated many people around. Because
of my closeness to my mother, I was often referred to
as mammadu Asta. Asta was the shortened form of my
mother’s name.
Adjacent to our house was the Forestry Division, with
guava and papaw trees. One day, I spotted an overripe
guava at the pinnacle of one of the branches, so I decided
to go for it. My older brother, Babagoni was close by,
playing with one of his friends. Suddenly, the branch I

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 The Formative Years

held onto gave way. Before I knew it I was on the ground

humming in pain. Despite our incessant quarrels, Babagoni
rushed to me to find out what had happened. Truly, blood
is thicker than water.
Gembu has a temperate climate and the rainy season
lasts from mid-March to the end of November. So, the
weather is often cold. In those days when we were growing
up one needed no handkerchief to wipe off sweat. Such
was useful only if one was suffering from catarrh or if
it was simply used for fashion. In fact, houses were built
without fans and there was really no need for refrigerators.
Water stored in large traditional handmade water pots
would be as cool as though it had been refrigerated!
During the dry seasons, when the weather changes from
cold to hot, I often suffer a bleeding nose, a phenomenon
which my two sons have also inherited. One night, I had
what appeared to be a massive nose bleed and my dad
and cousin, Mallam Abdullahi took me to the general
hospital late in the night. As a child, I was not aware of
the consequences but I remember that my dad was visibly
disturbed when he observed the extent of blood loss.
In the hospital it was a male nurse who was on duty. He
cleaned my nose and gave me an injection. That was the
last time that I had a nose bleed. Now, with my medical
background, I just assume that the injection was vitamin
K. That was also what helped the troubling nose bleed
of my eldest son. But, unlike mine, his has not been
cured completely. It is noteworthy that in those days there

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were very few, if any, fake drugs despite the fact that
there was then no National Agency for Food and Drug
Administration and Control (NAFDAC) to police any
drug company or dealer.
I do not remember the exact age at which I was
circumcised but it was either seven or eight. Early that cold
morning, we were summoned to our neighbour’s house
(Alkali Shettima). Some five or so other children were
already there. Standing right there with an expressionless
face was the local circumciser named Magaji. Mallam
Magaji was a middle-aged man, jovial and full of life.
Everybody in Gembu knew what he did for a living and
so, seeing him in the early hours meant a ritual was about
to be performed. We were made to line up in a sitting
position on the bare floor. Mallam Magaji then took turns
slicing off our prepuces in single cuts with unimaginable
anatomic precision. We all tried with some measure of
success to feign stoicism. Without any pain relief we
endured it with some bouts of screaming and that was all.
After all, no-one had dared to cry out as that would have
created a spectacle and would have made one a subject of
ridicule. When it was my turn, I pleaded that I wanted to
visit the convenience. Expectedly, that request fell on deaf
ears. When I was in secondary school, my cousin, Mallam
Abdulahi occasionally reminded me of my timidity and of
the fruitlessness of my plea.
I do not remember what Magaji used to clean his knife
after each slicing, but the quick succession with which the

66
 The Formative Years

procedure was performed suggested that sterility of the

knife was not a priority. It is difficult for one to remember
what he used to stop the bleeding, but what is important
is that no-one suffered any immediate complications.
The wound of each was dressed with bandage and by the
seventh day, all was well.
During those seven days, we enjoyed extraordinary care.
Our meals were laden with chicken and every morning we
were served hot gruel. The day that the bandage was to be
removed, lukewarm water was used to soak the wound for
a while after which it was carefully peeled off. But despite
that, the exercise was not pleasant to remember. Soon after,
life returned to normal. Whenever we saw the circumciser,
we always avoided his path and if we crossed paths by
chance, he always teased us and brandished the tool of his
trade and so we often zoomed off. It was years later that
we had realised that a boy can only be circumcised once
and that there was really no need to be afraid of Mallam
Magaji after the act.
The life of a child is very dramatic. There was this
younger brother of my childhood friend who told us, and
we believed him then, that he ‘doubles money’. Whether
we actually believed him or whether we simply enjoyed the
booty is another story. Whenever we had a naira or two,
we often went searching for the ‘boy who doubles money’,
and he never disappointed us. We enjoyed this game and
continued until the ability to double money suddenly
vanished. At that point everyone knew the abracadabra

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A Father’s Legacy

and so the game was over for good. This story reminded
me of a book by one of the best thriller writers, James
Hadley Chase, Believe This – You’ll Believe Anything.
The first television set that I saw was at the chief ’s
palace. The palace was close to our house and so we
often went there at night. The chief, Alhaji Mohammadu
Mansur of blessed memory, was truly the father of all.
He was accommodating, generous, level-headed and not
materialistic at all. In fact, many of his daughters were
married to those who had no status in society. He was
indeed a rare gem. As children, we would sit in his parlour
to watch television with his children and with the children
of the have not’s. Most of the films that we watched were
Indian films. At that time we believed all that we saw, such
that when an actor died in one film and featured in another,
we would whisper among ourselves, “But this guy died before,
how come he resurrected!” If you wanted to hurt us badly, you
stopped us from going to watch films at the chief ’s palace.
Occasionally, the palace guards would stop some children
from getting into the palace, but for us neighbours, it was
an automatic ticket.
We were in primary school when the rural electrification
project was commissioned. One night, as we listened to a
folktale in front of our house, we saw for the first time
in our lives a glow from the pole that housed the bulb. It
gave out such brightness as we had not seen before. The
exhilaration that followed was infectious.
Folktales had become a part of our lives and we

68
 The Formative Years

often anxiously looked forward to them. Usually an

older woman, but not necessarily an elderly one, did
volunteer to tell a story. Such stories were fantastic and
neatly packaged. When one compares the bestsellers that
we have today with those stories that we were told after
dinner, in the open, under the moon or around the fire as
children, one can only sigh at the loss of great storytellers.
If our storytellers had had a formal education, many of
the bestsellers that we read today would be no match for
many of the stories that we were told as children.
The sound of large drums usually heralded either
the onset of the holy month of Ramadan or the eve of
Eid El fitr or Eid El Kabir Sallah. In the 70s, because very
few houses in Gembu had television sets, information
was mostly obtained via a transistor radio. However,
drumbeats announcing the sighting of the moon was what
informed people about the festival that would take place
the following day. We enjoyed participating in beating the
drum a lot. That was why we often looked forward to such
events. With advancement in technology, I do not know
whether such practice still holds today.
During the holy month of Ramadan, Muslims wake up
at dawn for Sahur, to take meals in readiness for fasting the
next day. Some may sleep so late that they find it difficult
to wake at the proper time while others might simply have
difficulty waking up. But a traditional masquerade, called
babakere (a group of youths with musical instruments
and funny attire) would ensure that people woke up at

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A Father’s Legacy

appropriate times. The babakere, with its few members,

would go around virtually all the nooks and crannies of
the town. Occasionally they stopped for a while and sang
at people’s doors. Many would give them some money and
at the end of Ramadan some babakeres would smile to the
‘banks’. This practice helped to keep the youths busy at
night as they had to sleep early and wake up before dawn
to actively participate in the exercise.
In 1982, a tribal war broke out in Gembu. The native
Mambilla tribe unleashed their anger on the Panso tribe.
The Panso people were industrious, the economic power
house of Gembu then. One morning I stood in front of
the central mosque with my childhood friend, Abubakar
Usman Girei. On the hills around the deputy imam’s
(naibi) house, we saw people with spears and shields, but
we could not discern what they were going after. Near
our house, beside the then magistrates’ court was another
group of men with spears and shields clad in traditional
regalia. Moving back and forth around the ‘troop’ which
was arranged in rows was a respected elder named Mallam
Yari Mbu. Mallam Yari Mbu was very close to the then
chief, Alhaji Mohammadu Mansur. Incidentally, Mallam
Yari Mbu was also a close friend of my father. We stood
close to the ‘troop’ in bewilderment, wondering what
would happen next. Not long after, some angry policemen
from the police station, which was not far from where we
stood, came and whisked off Mallam Yari Mbu. Surprised
at the sacrilege, the palace guards who were around when

70
 The Formative Years

the incident happened dashed to the chief and informed

him of what had happened. The chief sent a message,
we overheard, to the divisional police officer to release
Mallam Mbu. That plea was rejected because the police
had information that Mallam Mbu was involved in the
communal violence going on around us, something
unknown to the chief.
As children, we really did not know what all that meant.
So, we decided to take a walk. I went with two of my
friends, Yahaya Imam and the second friend whose name
I do not remember. On getting to Panso quarters, even
as children, we were overwhelmed by the magnitude of
the destruction done to the property of the Panso people.
Shops were ransacked; electronics were destroyed and
abandoned in the street. As we walked along the road that
led to Alhaji Audu Kome’s house, there was nowhere that
we could put our feet as the whole place was littered with
damaged electronic devices.
Not long after, mobile policemen (MOPOL) were
mobilised to control the situation. The mobile policemen
of those days were well trained, at least, so we thought.
Jumping out of a vehicle in full speed was as child’s play
to them. Despite this, even the MOPOL of those days
did commit some atrocities. They could brutalise innocent
people at will. Doling out lashes was commonplace to
them. Luckily, their stay in Gembu was not characterised
by accidental discharges or by the killing of innocent
people.

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A Father’s Legacy

Nigeria typically prided itself as a country free from

natural disasters, until recently when flood punctured that
belief. But something happened in Gembu sometime in
1986 which in retrospect casts a doubt on the immunity
from natural disasters that we had always proudly
brandished. One night, there was what seemed to be a
small earthquake. Stories were told by women of how
their dishes fell off the counters as a result of the quake.
The additional information that I obtained in the course
of writing this book indicates that another earthquake
happened in Gembu sometime in 1992, which was similar
to what happened in Bamenda in Cameroon. Could these
events be pointers to bigger disasters in future? Or is it true
that some powerful countries tested their newly developed
bombs in Cameroon, the after effects of which were felt in
Gembu, as some would want us to believe? Nevertheless,
in more organised societies, such events would have been
thoroughly investigated and measures would have been
put in place to warn inhabitants of possible quakes in the
future.

A night in a forest, in Auno

72
PART THREE
A TWIST OF FATE AT ARABIC
TEACHERS’ COLLEGE, SONG

“My heroes are the ones who survived doing it wrong, who made
mistakes, but recovered from them.”

Bono

T he first time that I left Gembu on my own was for

Song town in Song Local Government Area of
then Gongola state (now Adamawa state) to start my
post primary education at the Arabic Teachers’ College
(ATC). Leaving Gembu for other towns was something
that every youth among us looked forward to. To be in a
vehicle for hours, we thought, was a great experience as
the only occasional such opportunity one had then was
short trips within the small town of Gembu. That was a
rare opportunity indeed. As I noted earlier, my father had
never wanted me to go to ATC but my insistence yielded
results and so I was allowed to go where I wanted to be.
Early on a rainy morning in 1982, the driver of the
bus that would convey us to Yola, the capital of the

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A Father’s Legacy

then Gongola state, parked in front of our house. My

father accompanied me to the vehicle and offered fervent
prayers for journey mercies just before I boarded. The
journey to Yola was full of uncertainties as it was my first
independent trip. When I saw a mirage, I assumed that it
was water, but as we approached it, it disappeared! That
intrigued me so much that I kept looking out for the next
‘water’ which, like the wind that one cannot hold, would
again disappear as we approached. It was really a mirage
in the real sense of the word. When we got to Yola, I
had to find the house of the late Alhaji Yusuf Imam, the
son of the chief imam of Gembu and a one-time Khadi,
who was also a family friend. Alhaji Yusuf Imam was an
embodiment of humility. He was extraordinarily honest
and deeply religious. Alone in the heat and the unbearable
humidity of Yola, I located the house of Alhaji Yusuf near
the Lamido’s palace. Then I was 16. Today my eldest son
at 16 hardly runs errands far from home unaccompanied.
He always has someone around when he has to go far.
Most families consider it unreasonable to allow a minor
to travel alone these days. It is all about the changing
trends. Like the Hausa would say ‘in kidi, ya chanja, rawa
ma zai chanja’, meaning ‘if the beat changes, the dance steps will
also change’.
The next morning, I set out for my destination, Song,
which was about 72 kilometres from Yola. As instructed
by my father, when I got to Song I headed straight to
the house of the district head of Song, Alhaji Saidu

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 A Twist Of Fate At Arabic Teachers’ College, Song

Hamadikko. Despite his exalted position, he was a simple

and down-to-earth personality. He asked about my father
as if he were actually talking to a grown-up and not to a
minor who had just secured admission into a post-primary
institution. My father had actually written a letter to one
of his trusted friends in Song, Alhaji Musa Song, a retired
forestry official. Alhaji Musa was a very close and trusted
friend of my father. When we were very young, there
was no financial institution in Gembu. So, whenever my
father travelled to Mecca for Hajj, he would keep all his
money with Alhaji Musa Song. When he came back, his
money would not only be intact but would also be in the
same package that he had handed over to Alhaji Musa.
We were told much later that my father finally settled for
Alhaji Musa because many of his trusted friends actually
disappointed him. One excuse or the other would be
given as an explanation for the difference in the amount
that my father gave them for safe-keeping and what they
actually handed back to him on his return.
After we had exchanged pleasantries, the district head
of Song then sent for Alhaji Musa and handed me over
to him as requested by my father. When I saw Alhaji
Musa, I immediately remembered him as the man who
had often sat in front of his office near our house and
dished out to us coins on our way to school. How would
I not remember such a person? I am yet to meet a person
as simple and humble as Alhaji Musa Song. We went
together to his house and he gave me a room situated

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A Father’s Legacy

next to his parlour. That became my abode while I was in

Song. Two other youths from Gembu also joined me in
Alhaji Musa’s house. They were the late Abba Modibbo
Umaru and Bawuro Modibbo Umaru, sons of the most
respected Islamic cleric in Gembu. They were housed in
a room outside the entrance to the house. There were
also two other youths I met in the house, Mohammed
Adamu Laido and Garga Mbilla, who were relatives to
Alhaji Musa. We had to be accommodated outside the
school because ATC was a day school.
Because we grew up among the Fulani in Gembu,
we also practiced some form of pulaku (whose essential
elements as told by Sa’ad Abubakar include shyness,
patience, care and forethought, obedience, respect for
elders, trust, courage and strict observance of religion).
At times, meals would be delayed because the children
who were supposed to bring food to us were sent on
errands. Because of the pulaku we had just endured until
the children came back. Occasionally, when the children
weren’t around, Alhaji Musa himself would bring to us
the breakfast or dinner, as it were, as the shyness of
pulaku would not allow me to go to the kitchen to get
my food. This attitude of the elderly man really amazed
us. At times we would discuss among ourselves whether
Alhaji Musa was really a human being or whether he was
an angel in human form. Throughout my almost two
years stay in Song, I could count the times that I went
into the compound of Alhaji Musa’s wife. True to African

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 A Twist Of Fate At Arabic Teachers’ College, Song

hospitality attached to friendship, accommodation and

feeding were free. This culture is still in vogue in African
tradition. Although in Auno, no bills were sent to my
father to settle as is the tradition; the hospitality of Alhaji
Musa was exceptional.
There were certain experiences that I had while in
ATC which I still remember. One day, Chief Obafemi
Awolowo came on an election campaign in a helicopter
and landed in the football field behind ATC. As students
we were there just to be a part of the history. The crowd
that day was more of a rented crowd than a group of
party stalwarts – the conversation of the organisers
which we overheard showed that much. The organisers
were usually given money to mobilise and rent a crowd
for the visit. So, the people they had gathered would now
justify the money they had collected for that purpose.
Awolowo was clad in a white gown with his trademark
cap. I do not remember the speech that he made but his
stay was snappy.
On another occasion, a childhood friend of mine,
Yarga, accompanied a police officer who was transferred
from Gembu to Song and he was paid some money for
that. He had visited me at home on a market day and
we went to the market so that he could buy some things
for himself from his pay. As we went around the market,
we saw many con men. We stopped and watched one of
them do his game. He rolled a belt and asked someone
to put a stick in the centre of the coiled belt; he then

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pulled the belt. If the belt got hooked by the stick, the
person won and he gave him or her twice the amount
that he or she had betted. We saw three people do that
and double their bets. My friend then whispered to me
that he wanted to double his money so that he could buy
more things for himself. I encouraged him because we
had just seen how three people in our presence had got
richer by just placing a stick at the right place. Instead
of starting with a small amount, my friend wanted a big
catch and so, he bet a large amount. I do not remember
the exact amount. At the first attempt, he lost his money.
Then he played the second time and lost again. He then
decided to throw in the towel but some people who
were around him encouraged him to continue with the
game. He reluctantly did so and lost the final bet. He
wanted to protest, but it was futile to do so. The game
was over. Instead of doubling our money, we ended up
borrowing some money for his transport fare to Yola,
from where we then believed that he would find his way
back to Gembu. He left Song penniless and dejected.
The swindlers succeeded in their game on the gullible
youths.
My experience of ATC on the first day was quite
astonishing. People from all over Gongola state came
to a melting pot at the only ATC in the state. Despite
ATC being an Arabic college, it was a mixed school.
Arabic Teachers’ College, Song appeared to us like an
elite school and I think it was not far from it. Many of

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 A Twist Of Fate At Arabic Teachers’ College, Song

the students apparently were from well-to-do families. I

remember a family from Numan Local Government Area
of Gongola state, now Adamawa state that had many
‘Hajiya daughters’ who had often dressed expensively.
Three other students from Gembu joined us later. They
were Hammanyaji, Lawan Saidu and Alhaji Umaru.
We had also met some students who had come from
Gembu, notable among them were Abubakar Imam
who was the head student at that time and Bashiru Imam
Hammadikko. With this circle of people from the same
area, boredom was excised from our lexicon for a while.
As the days went by, we made new friends. So, the seat
belt was unfastened while the acclimatisation continued.
The closest friend who I made there was one Hamidu
Gatugel. He was older than most of us in the class,
nonetheless we got on well with him. Interestingly, some
of our teachers were Christians and our Islamic teachers
taught us never to hate or to harm those of other faiths.
When and how the religious intolerance of today came
into our lives is something that still baffles me. Although
it was an Arabic college, other courses were taught just
as in teachers’ training colleges. The difference was the
emphasis placed on Arabic and Islamic studies.
Within the same compound was the day secondary
school. When it came to meals and discipline, the day
secondary school never matched the ATC. The ATC
also had what was called Higher Islamic College. The
Higher Islamic College was basically a school for older

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people, mostly those who had little or no background in

western education.
Whenever I remember how high the quality of meals
served for breakfast and lunch was (it was a day school),
I cannot but wonder about the integrity, trustworthiness
and honesty of the principal, Mallam Umar Muktar of
blessed memory. The meals of the day secondary school
had really been nothing to write home about. Our teachers
were also highly motivated and dedicated. Hardly did a
teacher miss his or her lessons.
As time went by, the class became dichotomised into
strong and weak students. I happened to belong to the
former group. The one student I remember who was
equally good was Mohammed Idris from either Ibi or
Wukari Local Government Area of Gongola state, now
Taraba state. I also remembered vividly our class monitor
who hailed from Michika Local Government Area, now
in Adamawa state. The final test of the dichotomisation
however, came after the first term examinations. I came
first in the class while Mohammed Idris came either
second or third. What still baffled me was how easy it was
for one to score 100% in an examination. One of our
Arabic courses was actually taught and examined in pure
Arabic. The question paper was typed in Arabic and the
answers were also in Arabic. All the same, I scored 100%.
After the first term break, I went to Gembu for
holiday. While I discussed the pleasant experience of
being at ATC with my cousin, Mallam Abdullahi Bukar

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he had thrown a shocker at me when he had disclosed to

me that my eldest brother Umar Bukar did not approve
of my going to ATC and that he wondered why they had
allowed me to go. My eldest brother was at that time an
undergraduate at Ahmadu Bello University, Zaria. I could
not understand the reason for his disapproval. To me,
ATC was just fine. I slept on the issue but only became
more confused. Why would my brother not approve
of something that I thought was in my interests? Was
it that my judgment was wrong? It was unlikely that my
judgment was right and his was wrong. Very unlikely!
From that day, a seed of doubt was sowed in my heart.
It is only a brother who has the interests of his sibling at
heart that would bother about that. Later he proved his
worth as a worthwhile brother.
When the holiday was over and I was to return for
second term, the amount of money that I was then
given was barely enough for my transportation, let alone
my upkeep. Nonetheless, I endured. That shortage
of finances continued unabated. I was not sure of the
motive behind the financial deprivation. Was it to make
me change my mind, or was it that the resources were
dwindling at that time? After the second term of my
second year, I could no longer bear the perpetual penury
and so, I took a far reaching decision without anybody’s
input. I remember, on one occasion, I stopped over at
Serti, Gashaka Local Government Area in the house of
Babale Kara, a foster son of my father. In the morning,

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I left very early after Subhi prayers to catch the cheap

government owed transport vehicle to Yola. I was already
seated when Babale Kara had approached and queried why
I had left without informing him. He had then handed
over to me some naira notes. I cherished that gesture; not
just the money, but the attitude.
One morning, I went to Alhaji Musa and told him that
I wanted to go to Yola to request for a transfer back to
Gembu. Baffled, he had asked what the problem was.
Honestly, I do not remember what I told him; what I
remember was that at that point I had already crossed the
Rubicon and nothing could keep me in Song. I proceeded
to Yola after I had obtained permission from the principal.
The principal tried to dissuade me but my mind was made
up.
On arrival at Yola, I went straight to the house of
Alhaji Yusuf Imam where I met Shehu Imam and Yahaya
Imam, the younger brothers to Alhaji Yusuf. Both of them
were undergraduates at Ahmadu Bello University, Zaria,
studying veterinary medicine and biology respectively.
I briefed them about my plans and they appeared
sympathetic and supportive. When Alhaji Yusuf returned
from work, I briefed him about what had brought me to
Yola and he promised me that he would sort the issue out.
He then asked me where I wanted to be transferred and I
told him Government Secondary School, Gembu. He was
somewhat surprised. He said that if I was leaving ATC,
naturally I should go to another teachers’ college and not

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to secondary school. When I told him that that was what I

preferred, he had just shrugged and said, “That’s fine.”
The next day, we went to the Post Primary Schools
Management Board and started the transfer process.
Because Alhaji Yusuf was a highly revered and respected
person, the process took only about three days. In my
naivety, I took no extra clothes thinking that everything
would be sorted out there and then. Shehu Imam lent me
one of his jackets to wear. I remember that it was a blue
jacket. I wore it while I stayed in Yola. With the benefit
of hindsight, I now appreciate the wonderful gesture of
Shehu Imam. There you had an undergraduate who gave
out one of his best items of clothing to a post-primary
school student.
When I got the transfer letter, I returned to Song
where I presented it to the principal. The next day I had
my letter of transfer to Government Secondary School,
Gembu. The comment of the principal in the letter was
that I was an ‘exceptionally good student’. I knew what ‘good
student’ meant but the ‘exceptionally’ was what I did not
understand. But I was pretty sure that it was not a bad
statement. That scene is similar to what Chinua Achebe
recollected in his last book There Was a Country. He
narrated that, “My interviewer first asked why I did not reply to
the letter he wrote me offering me admission. I said I did not know
that I was supposed to reply, and he picked up a copy of the letter
and read, ‘Please acknowledge receipt’. I did not know the meaning
of that phrase…..”

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On our way back to Gembu, at the peak of the steep

hills of Mambilla Plateau, the engine of the vehicle
suddenly went off and the bus started travelling in reverse.
Everybody was horrified. But as fate would dictate, the
driver restarted the vehicle and it responded. The journey
continued with a sigh of relief from the passengers.
Obviously the prayers that we offered had helped, as we
were told that the prayers of people in dire need are always
answered with dispatch.
My transfer came in the middle of the third term
of form two. Throughout my stay at ATC, I remained
unchallenged in the first position in the class; I maintained
this position until I left ATC for Government Secondary
School, Gembu. So, I was in ATC for about two years
before fate struck a U-turn back to Gembu, to the school
that I had earlier rejected.
Alhaji Musa Song passed on after a surgery at a
hospital in Yola while I was an undergraduate. I did not
hear of his death until months later. One thing that I
hate to remember is that I did not have the privilege of
attending the burial of that extraordinary Nigerian, a man
of piety, a puritan.
A very good friend of mine at ATC, Song whose
contact I have lost is Musa from Baruwa in Gashaka
Local Government Area of Taraba state. We used to
travel together during holidays and I often stopped over in
Baruwa before proceeding to Gembu. For nearly a score
and 10 years I have not seen or heard from him.

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PART FOUR
BACK TO GEMBU

“You cannot push anyone up the ladder unless he is willing to climb.”

Andrew Carnegie

T he excitement that I had during my journey back to

Gembu was similar to what I had experienced on my
way to ATC, Song about two years earlier. “What an irony,”
one would say. Gembu is home to me, so when I reported
to the school on a Monday, I had a feeling of deja vu. I
reported in the middle of the third term of form two
and I was placed in form 2B along with about 30 other
students. Some of the courses taught in ATC were not
offered in the school and vice versa, and I had less than a
month to the examination. I literally burned the midnight
candle to catch up and it paid off. In that examination, I
came first in the class. The class master, the late Mallam
Dahiru, was so impressed with my performance that he
went to my father and told him that, with the feat that I
had achieved, whatever he spent on me would not be a
waste. My father relayed the information to me and I was

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understandably excited. From ‘mammadu last’ in primary

school to an enviable position in post primary school! It
was truly a dream come true.
My mother took ill while I was in my third year at
secondary school. I was the last child and there was
really no-one to take care of my mother. It was a bitter
experience. My two older brothers were in the university.
My father in his wisdom decided to take my mother to
her relatives in Gwoza, Borno state. I don’t know what
informed my father’s decision but I believe that it was
made in good faith. Before then, my mother was admitted
at the general hospital in Gembu, but I had no idea what
was wrong with her. My father and I accompanied her
to her ancestral home in Gwoza. In the course of the
journey, when we tried to give her something to eat, her
hands trembled. She had difficulty eating by herself and
so we had to help her. When we arrived at Gwoza, we
went to the house of her older sister, Bonore. Bonore had
no child of her own, but she was an industrious woman. I
was told that Bonore had treated my mother with tender
loving care when she was young. She did the same during
my mother’s twilight days.
The next day, I went to bid my mother farewell. When
I turned my back to leave, she started to weep. When
I saw her weeping, I almost turned back again. I had
thought of staying back, but that was impracticable. Her
sister, Bonore, counselled her to rather worry about her
health. This reminds me of the title of the first novel of

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the Kenyan writer Ngugi wa Thiong’O, Weep Not, Child.

Her older sister seemed to have told her, “Weep not, sister,
for your son will be fine.” We set out for Gembu that day but
my heart remained with my ailing mother.
Back in Gembu, I continued with my studies but as
soon as we got a holiday, I had found my way to Gwoza
despite what it took. In Gwoza, I headed straight to
Bonore’s house but my mother was not there. Her
first daughter, that is, my sister Hajiya Fanta Mandara,
had taken her to Maiduguri. In Maiduguri, I traced the
house of my older sister, Hajiya Fanta Abiso Gana of
blessed memory, and together we went to the house of
Hajiya Fanta Mandara, where we met my mother. The
joy that I felt when I saw my mother is indescribable. But
her condition made me shed tears uncontrollably. She
counselled me that she would be fine.
At that time in Maiduguri, I was always in the company
of my nephew, Alhaji Abiso Gana. We always visited my
mother in the mornings. One day, her condition had
deteriorated so much that I could not do other than visit
her again that day. When we visited her, we found a meal
of gruel beside her, untouched. I sensed that what she
needed was care and I quickly provided that, helping her
to sit up, and she nibbled at the gruel. That was the magic
wand of love and affection that she had needed at that
time. It was the same kind of care that she had given me
when I was a toddler. When I asked her if she had had any
meal earlier that day, she said Hamad’s wife (her in-law,

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who shared the same house with Hajja Fanta Mandara)

had just placed the food beside her. I wondered how a
fellow human being, let alone a woman, could expect
someone who was incapacitated to help herself. While I
helped her to sit up and to take the gruel, I noticed that
she was extremely weak. But then I would be leaving the
next day and so, I was helpless. But come to think of
it, even if I had chosen to stay back, what else could a
student in the third year of secondary school really have
done to help in such circumstances except weep and
pray? And that I did.
Hajiya Fanta Mandara was a wealthy businesswoman.
She would leave early in the morning for her catering
business and would return late in the evening. Hamad’s
wife stayed at home. Although Hajiya Fanta Mandara
was wealthy, because of ignorance occasioned by lack of
education, she refused to take my mother to the hospital.
She preferred to patronise local mallams. Unfortunately,
there was no-one to prevail upon her to take my mother
to the hospital.
A day before I went back to Gembu, after my holiday
was over, my mother told me something that still makes
me sad whenever I think about it. She told me that because
she was bedridden, Hamad did not give her the care that
she deserved as a mother. On reflection, I often take
solace in the words of John Mason, that, “Unforgiveness
does a great deal more damage to the vessel in which it is stored than
the object on which it is poured.”

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Before I left Maiduguri, I was almost certain from

what I had seen that it was most likely my last encounter
with my mother. So, I decided to ask her for forgiveness.
Her reply was that I had not wronged her in any way, and
so there was no need to seek forgiveness from her. That
encounter reminds me of a letter that Ronald Reagan
wrote to the American people when he was diagnosed
with Alzheimer’s disease. He wrote, “I now begin the journey
that will lead me into the sunset of my life.”
A few months after my visit to my mother, I returned
from school one afternoon and met my father and his
friend seated on a mat in the parlour. That was unusual;
it signified that something had happened. As I entered
the parlour, my father had asked me to come back after
dropping my bag. Of course with his mood and with this
message, no-one had needed to break the news of my
mother’s death to me. My mother passed away on 17th
May 1984, when I was 17 years old. Luckily for me, I had
asked her for forgiveness before I had left Maiduguri. I
have regrets that my mother did not die in my presence.
My greatest regret, however, is that she did not live long
enough to enjoy the fruits of the gold mines that her
children have discovered years after her death.
A few days before my mother’s death, we discovered
that a large black snake had entered my room through a
hole. We ran out of the room when we sighted the snake.
Through the window we had a full view of the large black
snake coiled under the bed. One of my friends, Bello

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Gubin of blessed memory, was an extremely courageous

young man. Bello entered through the window to pursue
the snake. As he made his move, the snake uncoiled and
escaped through the hole. That was the last time that I
slept in that room until I was absolutely sure that the hole
was not only sealed but was also airtight. A superstitious
belief then was that when one saw such a type of snake,
it was a harbinger of something bad. So, was that also
another coincidence? This is similar to an Igbo proverb
which states that, ‘If an owl hoots a night before and a child dies
the following morning, then there must be a relationship between the
owl’s hoot and the child’s death’.
No-one in my class ever successfully challenged me
for the first position. In fact, I subsequently concluded
that it was my birthright. So, by default, the first position
was mine. However, that changed during the third term
of class three. As I collected my report card, I saw third
position instead of the default position, and my score
of 100% in Islamic religious knowledge was omitted.
Enraged, I dashed to my class master, the late Mallam
Dahiru and showed him my report card. He then told
me that he thought that I did not write the Islamic
religious knowledge examination. My reply was bluntly
disrespectful. I asked him how he could assume that
I would miss an examination. He was infuriated and
asked me to kneel down. Still furious, I refused to obey
his instructions and left. Nothing happened after that.
Remember, it was the same Mallam Dahiru who had told

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my father that whatever he spent on me would not be

a waste. I believe that he realised that I was right and
that my response was merely an expression of youthful
exuberance. That, in my view, is one of the attributes of
a good teacher.
My father attended the only speech and prize-giving
day organised in my days at Government Secondary
School, Gembu. I was then in either class three or class
four. One after the other, names were called and recipients
came out in style to collect their prizes. When we got
home, my father had inquired why I had received only
one prize while others had received more than one. Some
had received prizes for additional responsibilities while
others like me had received for academic performance.
This was an innocuous observation as my father had no
formal education. It was an encouraging observation.
He must have pondered that if other people’s children
received more than one prize, why didn’t his son do so
too?
In my fourth year, we graduated from day to boarding
school. In the whole school at that time, only two teachers
had university degrees – the principal and one economics
teacher, who I learnt is now a permanent secretary in
Adamawa state. Then, National Certificate of Education
holders were sound. I remember Mr. Bitrus Pembi and
Mr. Emmanual Ola who both taught English, Mr. Karikari
Boteng who taught mathematics, and Mr. Yakubu who
taught agriculture. Those teachers were well-grounded in

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their disciplines.
In school, I actively participated in press club,
debate club, drama club, and in fact, I was the pioneer
president of Safari Club, a social club midwifed by Mr.
Emmanual Ola. Badminton was my favourite game but I
also attempted goal keeping in soccer. I abandoned goal
keeping in frustration one day after a training session. We
were rehearsing in preparation for inter-class competition,
when a junior student dribbled our defenders and got
close to the goal. He made a move to one side and as I
moved my whole body to that side, he quickly moved to
the opposite direction, smiled and gently passed the ball
into the net. I ignored the spirit of sportsmanship and
just left the goal post empty. My colleagues pleaded that
I return but I resisted saying that I could no longer stand
that type of embarrassment from a junior student. But
this was sport which had nothing to do with seniority.
Under such circumstances, it is easier said than done.
The final year students were preparing for their exit
examination while we were in the fourth year. So, the
management of the school decided to appoint deputy
prefects. There was neither a campaign nor elections, but
everyone knew of those who were likely to make the list
and I happened to be one of them. At one point, the
names were narrowed down to two. Politics of parochial
interest usually played out during the selection of the
deputy head boy. But this time most of the teachers stood
their ground and selected the deputy head boy devoid

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of parochialism. There is no gainsaying the fact that any

system that encourages mediocrity at the expense of
meritocracy can hardly make any significant progress.
As the process of selection of the deputy prefects
commenced, I discussed with my friend, Yahaya Imam,
who conferred with some of his brothers and suggested
to me that I should perform what is called istihara. Istihara
is a type of Muslim prayer that one performs to seek
God’s guidance in taking the right decision. I went to bed
after having performed the two raka’at prayers and recited
the relevant verses of the Holy Quran. I then dreamt of
one Alhaji Ndotti Zubairu, who was a close friend of
my father, standing in front of the chief ’s palace clad
completely in white. The following morning, I narrated
my dream to Yahaya Imam and his interpretation was that
I would be the next deputy head boy.
Few days later, I was pronounced the deputy head
boy and subsequently the head boy after the final year
students graduated. About 15 years later, Alhaji Ndotti
Zubairu became the acting chief of Gembu and died
on the throne in 2011. Was there a relationship between
that dream and his eventual ascension in acting capacity
to the throne of the chief of Gembu? This dream is
reminiscent of the story of Nostradamus who rushed to
a well and kissed the feet of the man who was drawing
water from the well. People had been amazed at the
unusual behaviour and had inquired what the problem
was. His answer was that he had kissed the feet of the

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future pope. Many years after Nostradamus’ death, the

man became Pope.
One of the things that amazed me, and still does now,
was the jubilation of my senior colleagues when I was
named the deputy head boy. I never imagined that such a
reaction could follow the announcement as I had little to
do with most of them. One girl, Irene Njoka, I still vividly
remember, jumped, hailed and clapped after the principal
made the announcement. I never had anything to do with
her but there she was, jubilant over my appointment. I
reminded her of this story when we met in Maiduguri
about 20 years after the incident happened.
Not long after we were appointed deputies, we started
having problems with our seniors. They viewed us as the
favourites of the principal, Alhaji M.J Sule of blessed
memory. To give vent to their anger, they mobilised
a select group to ambush and physically assault us.
Information got to me through a prefect named Salihu of
blessed memory that they were coming after the deputy
prefects and that I was the prime target. In the middle of
the night, while it was raining, Salihu smuggled me out of
the school to the room of a friend whose nickname was
Buka. It was in the morning that the full picture of what
had happened was transmitted to us. The other deputy
prefects had been ambushed and tortured one after the
other. But the ambushers had missed their prime target
and lamented bitterly about it. Grapevine had it that I had
disappeared by using some mystic powers. This view was

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supported by the fact that I was from Borno state and the
grapevine ‘knew’ the mystic powers of the people from
that area.
The picture they painted reminded me of a joke that
we were told by a senior colleague, “Two little boys stole a bag
of oranges from their neighbour and decided to go to a quiet place
to share the loot. One of them suggested the nearby cemetery. As
they jumped across the big gate into the cemetery, two oranges fell out
of the bag behind the gate. They didn’t bother to pick them since
they still had enough in the bag. Few minutes later, a drunkard
on his way from a local bar passed near the cemetery gate and
heard a voice, ‘One for me, one for you; one for me, one for you’.
He immediately ran as fast as he could to an elderly preacher who
walked with the aid of crutches. ‘Your holiness, your holiness, your
holiness, please, come with me; come and witness God and Satan
sharing corpses at the cemetery.’ They both walked to the cemetery
gate and the voice continued, ‘One for me, one for you; one for me,
one for you’. Suddenly the voice stopped counting and said, ‘What
about the two at the gate?’ Even the preacher bolted. He ran almost
past his house, having thrown his crutches at the cemetery gate and
shouting, ‘We are not dead yet!’”
During our final year, a riot broke out between
students of my school and students of Serti, in Gashaka
Local Government Area of Taraba state. Students of
Serti usually came to our school to write the final GCE
examination. Many of them were army barracks boys
and they left no-one in doubt as to what they could
do. Incensed by these boys’ arrogance, the students of

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Government Secondary School, Gembu took on the

students from Serti and all hell was let loose. As the head
boy then, I took a great risk as I walked through the salvo
of stones directed towards the students of Serti. We, the
prefects, tried all that we could do to stop the violence.
I remember one Dahima who, with all his energy, hit a
student with a hockey stick. I thought that the chap had
died but thankfully, he survived. Then there was one
of our prefects named Alim. As he moved towards the
rioters, he suddenly lifted himself up, rolled up and fell
to the ground. We all ran towards him to restrain him but
to no avail, until we got some hefty boys to help out. We
were told Alim had Bori (meaning, he was possessed).
While they were being pursued, two of the students
from Serti ran into my room to take cover. As I shielded
them and stood in front of my door, a student named
Yakub threatened that if I refused to give way, he would
throw the stone at me. I pleaded with him relentlessly
before he agreed to let go. When I came out of the riot
unscathed, the grapevine again had it that I had some
powers. Many people could not understand how I had
managed the crisis without any physical injuries, when
many who were not directly involved had sustained some
injuries. Unknown to them, it was pure luck and nothing
else. After that ugly incident, the authorities finally
brought to an end the joint examination venue.
As the head boy, I lived in a room which was separate
from the hostel. I shared the room with my bosom friend

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Suleiman Bashir Abba. Suleiman Bashir was from a

wealthy family and he often dashed me a part of his pocket
money. My closeness with Suleiman continued during our
undergraduate days at UNIMAID. We were frequently
together in my room during my internship at the State
Specialist Hospital, Maiduguri when he came back to
UNIMAID for his Master’s programme. At times, my
meals differed from what other students ate. Whenever
there was leftover food or bread, a large chunk came to
me. Because of this, my room was always a beehive of
activity and I was also a favourite with the other students.
I used the leftovers to buy support from students who
were troublemakers. I succeeded, as they often gave me
their support. There was a time when a large consignment
of books was brought to the school and the principal had
directed me to oversee the off-loading of the books. It
was at night and I knew that many students would cart
away some of the books. I therefore used my initiative
and gave out to each student a copy before we began the
off-loading and the job went on smoothly.
I was hardly seen wandering outside. My daily itinerary
started from my room to the assembly, to the class, and
then to sports. We learnt this style from our predecessors.
But as I grew older and became an avid reader, I came
across Robert Greene’s bestseller, The 48 Laws of Power.
Law 16 entitled ‘Use absence to increase respect and honour’
states that, ‘Too much circulation makes the price go down: The
more you are seen and heard from, the more common you appear. If

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you are already established in a group, temporary withdrawal from

it will make you more talked about, even more admired. You must
learn when to leave. Create value through scarcity’.
Whenever it was a long holiday, I often travelled to
Maiduguri. This was a strategy for financial improvement
and for access to new clothes from relatives. We used
these clothes to ‘oppress’ the locals when we were back
in Gembu, as we would often stand out in the clothes
which many of the locals could not afford to buy and so
they would be intimidated by our appearance in clothing
that was in vogue. Before I reached Maiduguri, I often
stopped over in Gwoza to visit my relatives. Whenever I
visited my aunty, Jigila Babba, at the naibi’s house near the
chief ’s palace, she always received me with open arms. In
contrast, whenever I visited Juava, another aunty, I often
received a cold shoulder. At Alhaji Ismaila Gana’s house,
I was treated like a king by his first wife Ma-man Jummai,
who was and still is like a mother to me.
When in Maiduguri, I stayed either in the house of my
older sister, Hajiya Fanta Abiso or in the house of Alhaji
Kaka Mallam Mayama’s in Shehuri North. Anytime
that I was due to return to Gembu, I was always sure
of transport fare from Alhaji Kaka Mallam. Whenever
it came, I used the money to buy new clothes. I would
then be left with only the amount that would take me
to Gwoza or later to Mubi where again, I was sure that
my transport fare would be provided by Alhaji Ismaila
Gana or, in his absence, by his wife. Ma-man Jummai

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stayed with us in Gembu when I was a toddler while her

husband was then in Teacher Training College, Mubi in
the then Gongola state.
Another opportunity I had to show off was when my
older brothers visited home during holidays. Both were
then at Ahmadu Bello University, Zaria. Umar Bukar, the
oldest, studied political science while Babagoni studied
law. Because they also appreciated the needs of their
younger brothers, they always left behind some clothes
and money. I remember one time when Umar Bukar gave
me some freshly minted 5 naira notes as a parting gift.
Those fresh notes were always kept in a safe place and
brought out only on Fridays when I would put them in the
chest and side pockets of my white transparent garment
where everybody would notice them. That practice did
reinforce one’s feeling of superiority. The notes were
more for show off than for spending. If, for whatever
reason, the fresh notes were spent, there was always an
option B – we would sprinkle water on old notes and iron
them to make them appear as fresh as possible through
the transparent garments. Thus, the show continued.
The designer trousers in vogue then were named hara.
Every youngster then wanted to wear hara and many
went the extra mile to get them. Anyone who wore hara
was considered ‘high class’. I remember receiving the
prized gift of a milk-colour pair of hara from my friend
Prince Ali Mansur. That was in addition to the ash and
black pairs of hara given to me by my immediate older

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brother, Babagoni Bukar. When Prince Ali Mansur with

his older brother Prince Abubakar Mansur, stopped over
in Gombe in 2004 or thereabouts, I reminded him of the
prized gift that he had given me about 20 years earlier
and showed him a picture that I had had taken with the
trousers in 1987.
I was in post primary school when my father met his
financial waterloo by investing all his money in a contract
awarded to him by the Great Nigeria Peoples Party
(GNPP) controlled local government. Before then, some
of the stories that we were told, although unconfirmed,
were that, at times, money was borrowed from my father
for local government activities. So, when the issue of the
contract came, no-one doubted that on completion of
the project, my father’s entitlement would be paid. To
date that entitlement has not been paid. Until his death,
my father never recovered from the financial deprivation.
But, as a good Muslim, he resigned himself to fate and
continued with the life of the have not’s. His was a case
of someone who rose from grass to grace and finally back
to grass. I remember one Alhaji Muhammadu Belel from
Mubi Local Government Area of Adamawa state, who
served in Gembu as local government secretary between
1986 and 1989. He was sympathetic to my father’s plight
and gave him small contracts to make up for some of the
losses. If I could find out where he is today, I would stop
by and appreciate him for what he did for my father.
As I mentioned earlier, when I was in primary school,

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I always followed my father to the mosque. In secondary

school, things changed. We were then busy with the
beautiful things that life can offer and reserved little time
for religious activities. When we went for Muslim Student
Society’s (MSS) meetings, it was more of a show-off than
it was a religious obligation. On one of such occasions, I
sat with a bosom buddy, Ibrahim Modibbo, on the high
table when a question was thrown to us about how to
bathe before going for Friday prayer. “Can one use the same
source of water for both the Friday and the ordinary bath?” we
were asked. My answer was swift and straightforward,
“You use different sources.” Then Ibrahim Modibbo, with his
deep knowledge of the religion, cleared the air. It was
then that I realised that matters of religion are not about
what one thinks or assumes but about what is already
established in existing texts.
I remember a student named Musa who lamented
one day as we passed by the school mosque that it had
been long since he had entered ‘this room’ – referring
to the mosque as ‘this room’! If we visited the mosque
too often, it needed to have been that something drastic
that required divine intervention had happened. God in
his infinite mercy always answered our prayers. Despite
this, we still avoided the mosque for long periods until
something happened again before we then remembered
that we were told that our God is always merciful and
forgiving. My roommate Suleiman Bashir Abba was a
deeply religious young man. While we were busy with

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social activities, he was glued to his religious activities.

In fact, he later became our imam. Chinua Achebe, in
his book There Was a Country, referred to his driver thus,
“The driver was one of those hyper-religious individuals who wore
only white….” Like Achebe’s driver, Suleiman Bashir Abba
was hyper-religious while I was not. This difference never
affected our relationship in any way as we would go our
different ways in the morning only to meet back in the
room at night.
When I spent my holidays in Gembu, one thing that
I avoided was going out in the cold for morning prayers.
So, whenever my father was going to the mosque, he
would often wake me. That disturbed me a great deal.
I then devised an ingenious way to avoid being woken
up at dawn in the harsh weather of Gembu. I would
wake up quite alright and pour water in the place where
I was supposed to have performed my ablution. When
my father saw that, he would assume that I had already
performed ablution and had said my prayers in my room.
He thus would not bother me about going to the mosque.
Now, in my home, my oldest son plays a similar trick on
me. When we ask him to pray, he goes to the toilet and
does a few things and comes out. When we look at his
feet, it’s always obvious that he has not performed his
ablution and we scold him for that.
Ibrahim Modibbo was a very close friend who I
shared almost everything with. There was virtually
no secret between us. We knew each other’s strengths

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and weaknesses. In our final year, we avoided writing

mathematics. In our myopic view then, it was of no use
writing the paper since we were sure of failure. So, while
the mock examination was going on, we meandered
through the football field for that period. The mathematics
teacher, an Asian named Miss. Judith G., was furious and
complained bitterly afterwards, not only because I was
the head boy and Ibrahim was the library prefect, but also
because she believed in us. But unfortunately, the deal had
been sealed and delivered. Sooner rather than later, we
had realised our mistakes and prayed that those coming
after us would not tread that path of self-annihilation.
One also remembers with fondness some school
mates like Dauda Gaji, Ya’u Salihu, Sanda Rojas (late),
Gambo Mohammed (late), Ahmed Ardo, Jibrilla Umar
(late), Abu Baya, Ladi Yakubu, Augustine Peter, Salamatu
Musa, Aisha Yakubu (late), Yaya Hammajoda (Gabbar),
Bernard Jikang, Bello Gubin (late), Philimon Nemun
(late), Rebecca Joseph (now Hajiya Rashida), Helen Idi,
Jeroline Dominic, Amina Halidu, Yusuf Jimoh and many
others who one cannot remember after 27 years.
There were many worthy memorable events. One day,
as I stood beside my room, a storm from the football
field headed in my direction. We were told that if one
recited a particular verse of the Holy Quran, the storm
would disappear. I recited the verse, stood and waited for
the storm to arrive. It did arrive. It almost knocked me
to the ground. Afterwards, I told my friend Dauda Buba,

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who was also our MSS President about my encounter

with the storm and we just laughed the incident off. I had
forgotten to make use of the five senses that God had
given me and I ended up in the belly of the storm.
The other incident that I recall with fun happened
at a debating competition. I participated in virtually all
academic activities and I was often the cynosure of all
eyes in those occasions. When it was my turn, as usual
the hall went into frenzy, and I started the ‘big grammar’
that I had committed to memory. Suddenly, I began to
stammer and there was some disconnection between what
I was saying and what I ought to have said. I shrugged,
swirled, quivered, quaked and rambled. At a point I just
threw in the towel and left the hall, to the chagrin of
my admirers and teachers. This big lesson guided me
in my future interactions as I learnt that it is better to
understand an idea and to put it into one’s own words,
than it is to commit it to memory in someone else’s words
and then have some difficulties in bringing it forth at the
time of need.
As a star, I always wanted to maintain my top position.
So, I often looked out for new information and Chris
Okotie-like ‘grammar’ to impress the students, especially
on assembly days. As I read a newspaper one day, I came
across the phrase ‘men of the underworld’ and I liked
it. On an assembly day, when I was making a speech
about some work to be done, I said, “Men of the underworld
will go for this assignment while the other group will go for that

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assignment.” The students cheered. It was not until I

had left secondary school that I came to know the real
meaning of the phrase. If the students had known, they
would have jeered at me rather than cheered me for the
gaffe.
There were also other happenings outside the school
which were equally memorable, even puzzling. We were
once told that someone who used charms to apprehend
thieves was in town. It was said further that he spotted
thieves anywhere by observing smoke coming out
from their heads. As children, we were worried, asking
ourselves, “Which type of thief will he catch?”; “Will it include
those who picked their mothers’ coins under the pillow?”; “Will
short-changing your father translate to theft?”; “Will it include
those who found lost money and did not return it to the authorities?”
We asked all these and many more questions, obviously
to justify ourselves because as children, one way or the
other, the affirmative answers to our questions made
us guilty. Fortunately, at last, the story turned out to be
another fairy tale.
A practice that was peculiar to the people from Borno
state was head lifting following a fever. Occasionally,
when I had a fever, my father would invite a Kanuri
man to lift my head up. Whenever I had foreknowledge
of his coming, I would pretend that I had improved to
avoid the traumatic experience of head lifting. The one
incident that I still remember clearly was when one hefty
mallam was invited, after I had taken ill. My father sent for

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me when the man arrived. Immediately I saw the man,

I became nauseated. My father asked me to sit down
for the procedure. The man instructed me to open my
mouth, after which he introduced his middle finger into
my mouth and ‘lifted’ my head. According to the man,
the head had fallen and so it required a lifting for me to
get better. He repeated this procedure until he saw blood
on his fingers. It was then that he deemed the procedure
over. I had no choice but to get better after that ‘treatment’
otherwise he would be invited a second time.
On the eve of Eid El fitr (Sallah celebrations), the
tradition in Gembu was to parade the cows to be
slaughtered the following day, which is the Eid day. The
cows were brought in a caravan procession. One of
the cows, usually the imposing one, was often used for
a cow ride. On one occasion, one young man named
Husni was to dare the bull. His father was a respected
butcher. When it was time for him to take on the bull,
the drummers started the beat but Husni hesitated a
bit. He was encouraged to go ahead by his father. As
he moved hesitantly towards the bull, he quivered and
therefore missed the opportunity to grasp the neck of the
bull. The bull knocked him down flatly. Luckily, however,
he escaped with only minor injuries. After the bull was
brought to a standstill by those who held the rear leg with
a rope, Husni’s father gestured to the bull to lie down
and the bull obeyed his instructions. None of us could
explain the connection between the bull that had been

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enraged moments earlier and the bull that obediently lay

on the ground as instructed. But we’ve heard many stories
about the powers of butchers. When that ugly incident
happened, the chief of Gembu, Alhaji Mohammadu
Mansur, in his wisdom banned the practice of the cow
ride.
My father usually slaughtered two or three rams for
Eid El Kabir Sallah celebrations when the going was
good. He often invited a respected spiritual leader to
slaughter one ram while he slaughtered the remainder.
After the butchery, my father would instruct us to cut
the heart and expose the inner cavities. Whenever we did
that for the ram slaughtered by the spiritual leader, we
observed clotted blood. But whenever we did the same
for the rams slaughtered by my father, no clots were
seen. This happened repeatedly over so many years. The
interpretation of this in local parlance was that the clotted
blood represented the inner working of the mind of the
man who slaughtered the animal. Where there was no
clotting, the man was clean-hearted but where there was
clotting, the man had a ‘bad heart’. When we grew up, we
observed that the spiritual leader was really not spiritual
in the ways that he conducted himself, he was a man
without feelings for others. On the contrary, my father
had no space in his heart for malice, evil or contempt. Is
this also another superstition, a coincidence or a scientific
observation? If it is a superstition, would it happen
repeatedly? What a great coincidence if it is considered

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one! When something happens randomly and repeatedly,

and it gives similar results under different circumstances,
what can be more scientific than that? In fact, is this not a
case of evidence-based findings? In the future one might
probably be interested in the relationship between the
amount of blood clotting in a slaughtered animal and the
level of mischief of the slaughterer!
Intuitively, whenever I slaughtered an animal, I would
cut open the heart as my father had instructed us to do,
and I found no blood clot. I have a feeling that this belief
is also held in some cultures. I remember that my security
guard and other butchers who I invite occasionally for
butchery also perform similar rituals. When the heart is
removed the butchers, with amazing curiosity, would cut
it open to see the inner cavities.
Whenever there was a delay in the onset of rains, the
chief of Gembu often organised prayers at the outskirts
of the town. The announcement was usually made in
the mosque on the eve of the prayers. The one that I
still remember was when the rain started soon after the
prayers were concluded, while we were still on our way
back home. With the many evil deeds of today, I wonder
if prayers are still answered with such dispatch as they
were in those good old days.
There was a middle-aged traditional religious
practitioner, the late Gajere Mbugwi, who often brought
and withheld rains at will. His dressing was typical of the
Stone Age with only his private part covered. He had a

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staff and some charms. After a brief ritual, the rain would
fall around where he stood. After some incantations the
rain would then stop. Is there any explanation for this
phenomenon?
Chigger was an infestation that any child who grew
up in Gembu would have had a fair share of. A small
number of children had their gait altered as a result of
disfigurement from chigger. One never noticed when
the tiny creatures burrowed into the skin, but when it
started to pain or to swell, there was no doubt as to the
cause of the pain/swelling. When it matured in the body,
needles would be used to open the skin to let out the
multitude of white young chiggers as opposed to the
brownish adult chiggers. Usually a deep hole, which often
healed spontaneously, would be left where the chigger
was removed. It is amazing that people hardly visited the
hospital owing to chigger infestation.
The other infestation which was also common was head
lice. These were more or less developmental milestones
in Gembu then. The temperate climate in Gembu was
such that it encouraged children to bathe only once in
a while. In fact, many adults did not take their baths on
a daily basis. That created the necessary conditions for
chigger and lice to attack and to multiply.
There was a local government chairman during the
reign of General Ibrahim Badamosi Babangida (IBB),
Mr. Jonathan D. Nyanbon, who helped in a unique
way to bring succour to the people of Sardauna Local

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Government Area. The then Central Bank of Nigeria

(CBN) governor, the late Abdulkadir Ahmed, went for a
holiday at Gembu. It was a private visit, but the chairman
had organised a reception for him in front of the chief ’s
palace. During his speech, the chairman complained to
the CBN governor about the deplorable condition of
the road to Gembu, especially the Sardauna Hill (Tunga
Ahmadu), and solicited for his support in getting the
authorities to do something on the state of the road. In
his response, the CBN governor thanked the chairman
for organising a reception for him despite the fact that
he was not on an official assignment. The CBN governor
promised to inform the president about it but he was
quick to add that, that was only as far as he could go. He
commented on the weather, the landscape and the beauty
of the Mambilla Plateau and wondered why people go to
Germany and other places when there is a tourist haven
in Gembu.
Not long after the CBN governor’s visit in 1991,
the then minister of works, the late General Mamman
Kontagora, apparently under the directive of the military
president, General IBB, visited the location soon after the
road was awarded for construction. The rest, as they say,
is history. I believe that Mr. Jonathan Nyanbon should be
honoured by the local government for his unparalleled
contributions to the socio-economic development of the
area. This is one way that we can appreciate the good
works of our leaders.

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 Back To Gembu

When I graduated from secondary school, I had

nothing to do. So, I decided to keep myself busy by
selling oranges, pears, bread and kerosene in front
of our house. The business went well as it made me
independent. Luckily, that period of relative redundancy
did not last long as I secured admission into the university
with my mock results. It was during this period before
joining the university that I read virtually all the novels by
James Hadley Chase, and many other collections. I now
appreciate what Christopher Dawson said, “The man who
is fond of books is usually a man of lofty thought, and elevated
opinions.”

Seated: Left, Mallam Abdullahi Bukar [cousin], right Umar

Bukar [eldest brother]. Standing: Left, Mohammed Bukar, right,
Babagoni Bukar [my immediate older brother] [Awo & Bros
Photo studio Gembu, 1977]

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Seated on ground, fourth from left (arrow) is the author; seated

third from the right, in the second row (arrow) is my eldest
brother, Umar Bukar and standing, fifth from the right (arrow)
is my immediate older brother, Babagoni Bukar.

To the left of the author is the principal, Mr. Patrick G. Tarela;

and to his right is the vice principal, Mallam Usman Bazza, in
1987.

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My father Alhaji Bukar Bagomna (1915-1997).

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A Father’s Legacy

Immediately after my wedding fatiha. My father and my father-

in-law (with staff).

My wife and I a few months after our wedding in 1996.

118
PART FIVE
ODYSSEY AT UNIVERSITY OF
MAIDUGURI

“Education is the great engine of personal development. It is through

education that the daughter of a peasant can become a doctor, that
the son of a mineworker can become the head of the mine, that a
child of farm workers can become the president of a great nation. It
is what we make out of what we have, not what we are given, that
separates one person from another.”

Nelson Mandela

T hree of us from my class in Gembu, Ibrahim

Modibbo, Usman Mamman and I secured admission
into the University of Maiduguri in 1987. Ibrahim
Modibbo has been a very close friend of mine since
our secondary school days. My closeness with Usman
Mamman blossomed during our stay in the university.
Usman Mamman is a wonderful personality, extraordinarily
patient and accommodating. Nigeria was truly a wonderful
country at some time in its chequered history. From
far away Gembu, we applied to the university with our

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mock results. My eldest brother, Umar Bukar, collected

my mock results and not long after he sent a message to
Gembu about my admission into the university. The kind
of joy that followed the announcement of the admission
can hardly be reproduced.
The first day in the university was full of suspense
and surprises. Everything was done diligently and all
documents were filled in with finesse. I remember a
form in which we were required to indicate our sponsor.
A new friend who I made on arrival was one Yuguda. I
asked him what sponsor meant and he told me that it was
the person who would sponsor me. So, I told him that
it was my eldest brother, Umar Bukar. He then told me
to write this down while he did the same for his. When I
went home in the evening, my brother went through the
form and said that I should change the sponsor to Borno
State Government. I then said politely but with some
confidence that he himself was actually my sponsor. His
gaze suggested who the sponsor really was. The next
day, I accosted my new friend and told him about the
encounter and the need for him to change his sponsor to
Borno State Government.
We stayed for a while at Shehuri North in Alhaji Kaka
Mallam’s house before my eldest brother got a house in
the new GRA Bama road. At that time he was a bachelor
and so we shared the same roof. It was my first real home
in Maiduguri. Although at that time he was not very well-
off, he ensured that my education went smoothly.

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 Odyssey At University Of Maiduguri

I remember one day in Gembu while I was in secondary

school, my brother Umar Bukar, during a walk behind the
prison on a narrow footpath, promised me that he would
sponsor me anywhere if I passed with good grades.
I don’t know whether or not he still remembers that
promise but he kept it. This was against the backdrop of
the dwindling fortunes of our father at that time.
The remedial programme was to last for one year.
Meeting people from various backgrounds, many
who have attended very good schools, posed a serious
challenge to those of us who came from Gembu. Some
people, who had to do remedial or preliminary studies
before they joined the university, had an added advantage
and they exuded more confidence. So, for me I started
on a rough footing. I believed that I could cope with
biology and chemistry, but physics and mathematics was
my Achilles heel. Luckily, Ahmed Kara, Musa Halilu and
I formed a triangle of friends from Gembu. Ahmed Kara
was very good at mathematics so, he put us through. I still
remain grateful to him although I never expressed that
gratitude openly (I now believe that I should have). As
Mary Kay Ash advised, “Everyone wants to be appreciated, so
if you appreciate someone, don’t keep it a secret.”
At the end of our remedial programme, we came out
with very good grades. I then began to develop more
confidence in my abilities. Because students could be
withdrawn from the remedial programme, people paid
extra attention in the class so as not to fall victim to this. I

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remember an episode during a chemistry lecture when the

lecturer was dictating and said ‘within bracket’. The student
who sat near me wrote out in words as pronounced by
the Indian teacher ‘within brackets’ instead of enclosing
the items within brackets. After the lecture, I inquired
of the student why he had to write it that way. He was
dumbfounded. Today, he is also a lecturer in a university.
By the second year we had started the part one
science. Some of the students who could not pass the
remedial science were withdrawn. This part was a litmus
test as students would be assigned courses based on their
preferred choices and on the grades that they obtained
at the end of them. The course I had wanted was
pharmacy, but the University of Maiduguri did not offer
pharmacy at that time. I had no particular reason why I
wanted pharmacy and I did not even know what exactly
it entailed; I just followed my instinct.
At the end of the part one science when forms were
distributed, the majority of the students, even those who
had poor grades applied to human medicine. My result,
like that of Ahmed Kara, was fantastic. I still remember
that only four of us got an ‘A’ in statistics, and all of the
four of us ended up in human medicine. Initially we were
terrified by statistics, much more because other students
told us that the statistics teacher was a wicked person and
a poor teacher. This worried me a lot as I was deficient
in mathematics and I needed to make a good grade. But
when I paid particular attention to the teacher, I realised

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 Odyssey At University Of Maiduguri

that he knew exactly what he was doing and that he was

anything but wicked. Not many students gave the teacher
this chance and they paid dearly for it.
While awaiting course placement after the part one
science, I wrote the Joint Admissions and Matriculation
Board (JAMB) examination and was given admission to
study botany in Modibbo Adama College, University
of Maiduguri, Yola campus. The letter was dated 29th
November 1989 with ref. no. JAMB/ADNS/89/19746.
When the placement list was released and I was placed
in human medicine at the University of Maiduguri, there
was really no other choice to make.
One of my childhood friends who I reunited with at
the university was Bashiru Aliyu. He is a very sociable
gentleman and a bridge-builder. Immediately I informed
him that I had been given human medicine as a course,
he took me to three of his friends who were studying
medicine and introduced me to them individually. Those
friends of his were Mahmud Saidu, Abubakar S. Umar,
and Abduljalal Saleh. Another friend of mine who I
cultivated a relationship with at UNIMAID is Yusuf
Babasoro.
Three of us from Gembu, Ahmed Mayun, Ahmed
Kara and I, were admitted into the medical college; in
addition five of us from my native town of Gwoza –
Mohammed Guduf, Bello Ahmed, Sakina Abdullahi,
Hauwa Kudale and I – were admitted into the college.
Our entry into the College of Medical Sciences was a

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dream come true for many of us. Before then, we had

worked hard and prayed fervently to get the course of
our choice.
At the mosque on ordinary days, the rows of
worshippers were few. However, when the timetable for
examinations was released, the small mosque could not
contain the worshippers who besieged the mosque not
only for the obligatory prayers, but for special prayers
to pass their examinations and/or to get their desired
courses. Before we joined the medical college, we had
admired the medical students who often went to class
with some parts of human skeletons either to study them
or to simply pose with them.
Day one in the anatomy laboratory was not easy for
anyone. Seeing for the first time in our lives rows of
corpses in coffins was a real baptism. Before opening
the coffin, the technician in charge of the anatomy
laboratory took us on a long sermon about the need to
weed out fear from seeing or touching corpses as they are
dead and can do nothing to anyone alive. As the sermon
went on, the laboratory was as silent as a graveyard. Our
hearts pounded and our minds wandered onto almost
everything imaginable and unimaginable, possible and
impossible and on and on and on. Then, the hour of
truth came when the technician instructed us to open the
coffins. It was six students per corpse. I do not remember
exactly who opened the coffin, but I remember that I was
not the one. Consequently, nightmares then started and

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 Odyssey At University Of Maiduguri

continued for a long while. Every morning, chats centred

on nightmares of corpses pursuing one person or the
other, of other corpses having bitten someone’s hand
or ear while other corpses wrestled some to the ground,
and so many other ridiculous but frightening nightmares.
There was no way of verifying which of these nightmares
was made up and which actually occurred.
The head of the department of anatomy was an
Indian, Professor H.C. Varma. He was a teacher par
excellence and a disciplinarian extraordinaire. The crop
of students which passed through Professor Varma was
different from other crops of students. Varma’s crop of
students was ‘high yielding and drought resistant’. As
a matter of fact, we need many Varmas in our medical
colleges today to halt the ugly wind that is blowing across
many institutions in Nigeria.
The next phase when prayers were intensified was
around the time of the exit examination from the pre-
clinical. While my two friends and colleagues from
Gembu, Ahmed Mayun and Ahmed Kara passed at first
sitting, I had to re-sit biochemistry. That period was not
an easy one, not only because a lecturer in biochemistry
had told me earlier that I had passed the examination,
but also because the Gembu tripod of the college of
medicine that we had formed was distorted, resulting in
immense psychological pressure on me to fit back into
the original tripod. Luckily, we moved together to the
clinical site after the re-sit examination, and thus regained

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the Gembu tripod.

Things went on well when I was in the pre-clinical. I
had very few financial challenges as my older brothers
were living up to their responsibilities. But occasionally,
the finances would dry up earlier than the expected date
and so, my friends and I would have to manage until
the due date. While we waited, we adopted a Spartan
lifestyle. One of the incidents that I remember was
when our toothpaste, both mine and Musa Halilu’s, was
exhausted. Musa Halilu was my closest friend and we
shared virtually everything. Musa Halilu then told me that
he had overheard some students saying that they brushed
their teeth with salt and that it was okay. We tried it and
it worked. But when the money started to flow again, we
abandoned the salt and returned to the normal. During
my early days in the university, I was often filled with fear
and suspense whenever my eldest brother Umar Bukar
travelled out of town. I would then pray fervently for his
safe return. I thought several times then that if anything
happened to him, my education would be on the line.
The second incident was during the fasting period,
when we had only one meal per day. When we broke
our fast with food and gruel, the next meal was either
a leftover of this or it was the next day when we again
broke our fast. When I reflect on that type of meal now,
I feel nauseated. But all that changed for the better when
Mohammed Buba Marwa became the military governor
of Borno state.

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Colonel Buba Marwa saved many natives of Borno state

in 1991 from financial catastrophe by the introduction of
monthly stipends for all the natives studying medicine.
That kind of foresight is only seen in great leaders. Borno
state medical students then became the darlings of all
as cash flowed in every month. Our stay in the college
then became smooth as the one thing that had made life
difficult was taken away by Governor Marwa.
The experience in the clinical section was more
pleasant and enduring than that of the pre-clinical. Hardly
were students withdrawn from the clinical. Therefore,
the small number who made the clinical did find more
time for other good things that life could offer. For me,
that other good thing was books, books and more books
all the way. I was not anti-social; I just did not allow the
social aspects to interfere with my academic pursuit.
I was unarguably one of the bookworms of my class.
Sule Yerima was another accomplished bookworm who
I would refer to as bookworm squared just as Roy tells
Obama about the difference between home square and
home squared in the latter’s book, Dreams From My Father.
Sule Yerima was relatively unknown to me at the pre-
clinical. At the clinical side, we became very close friends
and confidants.
There was an incident during a ward round in my third
year in medical school which left me laughing my heart
out whenever I think about it. I took a medical history
of the illness of a patient in the gynaecology ward and

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I wanted to make sure that everything about the patient

was complete. So, I decided to check the fluid intake and
output chart where I saw B/F. I then asked a colleague
of mine what the abbreviation stood for and he told me
‘breakfast’. When the consultant, the late Dr. Bobzom,
came around I presented everything including the input
and output for the previous day and the ‘breakfast’ (B/F).
The consultant laughed his head off and corrected me
that it was ‘brought forward’ and not breakfast. The
colleague who had told me that it was breakfast was there.
A simple gaze from me without uttering a word sent the
message to him, next time if you don’t know something just
admit rather than mislead.
In our fourth year, I was elected the national president
of Borno Medical Students Association (BOMSA). This
was my first shot at leadership in the university. As an
executive member, I became close to Aliyu Mohammed
Kodiya, who is now my very close friend and confidant,
and who was then the public relations officer. Our
greatest challenge was the publication of the second
edition of BOMED magazine. We successfully did that
and launched with pomp and ceremony both the first
and the second editions together in 1993 in El Kanemi
Hall of the University of Maiduguri. The dignitaries who
attended the launch were the commissioner of health,
Omar Hambagda, the chief medical director of Borno
State Hospitals Management Board, Dr. Lawan Gana,
provost of the College of Medical Sciences (CMS),

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the late Prof. Onyewotu, and Dr. Dili Dogo. The chief
launcher, engineer Bunu Sheriff, was represented by his
younger brother who we admired for his accent and for
his polished English.
During the fundraising ceremony, many things
happened which suggested that, given the opportunity,
many youths will succumb to temptation to keep what
does not belong to them. If students at that level
collected some money for the publication of a magazine
and pretended that they did not, what would happen
tomorrow when such people become leaders and hold
the purse strings?
Seventeen years after we launched the first and second
editions of BOMED magazine, I was invited by BOMSA
as their teacher to write a foreword for the third edition of
BOMED magazine. The first paragraph of the foreword
reads thus,
“When in 1993/94, as the national president of BOMSA, we
produced the second edition of BOMED magazine, and launched
both the first and second editions of the journal; little did I envisage
that I will be requested to write a foreword, 17 years after laying the
foundation for the launching of BOMED medical journal. Truly,
what goes around comes around.”
Two dignitaries who attended the first launch and who
were also present at the third launch were Professor Dili
Dogo (now the provost of CMS) as the chairman of the
occasion and Dr. Mohammed Ghuluze, who had played
the role of master of ceremonies 17 years earlier and who

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is now the medical director of State Specialist Hospital,

Maiduguri. A day before the launch, I scanned a copy of
the picture of Dr. Dili Dogo, then seated with the late
Professor Onyewotu, the then provost of CMS, on the
high table during the first launch. I passed the picture
to Dr. Hadiza Usman, who was the guest speaker at the
occasion, who handed the scanned copy together with the
second edition of the BOMED magazine to Professor
Dili Dogo. The provost looked at it with amazement and
showed it to Emeritus Professor Umaru Shehu. That was
indeed a blast from the past!
In 1991/1992, I was nominated as a member of the
electoral committee of the University of Maiduguri
Medical Students Association (UMMESA). We organised
a screening exercise for the contestants. Because I was
a voracious reader, my questions were up to date and
sometimes out of context. One of the questions that
I had asked one of the contenders was, “Who was the
first American president to occupy the White House?” Later, I
doubted the relevance of such a question and wondered
why I had asked it in the first place. After all, it was not a
‘Who Wants to be a Millionaire’ contest.
One of my friends contested for a position and we
helped him to draft his manifesto the night before.
He said that he wanted to present everything without
referring to any notes. I counselled him that this could
be disastrous and I narrated to him my experience during
a debate in secondary school and how it had ended up a

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fiasco. He was somewhat convinced but, to my surprise,

he appeared empty handed when he was called to present
his manifesto. He started off well but shortly after
everybody knew that there was a problem. He journeyed
through the turbulence up to the end. That was really not
a case of who had the last laugh but about learning from
other people’s experiences.
I found time in the clinical section to practise my
hobby – reading and writing. Because I was not just a
casual reader, I bought newspapers rather than read them
in the library. My regular menus were: Time magazine,
Newsweek, Readers’ Digest, Sunday Concord and a variety of
novels and books. One book that shaped my view about
the white American was Alex Haley’s most celebrated
book, Roots. I agree with Malcolm X when he said, “People
don’t realise how a man’s whole life can be changed by one book.”
The western media and commentators often referred to
Roots as ‘controversial’ but all discerning minds know
that the book is anything but controversial. I remember
a colleague who also used to follow current affairs and
how we shared ideas about global events. His name is
Mohammed Idris, now at FMCY.
In our fourth year, we went for rural posting in Bama
Local Government Area and we also spent some time in
Banki, a border town near Cameroon. While in Bama,
I stayed with Mallam Diya, a friend who taught at the
College of Education, Bama. Mallam Diya was single then
so, we shared his room. He had a friend named Abubakar

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who, like me, was also an avid reader. I borrowed books

from him and returned them after completion to get new
ones. The one book that I read which still has a lasting
impression on me was titled Religions of the World. In this
book, I came to know about the dichotomy between
divine and non-divine religions. Before then I did not
know of Confucianism as a non-divine religion. I still
remember some thought-provoking quotations from
the book, “An individual’s adherence to a particular faith is the
geographical accident of the locality of his birth place”, and “why
hate someone because he holds a different view point?” Earlier,
Albert Einstein also wrote that, “All religions, arts and
sciences are branches of the same tree.” How I wish that those
who teach religious intolerance and those who kill and
maim in the name of religion would just spare some few
minutes and ponder over these quotations.
Mallam Diya was a wonderful character and I enjoyed
every second of my stay with him. A neighbour to Mallam
Diya was one Mallam Ali, who was also a lecturer at the
college. Mallam Ali had already been married then. His
wife supplied us with food at all times. He often went
fishing and what he caught ended up as meals on our
table. I enjoyed those fish meals a great deal.
When I was in fourth year, a childhood friend, Bapetel
Sakaka of blessed memory, met me in my room in the
evening and said to me that, based on my principles and
on the type of person that I am he believed that I would
like the younger sister of my bosom and childhood

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friend Musa Halilu. He said that she had the qualities that
I wanted in a woman. I was irritated by his submission
because marriage was the last thing on my mind at that
stage of my life. “Why would I even talk about marriage at
this stage?” I had retorted. In fact, marriage had never
crossed my mind before then. But, as time went by, the
thought kept recurring and one day when my friend Musa
Halilu visited, I summoned courage and told him about
the encounter that I had had with Bapetel Sakaka. He
gave me a positive picture of his sister and corroborated
Bapetel’s assessment. That began my journey to the altar.
When my roommate Dahiru Wachine graduated,
I was alone in my room until students from Sokoto
were absorbed into our college; then a new roommate,
Mohammed Danfulani, joined me. My room was habitable
as I had an old black and white television and a rug carpet
‘inherited’ from my eldest brother. What was lacking was
a refrigerator. After a thrift contribution I went with Sule
Yerima to buy a refrigerator. Because Sule Yerima had two
brothers who were in successful businesses, he had few
financial hiccups while we were in school. He went for a
5 000 naira refrigerator while I could not afford a 4 000
naira refrigerator. What I had on me then was 3 000 naira.
I therefore suggested that we meet my immediate older
brother, Barrister Babagoni Bukar in his chambers, which
were close to where we had seen the prized refrigerator.
As we were going, I was sceptical of getting a 1 000 naira
from him but, when I explained to him, he just smiled

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and brought out a 1 000 naira from his breast pocket. I

did not appreciate the gesture much until later when I
realised that parting with a 1 000 naira then was really a
big sacrifice.

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PART SIX
INTERNSHIP AT SPECIALIST
HOSPITAL, MAIDUGURI

“Don’t be too timid and squeamish about your actions. All life is
an experiment. The more experiments you make the better.”

Ralph Waldo Emerson

I had my internship at the State Specialist Hospital,

Maiduguri, in 1995/1996. When we reported, I was
nominated as the house officers’ liaison officer. As interns,
we were the foot soldiers and being that at a busy hospital
like Specialist Hospital, Maiduguri was a herculean task.
In those days, most people were responsible as the
majority had got into medical practice purely on merit
and the passion for the work was always evident. I stayed
in the same apartment with my friend Dr. Sule Yerima
but we barely saw each other. He was in obstetrics and
gynaecology, and had to leave home early in the morning
and return late at night. At that time there was really not
much supervision from our seniors yet we were alive to
our responsibilities.

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The euphoria that I felt the first time that I was

addressed as a doctor was really amazing. I was excited
when the first call was sent to me to review a patient in
paediatrics ward. As I walked towards the hospital, I felt
really cool. But so many thoughts crossed my mind on my
way to the hospital. What kind of patient was I going to
see? Would I know the diagnosis? How would the patient
be cared for? What if I mismanaged the patient or the
patient died in the process? These thoughts led to some
mental confusion, fear, apprehension and anxiety. It was
truly a combination of euphoria and excitement on the
one hand and fear and apprehension on the other hand.
Wherever one was addressed with the title ‘doctor’,
one often felt on top of the world. If per chance,
someone forgot to add the prefix to my name, I felt
somewhat belittled. One always remembered to take the
stethoscope along wherever one went as it was a proof
that one was already a full-fledged doctor.
In fact, I remember some of my colleagues who even
went to the market with their stethoscopes in the pockets
of their trousers with the ear piece carefully hanging out.
We were also told the stories of some colleagues who
went to the university campus in pairs to woo campus
girls. One would stand a short distance away from the
other and when a girl was close by, the first would then
call out the name of the second doctor with the title
pronounced to be in the hearing of the girl. Thereafter,
the hunter moved gradually towards the hunted and the

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rapport started. It is not an exaggeration that then very

few campus girls resisted that title which served like a
magnet.
Ironically, some years after graduation, one often tried
to hide one’s identity in public and one was rarely seen
with anything that would identify one as a doctor. This is
one of life’s ironies.
As a house officer at Specialist Hospital, Maiduguri,
one literally operated solo, as one often worked with
little supervision as opposed to what happened in
teaching hospitals where adequate supervision was
usually provided. As an intern, one was still learning
the ropes and so mistakes were bound to happen. In
those days, we were put on call alone the very day or
the next after we started our internship. That was a big
challenge, for someone fresh out of medical school to
start the management of patients without a short period
of orientation and observation. Sometimes what we did
during the initial period was to dash to where we stayed
to check one or two things in the books before running
back to the wards to continue with the care of patients.
I remember a case I had during my posting at paediatrics.
I couldn’t even remember the basic investigations to
request for. So I told the sister in charge of the ward that
I would be back shortly. I then rushed down to Marwa
House, a government quarters for medical personnel
located opposite the hospital. There I quickly consulted
my books before I went back to continue with the care

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of that patient. The intern of today is unlikely to dash

anywhere for consultations as the android or ipad provide
an easy reference source which can save one from some
embarrassing situations.
I often maintain that the nurses in rural areas and in
specialist hospitals are generally more committed than
their counterparts in teaching hospitals. While we were
interns at obstetrics and gynaecology, the nurses in the
labour ward handled virtually everything related to labour.
Whenever a call was sent to interns in the labour ward
then, our hearts would start throbbing because it was
likely to be something that we could not handle without
inviting our senior colleagues.
One day, I was called from the labour ward to attend
to a woman who had failed to deliver after several
attempts at home. I knew that there was trouble. As I
entered the labour ward, I saw a woman who required
to be resuscitated. The hand of the baby was outside the
birth canal and it had peeled off. As I listened to the foetal
heartbeat, I observed that the nurses whispered among
themselves and smiled afterwards. It was much later that
I realised why they did so. A baby whose hand had peeled
off is unlikely to be alive so why listen to the foetal heart
beat?! But in medicine, it is always better to confirm and
to be sure of what one is dealing with.
I recollect with fun memories a senior nurse in the
paediatric ward who often read novels and bestsellers.
She was a wizard when it came to setting intravenous

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lines for children. One reason why I dislike paediatrics is

the trouble with setting lines. That sister usually sat in the
nursing station and watched as we struggled with setting
lines. She hardly intervened early. She only intervened at
a time when she realised that we were either becoming
exhausted or about to give up. When she collected the
needle, a single attempt succeeded, most of the time.
Whenever we invited our senior colleagues to help
set lines, we were inviting trouble because they could
also fail to secure the line. They often resorted to other
methods that they had learnt over the years. When the
seniors came in, mostly at night, the frowns on their faces
were unmistakable. The frowns would turn into grimaces
when attempts at setting the line failed. Soon after, a
naturally calm person would start shouting and would
occasionally rain abuse on someone or on nobody really,
all in an effort to vent the frustration of failing to secure
a line. To some extent the ability to secure an intravenous
line in children has little to do with seniority.
As interns, we made presentations in medicine and in
paediatrics. Those presentations were really interesting.
For many years after my internship, I still referred to
those presentations. It will do the intern a lot of good to
participate fully in such presentations as they help in the
future. I still have the notebooks for those presentations
despite the fact that I am now a specialist in obstetrics
and gynaecology. I remember the presentation that I
made on malaria during my paediatrics posting. I came

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across airport malaria in one text. Years later, I looked

through books to see whether I could find airport malaria
but I couldn’t find it.
The concept of airport malaria reminds me of the
situation in Gembu. When we were growing up in Gembu,
there were no mosquitoes, yet people were diagnosed
and treated for malaria. Some improved while others did
not. Was the cause of the fevers really malaria or was it
something else? Could it be a case of transport malaria
where mosquitoes from the tropical parts of Nigeria
made it to the temperate climate in Gembu in vehicles that
brought people and goods? This phenomenon however
cannot explain the large number of people diagnosed with
and treated for malaria. Or could it be another cause of
fever in the temperate climate of Gembu that had not
been discovered?
Lately, there have been mosquitoes in Gembu but
probably of a different species as they appear like the
Asian tiger mosquitoes. Their bites appear to me more
painful than the bite of the tropical mosquito.
I remember with nostalgia the encounters that I had
with some colleagues and team players during my one
year internship at Specialist Hospital, Maiduguri. As house
officers, we were occasionally invited to Dr. Mileski’s house
for buffet. I enjoyed and often looked forward to such
buffets. Dr. Mileski was a German consultant. Dr. Zainab
Mustapha was a medical officer in medicine. She made our
stay memorable while under her tutelage. Sometime in July

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of 2007, I met with Dr. Zainab Mustapha at the council

chambers of UNIMAID. After the interview, we were
both employed as lecturer grade one and subsequently as
consultants to UMTH. In August 2012, she was the head
of the department of radiology while I was the head of
the department of obstetrics and gynaecology.
Dr. Mercy Wakil was a wonderful personality. She often
gave me N200:00k when she observed that the month
had gone far. Two hundred naira then to a young house
officer made some difference. She promised to attend the
naming ceremony of my first son in Bama and she not
only kept her promise but also brought us gifts. Years later
while I was at FMCG, I was told about her wedding in Jos,
Plateau state. I attended the ceremony in person. I had
seen groundnut pyramids of Kano in textbooks and in
print and electronic media, but the first time that I saw a
pyramid of gifts was at Dr. Mercy’s wedding.
There was also a nursing sister in the medical ward
named Nana. At the end of our house job, she invited
a select group of us who probably she enjoyed working
with, for a candle-lit dinner in the small sisters’ office in
the medical ward of the Specialist Hospital, Maiduguri.
We had a down-to-earth and accommodating medical
director. As the medical director, Dr. Wapada Balami
made our stay memorable despite the little punches he
received from us as house officers. Our salary as house
officers in 1995/1996 was 5 400 naira. To buy anything
meaningful would require thrift contributions over many

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agonising months. I remember that it was from a thrift

contribution that I bought a pair of designer Saint Michael
shoes. So, I was always careful when walking with the
shoes initially as replacing them would have been difficult.
At that time, one of our senior colleagues who engaged
in unprofessional conduct bought a Honda car worth 205
000 naira. He was only a year ahead of us and at that point
many of us did not have any savings. We thought that it
would take decades before one of us would buy such a
car, but then we were short-sighted as events later have
shown. Throughout my one year internship I could not
even afford a colour television, let alone a car.
As the liaison officer, I often put up write-ups at the
entrance to our quarters, which were just a stone’s throw
from the hospital. This was another opportunity for me to
practice the art that I love – writing.
Some of our senior colleagues during the internship
performed abortions in their rooms. Because the girls
knew what they wanted, abortions were performed
without pain relief and occasionally we heard screams of
pain as they had no choice but to endure. When I reflect
on the number and kinds of girls that came for abortions
every week while we were interns and on those who
patronised the celebrated abortion clinics in town, I do
come to the conclusion that we need to face this problem
squarely, rather than always sweep the issue under the
carpet. We just have to tell ourselves the bitter truth that
the 21st century girls and society are quite different from

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the Stone Age our grandfathers lived in, which we still

want to maintain at the cost of many lives.
The most traumatic experience that I had as an intern
was when we had mass casualties following a road traffic
accident (RTA) involving a bus. Because of the large
number of corpses, many doctors were recruited from
different departments to certify the deaths. That was the
goriest sight I have ever seen. Many corpses littered the
floor; some with decapitated heads, others had amputated
limbs, many with their abdomens opened and with
intestines on the floor and so many other presentations.
Of course, nobody in the bus survived. That was in
1995/1996 when Borno state was still the home of peace.
But the state of the corpses was like the aftermath of a
communal clash or of something more horrendous than
a motor vehicle accident.
One of the victims was a female staffer of a ministry
within Maiduguri. That morning, her suitor had
accompanied her to the park and had paid the transport
fare that would convey her to her hometown. Immediately
the suitor left the park, she had collected the money back
and had boarded a bus to Kano. It was on the way to
Kano that the accident that had killed all the passengers
had happened. The suitor was as confused as he was
mournful.
May 1996 was my last month as an intern and on 6th
June 1996, I had my wedding fatiha in Gembu before
proceeding to Kogi for National Youth Service Corps.

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PART SEVEN
NATIONAL YOUTH SERVICE
CORPS AT OGUGU, KOGI STATE

“It is not the strongest of the species that survives, nor the most
intelligent that survives. It is the one that is the most adaptable to
change.”

Charles Darwin

I t was my first trip to Kogi state. I did not know the

way to Kogi neither did I know anything about the
culture of the people. I took off from Maiduguri with Dr.
Sule Yerima who was posted to Kano. We stopped over
at Jama’are in Bauchi state, where we bought suya (roasted
meat). Not long after the suya meal, my stomach started
to ache as if there was a volcanic eruption from within.
Consequently, I resigned from the ongoing discussions
about the state of the country that we had initiated
earlier. I asked Dr. Yerima how long away we were from
Kano and his answer was ‘just a few kilometres’. Those few
kilometres seemed to me as though they were hundreds
of miles. When the bus came to a halt, I just whispered

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to Dr. Yerima to pick up my bag. I alighted quickly

and, thank providence, there was a bush nearby. I got
immediate relief after visiting the bush. From that time
on I have always been conscious of what I eat whenever
I’m on a journey.
On the way to Kogi the next day, I spotted some
tall trees which I had not seen before. I asked a female
passenger what sort of trees they were. She responded
by saying, “Ah see Hausa man wey no no palm tree,” meaning,
“Look at a Hausa man who does not know what palm tree looks
like.” It was the first time that I had seen such a tree and,
as people say, there is always a first time to anything in
life.
We arrived at the orientation camp in Kabba Bunu on
a Sunday. What we were told was that the first doctor to
arrive at the camp was the one who would be appointed
the camp medical director. But it was not the case with me
because a doctor reported earlier than me, but the NYSC
director appointed me as the camp medical director.
His reason was that graduates from Maiduguri were up
and doing. So, I got appointed based on the good works
of my predecessors. The camp clinic had four medical
doctors, an optometrist, and three pharmacists.
The experience I had during the service year suggests
that when Nigerians put their differences aside and work
together for the common good, the country will no doubt
be great. In less than one month, people from different
backgrounds came together to form different groups

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and played out as if they had been together for ages.

But the way that our universities have become polarised
along ethno-religious lines today, I doubt if the NYSC is
as interesting as it was in those days when religion was
purely a personal matter to most people.
At the end of the orientation camp, we returned to the
NYSC what remained of all the drugs and consumables
and kept a record of what we had used. The NYSC director
was surprised and made some complimentary remarks
regarding our prudent management of the consumables
to the extent that we returned many after the orientation
was over. For me it was not anything extraordinary; we
did what we believed was right and that was it.
I never believed and still do not believe in influencing
things in my favour. I always allowed things to go
naturally. So, when it was time for posting and members
were busy lobbying, I just watched as events unfolded.
People often lobby because of fear of the unknown but,
as Dale Carnegie said, “You can conquer almost any fear if you
will only make up your mind to do so. For remember, fear doesn’t
exist anywhere except in the mind.”
I was posted to Okpo Cottage Hospital, located in the
headquarters of Olamaboro Local Government Area.
I was redeployed to Ogugu/NYSC Cottage Hospital
after the NYSC received complaints from the Ogugu
community about the lack of a doctor in their hospital.
There was little government presence in Ogugu as there
was neither electricity nor pipe-borne water, but I have

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no regrets at having served in such a remote setting. The

only source of water then was from the Obele (meaning
medicinal water) River. We paid people to fetch water for
our domestic use. We added Dettol to our bathing water
and boiled the portion meant for drinking. Despite the
remoteness of the area, we were up to date with global
events via a transistor radio. Newspapers were only
obtained when someone travelled and came back with
an old one. Our stay in Ogugu was quite eventful and
worthwhile.
I assumed duty at Ogugu after a short stay in the
local government headquarters. Pharmacist Usman
Awak, who was primarily posted to Ogugu, had already
assumed duty. Pharmacist Awak was a wonderful person
to be with. If not for his co-operation and commitment,
we wouldn’t have succeeded in our mission of changing
how business was done at the hospital. We met two other
corps members on the ground – laboratory scientists
Moses and Patience. The two corps members left shortly
after we assumed duty. Moses was from one of the ‘O’
states and Patience was from Delta state.
Patience had a completely different perception of the
north. The first day that she saw me tuck my shirt into
my trousers, she was visibly surprised and said that she
thought that we do not dress that way in the north. She
told us about some unprintable things that they were told
about Muslims. Initially, she kept some distance from me
but, as time went by, she became more relaxed. However,

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there was still much distance between us up to the time

that she left. But the good news was that she had met a
northern Muslim who was not ‘the typical one’ that she
had been told about in her state. One can only imagine
what her attitudes and perception towards the north
would have been if she had not served in the north.
This is one of the innumerable advantages of the NYSC
scheme.
Pharmacist Awak and I stayed in Ogugu for the
duration of the service year. We were always around and
even when we travelled, our journeys were usually brief.
The longest journey that I made was five days and that
was when I went to Gembu to take my wife to Ogugu.
On our way back to Ogugu, I had an interesting
encounter with an officer of the Nigerian police. We
stopped at Katsina-Ala where the policeman checked
our luggage and found a stethoscope in my bag. He
then asked me for the receipt for the stethoscope and
I responded calmly that I didn’t have the receipt. Right
inside me, my temper had risen beyond the boiling point
for that balderdash. To ask me to produce a receipt for a
tool of my trade is like asking a farmer on his way to the
farm to produce the receipt for his hoe!
As I noted earlier, before I went to Ogugu, I stayed for
a while at Okpo, the local government headquarters. The
local government took care of my accommodation and
feeding while I stayed at Okpo. I stayed for a while at the
general hospital where I worked with a fantastic reverend

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sister, who was the principal medical officer (PMO) of

Okpo General Hospital. Reverend Sister [Dr.] Osuwagau
truly understood the world. She appreciated that all
of us cannot belong to the same religion, and in fact,
issues of religion never formed a part of our discussions.
Whenever I was with her, I always felt at home. But
occasionally, when other reverend sisters visited her
and saw us discussing in a convivial atmosphere, the
resentment on their faces was unmistakable – it got much
worse whenever she introduced me to them. But that was
okay, as I did not expect everybody in Nigeria to be on
the same page on sensitive issues like religion.
Work started as soon as we settled down in Ogugu.
One observation we made from the outset was the
insincerity of the leadership of the hospital. I decided
with Pharmacist Awak that we needed to change the way
business was done there. One drip set was used for as
many patients as possible, while wounds were sutured
with hair plaiting thread. A tin (1 000 tablets) of ferrous
sulphate then was sold for about N200:00k but only
seven tablets were dispensed to the women at the cost
of N10. That to us was pure exploitation of the innocent
and vulnerable peasants. So, we started a gradual process
of transformation which was met with stiff resistance by
the leadership of the hospital. In fact, the administrator
wanted to maintain his headship while we were there but
we could not take that. To wrestle the headship from
him was a herculean task as the head of the department

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of primary health care was supportive of him probably

because of the ‘returns’. When we finally took over, the
transformation started and before we left, the community
was happy with what we had offered. In fact, the Ogugu
Development Union had to wade in to resolve the crisis
of leadership in the hospital. Such is the beauty of
community hospital committees and the like.
An example of a ‘son of the soil’ who was genuinely
committed to the welfare of his people was one Captain
Joe Agada, a retired captain and pharmacist. When he
visited us in Ogugu, he requested to know our problems.
After the discussions, he promised to put us on monthly
stipends: N1500:00k for me and N1000:00k for the
pharmacist. This he did after he settled the N4000:00k
and N6000:00k four month allowances which the local
government was then owing the pharmacist and me
respectively. He kept his promise and that made a lot
of difference to us. If we had just one of such good
Samaritans in every community in Nigeria, we wouldn’t
be where we are today. The attitude of Captain Agada is
reminiscent of what Desmond Tutu said, “Do your little bit
of good where you are; it’s those little bits of good put together that
overwhelm the world.”
There were some landmark cases that we managed at
Ogugu. Diagnoses and the treatment of diseases were
based solely on clinical surmises as we had no laboratory
back-up, although there was a laboratory scientist on the
ground. The first challenge that I had was when I wanted

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to give a child who was brought in with convulsion an

injection to stop the convulsion. The mother refused,
citing many instances when convulsed children died
shortly after being given injections. I did not know then
that this was a widely held belief in the community.
This belief was also common among hospital staff. But
from my training as a medical student and from my one
year internship experience, I knew that injections were
commonly given to abort convulsion. I then explained
to the mother that I was not aware of what she said and
that, based on my knowledge, part of the immediate
solution to the convulsion was the injection. The mother
reluctantly agreed. I then gave the child Diazepam, but
then I observed that the breathing pattern of the child
changed. My heart jumped into my mouth for the mother
was about to be proved right but I also knew that it was
one of the side effects of the drug. So, I took the baby
into the office and reassured the mother. The baby was
admitted. The cause of the convulsion was found and she
was subsequently discharged in good health. From then
onwards, the community began to develop confidence in
the system. In that place, most babies were brought to the
hospital only as the last resort such that they died shortly
after admission. If such babies were given injections
before their deaths, the parents erroneously attributed
their deaths to the injection.
The second case was a woman who came into the
hospital in labour. When I examined her, I realised that

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she could not deliver on her own without caesarean

operation because her birth canal was too small to allow
for the passage of even a small baby, much less an average
sized baby. Worst of all, we did not have the facility for
caesarean section in the hospital. So, I referred her to the
local government headquarters. A relative insisted that
there was a traditional doctor who could make her deliver
successfully and that they would take her there. “Really?”
I thought out loud. But at the same time I prayed silently
that the traditional doctor would not succeed because if
he did, I was finished and the confidence that I had started
to enjoy would just vanish. At the end, the traditional
doctor had to counsel them to do what I had suggested
and the woman had a caesarean operation at the local
government hospital.
The third case was that of a boy of about three years
old who was brought in, moribund. He had a wound
around the groin from which oozed pure pus. When I
tried to explore the wound, it went up to the chest. The
skin was separated from the under structure such that you
could put your hand in and go around. I did not know
the diagnosis of this condition but what I conjectured
was that since there was infection, regular dressing and
antibiotics would take care of the problem. Whatever
we asked the father to provide, he would do without
hesitation. We started dressing the wound twice daily and
covered the boy with good quality antibiotics. Within
three days, the baby who could not even cry started to

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cry. The baby who could only watch as we cleaned his

wound now started to struggle with us to the extent that
he had to be held down. After weeks of treatment, the
baby was discharged in good condition. Shortly after a
follow-up, the father brought to us tubers of yam and a
giant chicken. For some time now I have not seen that
kind of chicken – a chicken of appreciation.
The fourth case was that of a man in his early 40s
who was brought home from Lagos because the
orthodox health providers there had failed. Because we
had gained the confidence of the locals, they suggested
to the relatives to try this ‘Corper’ Doctor (Oboci) first.
He was brought in in a bad shape as he could not even
walk. When I examined him, the features that I found
were actually in keeping with pulmonary tuberculosis.
Because we did not have any laboratory back-up and
because the condition of the patient would not allow for
merry-go-rounds, I took his blood sample and sent it to
the local government headquarters for the erythrocyte
sedimentation rate (ESR). The result came out to be very
high. That helped strengthen my suspicion and therefore
I started the patient on medications for tuberculosis.
Within two weeks, the patient could walk again. By one
month he had regained some weight and thereafter, he
had recovered fully. I suspected that in Lagos the patient
had been taken to unqualified health personnel who
could not establish what the diagnosis was. If a ‘Corper’
doctor in the hinterland could diagnose and treat the man

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without the luxury of the investigations available in the

cities, I doubt if the hospitals that they visited in Lagos
were actually manned by doctors. That is if they had
visited any hospitals at all.
I was reminded of the fifth case by Pharmacist Awak
after I gave him the manuscript to review. There was a
case of food poisoning in a family. Three of the family
members were taken to a general hospital in another
local government while three others were brought to
our hospital. All three who were brought to our hospital
survived, while none of those who were taken to the
‘bigger’ hospital survived. Pharmacist Awak reminded
me of what I had said then, “It is not the hospital that matters
but those who man it.”
The sixth case was not actually a landmark but a case
of satisfaction oiled with humour. One morning, the
manager of the community bank rushed to the hospital
his child who was about 10 years old. It was noticed that
the child was extremely weak and was not even able to
sit up in the morning. On examination, we observed that
the boy could not talk, sit or do anything. The father
was expectedly quite apprehensive. I suspected that the
child had hypoglycaemia (low blood sugar). Pharmacist
Awak brought out the 50% glucose we kept in stock for
such a purpose. The boy regained strength immediately
after the injection. The father could not believe what had
happened and his remarks were, “I have heard about Jesus
Christ resurrecting people in the Bible, but today I have seen it with

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my very eyes.”
By the time that we had stayed for a few months in
Ogugu, we had become idolised. People in the village
often observed every move that we made and interpreted
our actions based on their understanding. Unknown to
us, the villagers had observed that whenever we referred
patients out, what was brought back home were not
patients but corpses. Information then filtered out that
whenever I referred a patient that meant that the condition
was hopeless and therefore there was no need to take the
patient anywhere. Of course, that was far from the truth
because most, if not all of the cases we referred could be
managed at good centres.
I remember a woman who brought her baby in
with a condition that could be managed surgically, but
immediately I mentioned the word referral, the woman
fell to the ground and started yelling. All my subsequent
entreaties fell on deaf ears. I do not know what happened
afterwards. The second case was brought by a vice
principal. When I explained to him the condition of the
baby and that what she needed was a blood transfusion,
he asked me to tell him sincerely if she would survive.
Again, I explained in a language that I believe he
understood. He yielded and took the patient to the centre
but, unfortunately, two days after, her corpse was brought
back to the village. These incidents really put me in a
difficult situation but thank God that I had spent much
of my service year by then.

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There was one case that I did not manage to my

satisfaction and that worries me even now whenever I
think about it. A middle-aged man came back from
the farm one evening and told me that something had
pricked his heel. He showed me exactly where it was.
I examined him but could not feel anything. The man
insisted that he still felt the source of the prick. I then
decided to make a small opening under local anaesthesia
to pull out whatever it was that was there. From a small
opening, I continuously increased the opening until it
became obvious that I had gone far. When I could not
find anything, I threw in the towel and closed the wound.
The following day, I sent him to the local government
hospital to do an x-ray. The x-ray did not pick up anything.
Meanwhile, the leg had started swelling and within two
days, the swelling rapidly increased to involve the upper
aspect of the leg. I therefore decided to refer him for
expert care. After he had left, the grapevine had it that
there was no way that either I or the x-ray could have seen
something that was supernatural. Up ’til now I cannot
make out what the problem was. Was it that he had had
a snake bite that had gone unnoticed, or was it really an
invisible prick from an invisible and invincible source?
Few days later, my service year came to a close and sadly,
I had no way of confirming what happened afterwards.
There are certain cultural practices in Ogugu that are
peculiar to that environment and at times intriguing to
me. Infidelity is not found in the dictionary of women

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in Ogugu. The reason is that, according to the tradition

of the community, any married woman who engages in
infidelity will not live to tell the story. However, I have
not heard anything about the consequences of infidelity
to married men. If the same applied to the men, what a
utopian society Ogugu would be.
Another intriguing practice was during funeral
processions. We were told that the corpse often dictated
the direction that the undertakers would take. To us this
appeared quite strange. But we experienced an episode
one day and up ’til now I am not really sure of what I saw.
As we went out with other hospital staff to see one of
such processions, we saw a procession heading towards
the hospital. As the procession got near the junction to the
hospital, we saw a sudden U-turn to a different direction.
The staff then said to us that the corpse had changed
the direction and that was what they had explained to
us earlier. Was it the undertakers who had changed the
direction or the corpse?
Another amazing experience we had was when a
mechanic who was rushed to our hospital died shortly
after, following a brief illness which we suspected to be
malaria. As we waited for the conveyance of the corpse,
a young man came with his motorcycle, took the corpse
to the motorcycle and, with the help of others, used a rag
to fasten the corpse to his body, and sped off. My mouth
was agape and I was filled with awe because where I come
from, corpses are not handled that way.

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Another episode that I remember with astonishment

was the encounter that I had with a friend who is a native
of Ogugu and a higher national diploma holder. He had
either three or four kids, all females. One day, he told
me that he had given his wife the last warning that if
she gave birth to a girl again, she would have herself to
blame. But I told him that that was unnecessary and that
it was beyond her control to decide that. I went further
to enlighten him that, in the actual sense, he was the one
who should supply the Y chromosome and not his wife,
who has only XX, for she cannot offer what she does
not have. Besides, the pregnancy was advanced and sex
is determined at fertilisation. Few months later, the wife
delivered a bouncing baby boy. With a smile of conviction,
he said to me, “You see what I mean!” My reply was that
at the time that he had issued the threat the sex of the
baby had already been determined. So, it was merely a
coincidence. Whether he believed me or not, I do not
know, but his looks were those of disbelief.
I learned a lesson from an unpleasant experience that I
had with a couple. An older woman accompanied a young
man to the hospital. The appearances suggested a son
and mother relationship. The man was a troublemaker.
He would not take his drugs and he often shouted at
the staff. When I received the complaints, I went to his
bedside and queried why he was troubling everyone in the
hospital, including his own mother. The woman retorted,
“I look like him mother?” meaning, “Do I look like his mother?”

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I did not answer her because I realised that I had crossed

the line. From that day, I no longer judge people by their
appearances. What I often do when faced with a similar
circumstance is to ask, “Who is she to you?” or vice versa.
Before that encounter, my argument had always been that
love has wide open eyes and is not blind at all. But that
day proved me wrong as love can sometimes be blind;
that is if that union was truly based on love.
Another observation that I made was the fact that
throughout my one year stay in Ogugu, I did not see a case
of convulsion during pregnancy (eclampsia). Eclampsia
was a common problem in the teaching hospital where
I trained and in the specialist hospital where I had
my one-year internship. As a matter of fact, in many
hospitals in northern Nigeria, it is the leading cause of
pregnancy-related maternal death. It may be interesting
to find out what protects the women of Ogugu from this
catastrophe as it may be this finding that will prevent our
future mothers from avoidable deaths.
About half way into my service year, my wife
conceived but not long after we had observed that there
were problems with the pregnancy. I then took her to
the reverend sister doctor at Okpo, who requested for
an ultra-sound examination. Unfortunately, the nearest
place where ultra-sound was available then was in Enugu.
So, we continued our journey to Enugu. It was my first
trip to Enugu. After several stops and inquiries, we finally
located a hospital where ultra-sound service was available.

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I introduced myself to the first doctor and told him that I

wanted to see the medical director. He went in and came
out, then said that the medical director would do the scan
for my wife but that I would have to make the payments
first. I was disappointed at this attitude because I was a
younger colleague who had brought my wife all the way
from Kogi state. The two things that I had wanted to
discuss with the medical director were the need to do the
scan in good time so that we could return to Ogugu the
same day as I had no plan of staying in Enugu, and to
request for a discount from the N1500:00k he charged
for the scan. In fairness to him, after I had paid the
money, the scan was done without delay and the result
showed a pregnancy that was not viable. One thing that
baffled me and which I was unable to reconcile with the
attitude of the doctor, was one of the components of the
Declaration of Geneva of the World Medical Association
adopted in 1948, amended in 1966 and 1983, which reads
in part, ‘My colleagues will be my brothers’.
The journey back to Ogugu was a difficult one as I
had spent virtually all that I had on me and the day was
fast gone. The money that I had left was just enough to
take us to Okpo. But since I knew the reverend sister was
in Okpo, I was sure that there would be no problems.
We arrived at Okpo around 10pm and went straight to
the house of the PMO. She immediately arranged for the
ambulance to convey us to Ogugu at that time of the
night. When we reached Ogugu, Pharmacist Awak heaved

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a sigh of relief as he had wondered all along why we had

stayed all day. The next day we went back to Okpo where
the PMO handled the issue of the non-viable pregnancy.
One day as I was returning from a nearby village on
a motorcycle, we had an accident and I sustained minor
injuries. Back home, I asked the community health officer
to help me to dress the wound. When he applied either
spirit or hydrogen peroxide to the wound, I literally
jumped up and told him to change it to Dettol. He believed
that with a little patience I would be fine. But when I
looked at him the second time, the message was clear,
that the wound was not for spirit or hydrogen peroxide
but was for something friendlier. Later, I reflected on a
woman whose breast abscess I had drained, after which
I had packed the wound with gauze soaked in hydrogen
peroxide. That was when I appreciated that at times one
needs to put oneself in a condition to be able to really
appreciate what others go through.
We left Ogugu a day before the passing out parade.
Few days before that day, we had observed that some
members of staff at the hospital had started gathering
used drip sets. We had stopped the practice of using one
drip set for many patients and the dictum was ‘one drip set
per patient’. Interestingly, the patients did not pay higher
than what they had been paying when drip sets were
used for many. The message was clear to us that by going
after these drip sets, those staff wanted to resuscitate
the old business of milking patients. For us we did what

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was necessary while we were in charge. We would not

be responsible for whatever happened after our exit.
However, we reckoned that it would be a disaster to go
back to the old ways.
On the day of the passing out parade, information
started to filter out about those who would be given state
awards. It was mentioned that there was a doctor among the
four award recipients. I was not sure if I would be the one
since I did not know the contributions of the other three
doctors. Again, I had not visited the state headquarters
since I had assumed duty in Ogugu, but the director had
paid us a visit one day and had been impressed by our
level of commitment. Then the hour came when the
names of award recipients were announced and I was one
of the four. I was really surprised. The award disabused
my mind of the belief that in the Nigerian context, you
must know someone or money has to exchange hands
before something good can come your way. Because of
his positive predisposition, I have a great respect for the
Kogi state NYSC director then, Mr. Sylvanus Onuoha,
who has now retired from active service.
When I reflect on what happened and on our
contributions to meeting the health needs of the people
of the Ogugu community for that one year, I feel
fulfilled. What would have happened to that boy who
had been brought in moribund? What about the man
who had come all the way from Lagos in preparation for
his ‘funeral’ when the orthodox health system in mighty

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Lagos had probably ‘failed’? What would have happened

to the belief that injection is not meant for the convulsing
child? What would have happened to the many lives that
we had saved; to the many to who we had given hope
when things seemed hopeless?

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PART EIGHT
SOJOURN AT BAMA GENERAL
HOSPITAL

“If you don’t design your own life plan, chances are you’ll fall into
someone else’s plan. And guess what they have planned for you?
Not much.”

Jim Rohn

A fter my National Youth Service Corps, I reported

to the Borno State Hospitals Management Board
for my posting. The agreement we had with the state
government when they started paying us monthly
allowances was to work for the state for two years after
graduation, one year internship inclusive. Therefore, in
my case, I had one year left before I had to decide on
my next line of action. The director of hospital services
then was Dr. Abdulrahman Usman, who was also a
one-time commissioner for health in Borno state. Dr.
Abdulrahman was a fine gentleman who spoke very little.
He posted me to General Hospital, Bama where I met
two other senior doctors – Dr. Danladi Gajere who was

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the principal medical officer and Dr. Aina Olubenga.

The Hospitals Management Board was so organised
that there were no delays in payments of salaries even
for new staff. Later, my old friend Dr. Yerima joined
us in Bama, making our number four. By Nigerian
standards, four medical officers in Bama was a good
number. Dr. Yerima and I stayed in the same house with
our families. The challenge in working in such places was
that you were the surgeon, the physician, the obstetrician
and gynaecologist, the paediatrician, the dietician, the
counsellor and many more. Under such circumstances
one could only offer his or her best but that may not have
been sufficient for many patients who required expert
attention.
Our plan was to stay for one year in Bama and then
to move to Sokoto for our residency training. We chose
Sokoto because it was far from home and it would
minimise the factors that could distract us from our
studies. We also believed that financial demands would
be fewer if we were far from home. Towards the end of
our stay in Bama, we heard the information that Federal
Medical Centre, Gombe would take off very soon. So, we
decided that Dr. Yerima should visit Gombe to find out
the true situation. He came back with good news and so
we shelved the idea of going to Sokoto.
My wife conceived again while we were in Bama. We
then went to Maiduguri to have an ultra-sound scan at
Nakowa Specialist Hospital. The medical director (MD),

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Dr. Ogunbiyi was an extraordinarily nice person. He was

one of our patrons when I was the president of BOMSA.
He did not charge me for the ultra-sound scan. While I sat
outside waiting for my wife to come out, the MD called
me in and said, “Don’t you want to see your baby?” When I
compared this episode with what had transpired between
myself and the medical director in Enugu, I came to the
conclusion that, to some extent, Nigeria was one country
with two nations.
While my wife was pregnant, she had her antenatal
care at Bama General Hospital and also delivered there.
Earlier, I had heard whispers that I should have taken
my wife for delivery in Maiduguri. My response was that
those who attended antenatal care and delivered in the
General Hospital in Bama are no less human than we
are. I believe that if one works in a system and does not
believe in the system, then there is a problem.
While in Bama, students from my alma mater came
for rural posting. Occasionally, they met me in the clinic
and I taught them what I could remember. One day, one
of them summoned courage and asked me why I was
not going for residency training. I do not remember my
response, but many years later we met at University of
Maiduguri Teaching Hospital, both of us as consultants,
and I reminded him about the question that he had posed
to me back in 1997/1998. His name is Dr. Abdullahi
Talle, who I now fondly refer to as the Encyclopaedia
of Cardiology. Unknown to him, I had my plans for

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residency training after the completion of my agreement

with the state government. I was mindful of what Jim
Rohn said, “You must take personal responsibility. You cannot
change the circumstances, the seasons, or the wind, but you can
change yourself. That is something you have charge of.”
My observation is that there is more team work in
rural hospitals than in tertiary health institutions. In
fact, the dedication to duty is superb among the lower
echelon in the rural areas. When you want to perform an
operation in a rural hospital, people respond quickly, but
the protocols in some tertiary institutions make it difficult
to do things snappily. I remember some of the wonderful
team players we had in Bama included: Danjuma Shehu,
Mohammed Fari (Mo), Guduf, Kaigama, Sister Kubra,
Sister Lemsu, Sister Monica, Sister Salamatu, Muktar,
Sister Yagana, Late Maina, Kolo, Dan Borno, Late Alhaji
Isa, and many more whose names I cannot now recollect.
Many people see those who work in rural areas as inferior
or as detached from civilization. What many of us forget
is that the majority of the population of Nigeria live in
the rural areas and they are served by this crop of people
who we look down upon.
An unpleasant experience that I had while in Bama was
that of a woman who laboured in the hinterland for days
but could not give birth. The road was barely worthy for
motor vehicles and even then, only on market days were
the four-wheeled vehicles that plied the road available.
The woman was conveyed from the village to the hospital

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in a wheelbarrow. When I saw a human being who was

in labour being pushed in a wheelbarrow, I was only able
to hold back my external tears; I wept within. At the end,
the woman survived but the baby died, unfortunately.
That was, and still is the tragedy of our society. Sixteen
years later, the story is still the same. Many women do not
attend antenatal clinics and a good number are delivered
of their babies at home. When problems develop during
labour, the roads are impassable; and where the roads are
good, the cost of transportation is beyond the reach of
the ordinary folk.
The other experience I had was with a dwarf woman.
She came alone in labour. Immediately I saw the woman,
I told the sisters that this woman would not give birth on
her own and that she would need a caesarean operation.
I do not remember her height but she was extremely
short. Not long after, I was informed that the woman had
indeed given birth. Surprised, I went to see the woman.
At that point she was packing her belongings to leave.
She just left before we could complete the process of
discharge. When she left, we whispered among ourselves,
“Are we sure this was a human being really or something just came
here in human form to prove a point?” We just laughed over the
issue. But this lesson and many others which I picked up
along the way sharpened my decision-making skills. After
that encounter, I never told patients about impossibilities.
Since then, I only talk about likelihoods and probabilities.
Medical knowledge is not infallible; it has its limitations.

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Napoleon Hill said, “One of the main weaknesses of mankind

is the average man’s familiarity with the word ‘impossible’.”
A third lesson learnt was from treating a child who
had convulsed several times before being brought to the
hospital by her mother. I wrote out drugs for the mother
to buy. After administration, the injection had a directly
opposite effect. Worried, I asked the sister to bring the
bottle of the injection. It turned out to be a completely
different injection from what I had prescribed. In fact,
the dose that was given to the infant was even high for
an adult. Since I had never come across how to manage
such a case, we only used the general principles of drug
toxicity and luckily the boy made it at last. It has become
a part of me since then to always ensure that not only
the injections but all the drugs prescribed to patients are
actually the ones dispensed.
The fourth lesson learnt was that involving the
wife of an Islamic scholar. She had in her abdomen a
swelling which she had carried for many years. After
years of traditional and spiritual medications without
improvement, they opted for hospital care. When I
examined the woman, I felt a mass that was as hard as
stone but yet the general condition of the woman did not
suggest anything ominous. I sent her to Maiduguri for an
ultra-sound examination and the result was that she had
a problem with one of her ovaries. When we opened the
abdomen at operation, the womb and both ovaries were
normal. But there was this stony mass in the abdomen,

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 Sojourn At Bama General Hospital

which we removed. It was as hard as a stone and we had

difficulty cutting through with the surgical knife to see its
contents. The contents were a baby seated in a Buddha-
like posture. I came to realise years later that the medical
literature has a name for this condition – stone baby. How
I wished that I had a picture of this rare condition or that
the specimen had been preserved for posterity. I believe
that the doctor working in the rural area of today keeps
all pictures of rare conditions seen now that the handset
can be used to take snapshots.
Because my wife was expecting her first baby in June, I
delayed reporting to Gombe until after her confinement,
especially because it would be her first delivery. By 30th
June 1998, I left Bama and by 1st July 1998, I had assumed
duty at the Federal Medical Centre, Gombe to start the
next chapter of my life.

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PART NINE
THE FELLOWSHIP TRAINING AT
GOMBE

“A long apprenticeship is the most logical way to success. The only

alternative is overnight stardom, but I can’t give you a formula for
that.”

Chet Atkins

I assumed duty at the Federal Medical Centre, Gombe

(FMCG) on 1st July 1998. At that time the FMCG was
operating at the Specialist Hospital, Gombe. I was the
second doctor to report in the department of obstetrics
and gynaecology. One week after I had reported, Dr.
Donatus Kizaya joined me. Later Dr. Kizaya and I became
the twin engine of that department. The first resident to
join obstetrics and gynaecology later changed his mind
and went for ophthalmology.
Before I went to FMCG, a senior colleague had
reservations about residency training in a medical
centre and he did not hide from me his feelings about
it. So, when I travelled to Gombe before assumption of

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my duty, I met the medical director, Dr. Abubakar Ali

Gombe, to discuss the issue of residency training. He
allayed my fears and assured me that he would definitely
pursue residency training. Like the true gentleman that he
is known to be, he kept his promise. Dr. Ali Gombe is an
exceptional personality; he is a disciplinarian to the core,
a bridge-builder, a man who believed in meritocracy, and
an administrator extraordinaire. He is one of the finest
leaders this country has produced.
The FMCG had a guest house where new medical
employees were housed. There were three apartments
opposite the international school then. Drs. Yerima
and Msheliza occupied one of the apartments while
Drs. D. B. Bashir and Ahmed Gana occupied the other
two apartments. Of these three, only Dr. Msheliza was
a bachelor; the other two were even there with their
families. My family then had gone to my wife’s parents
in Gembu, and they joined me three months later when
we were allocated houses at the FMCG staff quarters.
When Dr. Yerima told me that I would share a room with
Dr. Msheliza, I was devastated for I hardly knew him
beyond being classmates in the university. Nonetheless, I
shared the room with Dr. Msheliza. Dr. Msheliza is a fine
gentleman with an accommodating spirit. He turned out
to be one of my confidants although many people might
not appreciate that fact because we were not seen in each
other’s company too often.
Dr. Kizaya and I were the only junior doctors on the

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ground in the department; we met two senior doctors

from the Specialist Hospital – Drs. Johnson Dila and
Habu Dahiru. So, I took alternate week calls with Dr.
Kizaya. At times we would be called several times a night.
No matter how hectic the calls were, we would be in the
hospital in good time the next day to continue with the
daily activities of the department. The patient load in the
Specialist Hospital was enormous and occasionally we
reached breaking point, but as young lads then we were
well equipped for such challenges and we never faltered.
In recent times when I hear resident doctors complain
about staff shortages with 10 or so people on the ground,
I just go into a headshaking mode as we saw much worse
times. It was not until much later after we had become
shattered in body and spirit by the workload that others
joined us.
Dr. Ali Gombe took his time and went hunting for
the best hands to come and establish every department
in the hospital. We were soon joined by Dr. Alfred Massa
and Dr. George Melah, two senior registrars from Jos
University Teaching Hospital. Subsequently, Drs. Nuhu
Kumang, Zainab Bello, Alkali Umar, Musa Yahaya and
Bello Ahmed all joined the department. The late arrivals
were Dr. Bala Audu and then Dr. Usman El-Nafaty
who were both consultants. The department started to
take shape with the arrival of the senior registrars and
consultants. Before their arrival, we were the lords of the
department, but after their arrival, loyalties began to shift

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gradually until every person knew his or her rightful place

in patient care.
The two years that we spent at the Specialist Hospital,
Gombe were all work and no play. Even when academic
activities started, the workload didn’t allow us to
concentrate on the academic activities. Nonetheless, we
managed to do one or two things that truly helped us.
I had an experience that taught me a lesson while we
were at the Specialist Hospital. A woman who was an
employee of either customs or immigration services had
an operation and I signed an excuse-duty form for her.
Months later, a letter came from the head office of her
establishment wanting to find out if it was true that she
had been given an excuse belt of six months. My H.O.D,
Dr. Bala Audu then called me to find out whether I had
written the letter. I realised that I had written the first part
about excuse duty but that someone had added the excuse
belt after I had signed the letter. It was the first time that
I had heard about the excuse belt. We went to the file
to get the file copy, but it was missing. It was then that
we realised that there was some connivance between the
typist and the patient. Subsequently, I have become very
careful about leaving spaces in such communications.
By May 2000, we had moved to the permanent site of
the hospital. It was a site to behold, a sprawling facility
with state-of-the-art equipment. Before we moved to the
new site, Dr. Bala Audu was appointed the pioneer head
of department while I was appointed the pioneer chief

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 The Fellowship Training At Gombe

resident. The first few presentations that we had with

Dr. Kizaya were done using the backs of calendars. The
presentations were supervised by Dr. Bala Audu in his
sitting room. It was not easy at all being a pioneer in such
circumstances as there is always a price to pay.
I composed a poem titled A gift from heaven when we
moved to the new site. The poem was published in the
FMCG news bulletin of March 2001 and is reproduced
here,

“It was celebration galore when the heavens opened and threw you
in the Savannah
A blessed Oasis you are
For you have quenched our thirst for a tertiary health care centre
Yesterday was your birthday
Today is your naming ceremony
During your brief Sojourn on earth, you’ve grown to an enviable
status
At infancy you are the cynosure of the Savannah.
At five you will become the colossus of the region.
And at school age a Mecca of our Kingdom.
As Chinua Achebe would say you have been spotted as a giant the
very day you were born.
Grateful indeed we are to the creator for a precious ‘gift from
heaven’ – The Federal Medical Centre, Gombe.”

We started attempting the primary examination

sometime in 1999. My first attempt was a failure. That

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failure devastated me the most. Before the examination,

we had attended a revision course in University of Ilorin
Teaching Hospital between 9th and 16th September 1999,
where we had a pre- and a post-test. I was the only one
who passed the pre-test and I got an ‘A’ in the post-test.
I became the rallying point so to speak. In fact, when we
were given certificates, the secretary of the faculty then,
Prof. A. Omigbodun, gave me a warm handshake of
commendation. Some of my colleagues who participated
in the revision course said that my case was already
closed and that I need not worry as what they had seen
was enough evidence that I would sail through the
examination.
When we went for the examination in Kaduna, I stayed
with Dr. Msheliza who was undergoing his training at the
National Eye Centre, Kaduna. The examination then
was in both written and multiple choice format. It was
truly an easy examination for me and I had no doubt that
I would pass. No doubt at all. After the examination, I
jokingly told Dr. Msheliza to find me a lawyer because if I
failed that examination, I would take the college to court.
When we were informed that the result had been
released, I called via a landline a childhood friend in
Lagos, Ahmed Halilu, to help me to check the results.
The following day, he called back to say that the person
he sent had said that the number that I had given him was
not on the pass list. I replied that it was not possible and
I requested that he should please help me by checking the

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result himself. The next day, he called only to confirm

what he had said earlier and then he had added, “Let us
pray that what has happened is the best for you.”
I retorted, “Which best? After all the efforts!”
Shortly after this, the post-traumatic stress disorder
began to manifest. I really went through psychological
upheavals as, prior to that event, I had not acquired any
shock absorber for that kind of disaster. After that, I
became a stoic, full of shock absorbers and sandwiched
within air bags. I also discovered after that episode that
the saying ‘silence is golden’ is a truism. I doubt if it would
be out of place to give lectures to prospective resident
doctors on disaster management related to examination
failures.
When Dr. Bala Audu observed that my mood swings
were getting worse, he told me that the people in
Lagos were not aware of my frowns and so, the earlier
I repackaged myself and faced the realities of life, the
better for me. I was piqued by his statement but I later
realised the import of his wise counsel. And it helped a
great deal.
Soon after I had passed my primary examination, the
tenure of Dr. Bala Audu came to a close; therefore, he
had to return to Maiduguri. When I told him about my
success at the examination after a Magrib prayer at the
mosque in the hospital quarters, he screamed and shook
my hand violently. I was like, here is a great mentor, who
celebrates openly the success of his mentee. Before he finally left

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FMCG, he had ensured that he made arrangement for

me to go out for my external posting for one year at a
stretch. He did that because he was not sure what new
policies his successors would come with which could
interfere with my smooth postings. I took the letter to
the medical director who wrote ‘Strongly recommended’ on
my letter. I spent two thirds of my posting at University
of Maiduguri Teaching Hospital (UMTH) and the other
third at Jos University Teaching Hospital (JUTH). I had
my anaesthesia posting at JUTH and the one thing that
I remember about my posting was the attitude of the
head of department, Dr. Osamade. She was a wonderful
woman with a truly humane touch.
After my one year external posting, I returned to
Gombe and continued on from where I had stopped.
When we started work at the new site, the Association of
Resident Doctors (ARD) was formed. Dr. Yerima wanted
me to contest for the role of president but I declined on
the grounds that I had to pass my primary examination
before venturing into the murky waters of politics. Once
I had passed the primaries, I decided to contest for the
president of the ARD, FMCG branch.
With the very meagre resources available to us at
that time (2003-2004), we were able to do a lot. Our
administration was the first to secure and furnish the
ARD common room with a daily supply of newspapers
and the installation of cable television. We also initiated
joint submission of examination forms, supply of and

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 The Fellowship Training At Gombe

staggered payment for, handsets, purchase of textbooks

for departments, and soft loans to members. We
negotiated the payment of teaching allowances for our
members and printed the association’s stickers which we
distributed free.
An incident that occurred during our tenure which
renewed my commitment to always do what is right was a
trade dispute issue. We went for a national meeting with a
mandate from the local branch to vote for a strike action.
But as the meeting went on, the information given to
us made it unreasonable for us to embark on the strike
action, so I voted against a strike action.
Immediately we came back, the other official who I
had gone with spread the information that I had gone
against the mandate of the congress, without telling
them what had actually transpired at the meeting. When
we called for a meeting to debrief the house about what
had happened, the attendance was unprecedented. In
graphic detail, I then debriefed members of all that had
happened. The deliberations went on peacefully and the
gathering dispersed. It was after the meeting that my very
good friend, Dr. Guduf, told me the reason for the large
turn-out, and why the issue had not been brought up
by anyone. The decision as I was told was to impeach
me if the rumour, as peddled by the other official, had
turned out to be true. I believe that if you stand by the
truth, ‘no weapon fashioned against you will succeed’. I had been
given a mandate to vote for a strike, but when new facts

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had emerged, I had changed my mind and voted against

the mandate of the congress. The congressmen, being
mature gentlemen and gentlewomen, did not create a
spectacle out of it after I had explained my position. This
reminds me of what Nelson Mandela said; that only a
fool refuses to change his mind when confronted with
new facts and better information. I must quickly and
sadly add that there is no shortage of such fools in any
part of the world. I was just lucky to be piloting a group
in which most members were critical yet reasonable.
Another incident taught me another important lesson:
Never to give a blank cheque to anybody. Yes, to anybody.
I often gave signed cheques to the treasurer without
writing the amount. Such was the trust that I had in him.
One day, after a withdrawal, he told me that he had added
something to what we had already agreed. That night, I
could not sleep well because of that betrayal. The incident
informed a statement that I made during our handover
ceremony, that even if I were to send an angel to the
bank, I wouldn’t give even the angel a blank cheque.
During one of those days, there was some tension
and a trade dispute was looming. In fact, I realised that
if I called for a meeting, a strike would likely be declared.
Yet, I was convinced that the issues could be resolved
amicably. I allowed the dust to settle a bit and then called
a meeting. Midway into the meeting, a member requested
to know why I had not called the meeting in the heat
of the problem. I did not give any explanation, but I

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just apologised, as I had read somewhere that ‘apology is

a way to have the last word’. But subsequently, I called for
regular meetings even on trivial matters so as not to
be accused a second time. Our tenure was smooth and
ended without many problems; whatever we did, we did
very transparently and we tried to carry everyone along.
One of the assumptions that I made which almost
embarrassed me was at a meeting with house officers. I
was strict but friendly with the house officers. So, when
the Congress of ARD mandated me to discuss with and
to convince the house officers to pay their dues to ARD,
I thought it was a done deal until the meeting started
and issues which I had not thought of started coming
up. At a point I was asked to excuse them so that they
could discuss further. When I was called back, they had
resolved to pay their dues to ARD. I learnt a big lesson
from this encounter – never to take any group of people
for granted, no matter what. It always pays to do your
homework.
At the end of our tenure, we decided to honour
the premier medical director, Dr. Ali Gombe. Actually,
I presented two names for the award at the congress
meeting but the name of Dr. Shuaibu did not scale
through. I presented Dr. Shuaibu’s name because it was
through him that we were able to do so many things for
the association. The argument of some was that he was
only doing his job. One thing that one must learn as a
leader is that at times the decision that you prefer will be

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killed with a sledgehammer and you just have to take it the

way it comes, even if you think that you are right and that
others are wrong. When the name of Dr. Ali Gombe was
mentioned as the award recipient, not a single dissenting
voice was heard. One must be above board to achieve such
universal acceptance. Dr. Ali Gombe saw everyone as an
equal stakeholder in the business of building a vibrant
hospital. He never promoted primordial sentiments and
that endeared him to many.
As the chief resident, I ran the department as if, in
a positive sense of that expression, it were my private
outfit. I expended every ounce of energy and personal
resources, commitment and dedication I could humanly
offer. Throughout my eight years stay in FMCG, I do not
remember ever going to work late. In fact, I remember
an episode when I was almost late and so I stopped my
breakfast midway. My wife was not happy about it and she
commented that even saints and angels go to work late
occasionally. I told her jokingly much later that I probably
was twice an angel having married one. I only travelled
when necessary. The department was so organised that
our morbidities and mortalities were low. House officers
who passed through the department left as fully-baked
interns. Residency training got a boost, especially when
three of us (Dr. Musa Yahaya, Dr. Alkali Umar and I)
passed the part one examination.
Before the part one examination that all three of us
passed, the MD, Dr. El-Nafaty invited one of the gurus

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of the faculty of obstetrics and gynaecology in the West

African College of Surgeons to FMCG. Professor Bisalla
Ekele spent one week at FMCG and took us for some
sessions. All three of us passed the examination that
followed his visit. We remain grateful to the MD for his
foresight and for the timely invitation of Professor Ekele.
In FMCG, our department was one big happy family.
The story of my stay in FMCG can really run like a
folktale, “Once upon a time, there was a big hospital with a
department that accommodated all and sundry without regard
for any primordial sentiments....” I still have a very strong
attachment to FMCG. I doubt if I will ever experience
such an attachment after leaving UMTH because the
esprit de corps that existed in FMCG was far more than
what I now enjoy at UMTH.
I frowned at lateness to work and sanctioned anyone
who performed below expectation. My philosophy is
that I am not afraid of doing the right thing, but I am
morbidly afraid of doing the wrong thing. Everybody
was monitored and everyone knew that he/she was being
monitored. I remember, one day, a house officer who was
said to be untouchable in other departments reported to
our department late. That was the last day that she came
late after I had addressed her. In the presence of others,
I said to her, “We do not train people’s wives, sons or daughters.
What we do is to train house officers and they must abide by the
rules and regulations of the department. Nobody messes up in our
department and gets away with it, because there is always a price

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to pay.” We achieved all these because the then head of

department, Dr. George Melah left everything to me as
he had confidence in my ability to take the right decisions.
I did just that without fear or favour.
There was a house officer who performed below
expectation and so I told the head of department that I
was going to extend her stay but he appeared reluctant. I
insisted that if we allowed her to go with all the identified
deficiencies, then we had no reason to extend anybody’s
stay in the department. At that point I was ready to resign
my position as the chief resident as I would no longer have
the moral authority to preside over such a system. Luckily
for me, when the MD, Dr. El-Nafaty came around, the
H.O.D briefed him and the former said, “Well, if she has
not performed satisfactorily, she should have her stay extended.”
And her stay was duly extended.
I heard from other house officers how some of them
were literally coerced by their parents to study medicine,
without regard for their feelings. Similar tales re-echoed
when I joined the university as a lecturer. I know of a lady
who, after graduation, took the certificate to her father
and said, “Daddy, I have read medicine for you and here is the
certificate. Will you be kind enough to allow me pursue my dreams
now?” Is there any wonder why some of them never
become good doctors? Someone who has no passion
for a profession can hardly succeed in that field. If we
allow our children to pursue their passions, they will
achieve unbelievable feats. I agree with Chandra Mohan

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Jain (Osho) when he says, “If you are a parent, open doors to
unknown directions to the child so he can explore. Don’t make him
afraid of the unknown, give him support.” And, “The future,”
said Eleanor Roosevelt, “belongs to those who believe in the
beauty of their dreams.”
If a child wants to be an artist and you support him or
her, he or she is likely to excel in his or her chosen field
and become a celebrity with all the wealth that comes
with it. If on the other hand, as a father, you insist that
the child must be a lawyer, he or she will study law for
you but he or she may never rise beyond average as he or
she has no passion for it except if per chance he or she
develops the passion along the way.
I introduced house officers’ presentations and this
became an eye-opener for us. Some of the things that we
heard during the presentations were new to us. The other
culture that we introduced was valedictory messages by
house officers. We wanted to hear from them how we
had fared as a department, the good things that we were
doing, and the areas that needed improvement. We chose
the last day of their rotation so that, having completed
their stay, they would freely bare their minds without fear
of victimisation.
There were certain policies that we changed based on
the observations that the house officers made in their
valedictory messages, one of which was reporting to work
at 7.30am. One of the house officers, now a consultant,
observed that by civil service rules, work starts at 8am,

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but here in obstetrics and gynaecology, work started at

7.30am and anyone who came after that was considered a
latecomer. We reverted to 8am after that valid observation.
In another of the valedictory messages, a house officer
told us a story of a day that it rained cats and dogs. That
day, she and her colleague came into the hospital a few
minutes to the time. She had not seen my car in its usual
parking space and so they had assumed that I had not
come. They had laughed and whispered to themselves
that I too would come late to work that day. When they
opened the seminar room, they saw that I was already
seated in my usual seat. She said that it baffled them.
What happened that day was that I had a visitor.
So, I arranged for someone to drop me at the hospital
while he conveyed my guest to the motor park with my
car. My philosophy of work is that my work is primary
while other things are secondary. Therefore, if there is a
conflict between my work and any other thing, my work
takes precedence. Everything that we do revolves around
the work that we do. If this work is taken away from us,
we are miserable. All the friends and company we keep
are because of the status we enjoy, so why toy with it?
I also introduced a reward system. Because, as
administrators would say, when you have a sanction and
reward system, things are likely to work. I am a very
strict person and I ensured that all rules were obeyed.
Much later though I realised that my strictness then
was regimented but I still now have difficulty making it

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flexible. Well, everyone in life has areas of strengths and

weaknesses. The first award for the best house officer was
given to one Dr. London. I believe that Dr. London will
go places if he pursues residency training and joins the
academic community.
Just like I had some hiccups with my primary
examination, I also had similar challenges with my part
one examination. I passed my primary examination at the
second attempt, my part one at the fourth attempt and my
part two at the second attempt. I composed a poem titled
The Eleventh Commandment, after my first, unsuccessful
attempt at the primary examination. The poem, which
was published in the FMCG news bulletin in March 2001,
is reproduced here and in the appendix,

“Brethrens from all nooks and crannies converge on Ibadan

biannually for pilgrimage
Pilgrimage thou shall perform, albeit out of thy volition.
Unlike the religious pilgrimages thou has neither floor nor ceiling
The journey to Ibadan is arduous
The road full of bumps and pebbles
Destination usually reached
Outcome often catastrophic
For though one is bemoaned, but unlike the proverbial burnt child
who dreads the fire, the Ibadan inferno is not to be dreaded.
Many have gone, seen and conquered.
Many more have received sealed messages with the slogan ‘we
regret………’.

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In all, the journey is usually reached though at different speed and

time.
Time, thou art a tyrant to success and failure
In every failure, it is said, there is a seed of an equivalent success.
For the triumvirate who rode on the back of the Tiger to and from
Ibadan triumphant, we doff our hats and say congratulations.
For those of us who journeyed back in the Tiger’s belly.
We pray for a replay of the Biblical Jonah.
Until the next pilgrimage in the New Year
When the eleventh commandment will be written – Thou shall not
surrender.”

I never failed the written aspect of the part one

examination but I always had issues with my clinical.
This implied that I did my work as an individual but that
what was lacking was supervision. Things changed for
the better when Dr. U.R Yahaya joined the services of
the FMCG. Dr. U.R Yahaya was sympathetic about what
we went through and he took particular interest in us.
He took his time and coached us. He did all that was
necessary for us to succeed in the examination. I remain
eternally grateful to him and I pray that God will reward
him abundantly. My failures in examinations taught me
many lessons just as Barack Obama opined, “You can’t let
your failures define you. You have to let your failures teach you.”
During my periods of absence from home – on
postings, revision courses and examinations – a family
friend, Dr. Zainab Bello often looked after my family as

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a sister would. The care that she showed my family while

I was away was exemplary. I also remember that, after
the birth of my second son Umar, she brought to us a
suitcase filled with all the necessary items for a naming
ceremony. Another exemplary neighbour was Dr. D.B
Bashir. He also visited my family while I was away and on
one occasion he bought Sallah clothes for my children.
I had discussed with my wife on how to reciprocate the
latter gesture but up to the time that we left Gombe, we
were unable to do so. Another reliable neighbour was the
wife of engineer Sanusi, Hajiya Bilkisu (Umma), who not
only gave my children Sallah clothing while we were in
Gombe, but who continued with that gesture even after
we left Gombe.
One friend of ours who is generous to a fault is
Dr. Ahmed Kara. He always remembered to give his
colleagues some cash whenever he stopped over in
Gombe or wherever his colleagues were.
I found another opportunity again to practise my
hobby. Once in a while when something happened, I
put up a write-up on the notice board. The first time
was when we moved to the new site (appendix) and the
second was when things started falling apart after Dr.
Ali Gombe left the scene. He was appointed minister of
state for health under General Abdulsalami Abubakar in
1998/1999. I also composed two poems (appendix) for
the maiden edition of the FMCG news bulletin. I did not
think that the poems were really important until I read

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other people’s works and read that they talk about the
poems that they have composed and all that.
Mallam Sani Jauro was an administrative officer then.
He enjoyed my write-ups and he often engaged me in
discussions. When the editorial board of the FMCG
news bulletin was to be constituted, he ensured that my
name was included as a member. I was later appointed
the chairman when the pioneer chairman of the editorial
board, Dr. U.H Pindiga left. I was very uncomfortable
with that position, as I was only a junior registrar. But
I thank providence that we continued without much
difficulty until I left FMCG after my final fellowship
examination.
When I was about to go for my final examination
of the West African College of Surgeons, I had one
reservation. I was not competent in performing a vaginal
hysterectomy (an operation to remove the womb through
the birth canal) and I did not want to be a laughing stock
after I had crossed the Rubicon. My decision then was
that even if I passed the examination, I would not apply
for a consultant appointment until I was convinced of
my competence in vaginal hysterectomy.
As fate would have it, I had a problem with one of my
cases. The examiner had asked me to alter certain aspects
of my management but instead I changed the case to a
similar one, rather than making alterations as that would
amount to panel beating. Immediately the examiner saw
me, he shouted down on me and queried why I had

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changed the case instead of making the alterations that

he had suggested. I explained to him my stand but his
mind was made up. Later, I was informed that he had
rejected the book on the grounds that I had changed the
case which he had asked me to alter, but the chairman
of the faculty in his wisdom overruled him and said that
I should appear for the examination. Is this a case of
when two goliaths disagree, the miniature creature pays
the price? But I still believe in the stand that I took then
because if I had changed the things that the examiner
had asked me to alter, then it would no longer have been
the case that I managed. As a matter of fact, there was a
book sent to me for assessment, and when I made serious
observations on some cases, the candidate replaced those
cases with similar ones, and I okayed the book.
I went to Ibadan for the examination earlier than my
colleague from FMCG, Dr. Musa Yahaya. He joined me on
the eve of the examination. With the encounter that I had
had with the examiner, there was no doubt that I would
have to reappear for the examination six months later. At
night, Dr. Musa received several calls and that confirmed
to me that he had passed. Whenever a call came in, he
would move to the parlour to receive the call. He thought
that I was asleep but under those circumstances even if
one wanted to sleep, the sleep would just not come.
In the morning, I allowed him to go and I took a
different car later. When my very good friend Dr. Kodiya,
who was doing his posting in Ibadan, came to drop me at

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the park, he inquired about Dr. Yahaya. I told him that I

had asked him to go while I would follow later in the day.
The wisdom behind my decision was that there you had
someone who was in a celebratory mood with the other
in a mourning mood. These moods are not miscible.
Putting us together in the same car would have inhibited
his celebrations as he would have been cautious in his
responses to the salvo of incoming calls. I did not want to
spoil his show. Shortly after his result was released, he was
appointed a consultant obstetrician and gynaecologist.
When a couple of people write an examination, some
will pass while others may fail. When this happens in the
same department, it can really be devastating to the ones
who fail as it would appear as if the whole world was
on their heads. Some people would want to congratulate
those who had passed but when those who had failed
were around, the congratulatory messages would be
postponed or muffled in whispers to be in the hearing
of only the recipients of the message. Many people
commiserated with me but the one commiseration that I
still remember vividly is that of Sister Huraira. The way
that she coined the message was such that it was superbly
delivered with LASER precision. It was really soothing
and I appreciated that wonderful gesture.
I told anyone who cared to listen about how I was torn
to shreds at the examination. Many were sympathetic. Dr.
U. R Yayaha took it upon himself to talk to the examiner.
The first case that I saw the day I reported to work

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after the examination was a case that would require a

vaginal hysterectomy. This was the case that I had been
hunting for a while in order to improve my skill on vaginal
hysterectomy. I said to myself, “This is not a coincidence ooh!”
I held the folder close to my chest until the patient was
billed for the operation. I discussed with her consultant,
and I told him that I would like to perform the surgery.
He gave me the go-ahead. I then suggested to my twin
engine, Dr. Donatus Kizaya that we should read around
the operation so that we could do it together. We did it
successfully.
When I had achieved that feat, I said to myself that
if I passed the next examination I would apply for the
post of consultant without a second thought as I had few
reservations now about my skills in vaginal hysterectomy.
When I reappeared for the examination after six
months, the examiner appeared apologetic. While I
waited for my orals, he came to me and said that I had
passed my book and that he believed that I would not
have problems with my orals. I thanked him and he left.
I did not begrudge him because it was his brand. We all
have our different brands. If we hated each other because
of our brands, the world would be full of hatred.
After our result was released, I applied for appointment
as a consultant. All those who completed before me
were given immediate employment as consultants. But
I suspected long before then that my case would be
different because I had had a brush with the medical

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director about ARD politics. Since then the body

language was not lost on me that he would want to take
his pound of flesh when I completed my programme.
Contrary to what many people believed, the problem did
not start when I was the ARD president; it actually started
before then. Dr. El-Nafaty was then the chairman of the
Medical Advisory Committee. After ARD had embarked
on a strike action, he called me as the chief resident of
obstetrics & gynaecology and directed that I bring out
a rota for house officers. I then told him that ARD had
already taken a decision and that we had transmitted the
same to him.
A day after, I stood with my friend Dr. Mohammed I.
Guduf near his office. As he came back from the mosque
and saw us around, he repeated the same request but
my answer did not change. I saw the annoyance on his
face. From that time until now our relationship, which
had hitherto been cordial, took a damaging turn. He had
approached other chief residents with the same request.
I was told that some had agreed to do the rota, but they
never did. For me, I do not know how to say one thing
and do the opposite. I am happy with that philosophy
as it allows me to sleep well. One thing that I do not
know how to do, and those who know me can attest to
this, is to tell lies. I don’t know and I don’t want to know
how to do that. If I had a second chance in this world, I
would still maintain this philosophy of truthfulness and
trustworthiness. My very good friend, Dr. M.I. Guduf

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shares this philosophy with me.

Days turned into weeks, and weeks into months, my
file remained in the MD’s office. I kept a constant note
of happenings from a distance. I had anticipated the
problem, so it did not come to me as a total surprise.
Many people had counselled me to meet the MD one
on one but I had thought that that was not necessary
as I had done what was expected of me – I had put an
application in black and white. But with the benefit of
hindsight, I think I should have met him to hear from
him what exactly he had to say.
My mentor, Dr. Bala Audu came to FMCG on a one-
week visit and asked me, “Have you received your appointment
letter?”
“No,” I replied.
He was shocked and told me that they had concluded
that I would be appointed as a consultant. While I drove
Dr. Bala to the park, he called a senior administrative
staffer and inquired what the problem was. I did not hear
his response but all that Dr. Bala said was that he would
call the MD, Dr. El-Nafaty in the evening and then get
back to me. That issue never again came up between my
mentor and me as he never called and I did not ask.
After having waited for about three months without
any response from the management, I decided to apply
for secondment to Federal Medical Centre, Yola. Dr.
Alfred Massa was then the acting H.O.D, as Dr. Melah
had travelled. When I gave him my letter of secondment,

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he said that he would not sign it and that he would see

the MD first and try to convince him. I told him that I
doubted if the MD would change his mind. I added, “I
have now made up my mind to go for the secondment in Yola.”
Dr. Massa remained persuasive so I waited for him
around the filter clinic while he went to confer with the
MD. He came back disappointed. He said to me that he
had told the MD of the need to retain me as I was the
only one in the department with part one of the National
Postgraduate Medical College and that if I passed the
examination, it would be a boost to the department. The
MD then replied that Dr. Bala Audu also had national
college and that he would be visiting. So, he could go
ahead and sign my letter for the secondment.
When I met Dr. Henry Okolie at the entrance to the
new administrative block one day, he asked me about my
appointment and when I told him what had happened, he
was visibly shocked and unhappy about it. He then met
a top management staffer (TMS) and told him his mind
about the wrong decision that they had taken. The TMS
could only mumble as the buck did not stop on his table.
From what I was told, the TMS had also tried to convince
the MD about my appointment but that did not work.
The ARD waded in and met with the MD. Surprisingly,
he told them that I had not indicated interest in staying in
FMCG. I was shocked. Baltasar Gracian said that, “A single
lie destroys a whole reputation of integrity.” That information
actually divided the house at a meeting because some said

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that since I had not indicated interest, based on what the

MD said, there was no point in pushing ahead, while others
who knew that I had submitted my application argued
in my favour. The resolution of the ARD meeting was
that I should give evidence that I had indicated interest
to stay in FMCG. Thank providence that when it comes
to matters of record and documentation, you can hardly
find me wanting. I then wrote to the ARD a lengthy letter
where I chronicled my story and attached all the necessary
documents. That experience deeply touched me because,
if I had had no documents, I would have been seen as a
liar, which is the exact thing that I do not know how to
be. I can take many insults but when they touch on my
integrity, it hurts the most. For me my mind was at rest
because I had provided documentary evidence. I totally
agree with Aldous Huxley when he wrote, “The deepest sin
against the human mind is to believe things without evidence.”
What actually disturbed me most was not the refusal of
the MD to offer me an appointment but the accelerated
quit notice that I was given to vacate the quarters. Before
I left for Yola, I asked a TMS who was in charge of
housing about the duration for which one could occupy
the quarters after a secondment. He told me that the
tradition was one year as was done for those who had
gone before me. So, I was relaxed, so to speak.
Six months after, when I visited my family, I received
a letter asking me to vacate the quarters. I was literally
mad. I knew three people who had been on secondment

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for over one year but who had not been asked to pack
out of their quarters. The letter, dated 27th August 2007,
FMCG/SP/038/V/II/151, was signed by a low-cadre
administrative staffer. I then met a TMS with the letter but
he told me that he had not directed anyone to write me
that letter. He added that I should find out from another
TMS who handled accommodation matters. When I
showed the letter to the other TMS, he also said that he
did not know anything about the letter. He then met the
first TMS and they had a discussion to which I was not
privy. When the second TMS came, he told me that he
would call the signatory to the letter to find out who had
directed him to write the letter. Logically, the directive
should come from one of the two TMS I discussed with.
The second TMS later told me that when he quizzed the
signatory to the letter, the latter could only mutter. The
conclusion then was that the directive must have come
from someone superior to all of them. But that was just a
presumption and I do not like to work on presumptions.
I like hard facts.
Presumption often leaves tears of regret behind, as
illustrated in a story that I got somewhere but which I
cannot remember the source of. The story goes thus: “A
dog was so faithful that a woman could leave her baby with it and
go out to attend to other matters. She always returned to find the
child soundly asleep with the dog faithfully watching over him. One
day something tragic happened. The woman, as usual, left the baby
in the ‘hands’ of this faithful dog and went out shopping. When she

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returned, she discovered rather a nasty scene; there was a total mess,
the baby’s cot was mangled, his nappies and cloth torn to shreds with
bloodstains all over the bedroom where she had left the dog and the
child. Shocked, the woman wailed as she began looking for the baby.
Suddenly, she saw the faithful dog emerging from under the bed. It
was covered with blood and was licking its mouth as if it had just
finished a delicious meal. The woman went berserk and assumed
that the dog had devoured her baby. Without much thought she
beat the dog to death with a wood. But as she continued searching
for the ‘remains’ of her child, she beheld another scene. Close to the
bed was the baby who, although it was lying on the bare floor, was
safe and under the bed the body of a snake torn to pieces in what
must have been a fierce battle between it and the dog, which was now
dead. Then reality dawned on the woman who began to understand
what had really taken place in her absence. The dog had fought to
protect the baby from the ravenous snake. It was too late for her
now to make amends because, in her impatience and anger, she
had killed the faithful dog. This is called the sin of presumption:
Presuming things without taking the trouble to find out exactly
what the situation really is.” For me, I took time to find out
what had really happened and my presumption, though
logical, was not based on hard facts. But Maya Angelou
has said in simple words that, “I’ve learned that people will
forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will
never forget how you made them feel.”
Among the six consultants in FMCG, none has the
National College Fellowship. Therefore, choosing a topic
for my dissertation and how to go about preparing the

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dissertation became a problem. I had to come to Maiduguri

to confer with Dr. Bala. We finally settled for anaemia
in pregnancy and he advised that it would be easier to
do that at the Specialist Hospital, Gombe. The approval
for the study came from the hospital secretary, Alhaji
Awwal Ibrahim, in a letter dated 18th October 2005. The
medical director of the Specialist Hospital, Gombe was
vehemently against carrying out the study in the hospital
but I do not know his reasons. The issue went up to the
level of the permanent secretary and the commissioner
but the secretary’s opinion was upheld. If not because of
Alhaji Awwal’s steadfastness, my study would have been
delayed as I would have had to do it at FMCG with fewer
patients then. I remain eternally grateful to Alhaji Awwal.
Interestingly, I came to know the details of this tug of
war between Alhaji Awwal and the MD of the Specialist
Hospital years after I had finished my work. Sigmund
Freud said, “One day, in retrospect, the years of struggle will
strike you as the most beautiful.”
Shortly after I had passed my examination, the ARD
organised a reception for all new fellows and outgoing
house officers on Friday, 10th November 2006. It was like
the ARD had waited for me to pass the examination before
they organised a send-off. That was the perception of
one of the consultants who had finished his programme
over the period of a year or so. Although the ‘youngest’
fellow, I was given the task to respond on behalf of the
celebrants.

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After completion of the residency training with many

trials and tribulations, one had assumed that all was over.
But sooner rather than later I realised that it was just a
matter of closing one chapter in one’s life and opening a
new one. This is probably what Mandela captures in his
book Long Walk to Freedom when he writes, “I have walked
that long road to freedom. I have tried not to falter; I have made
missteps along the way. But I have discovered the secret that after
climbing a great hill, one only finds that there are many more hills
to climb. I have taken a moment here to rest, to steal a view of the
glorious vista that surrounds me, to look back on the distance I
have come. But I can rest only for a moment, for with freedom come
responsibilities, and I dare not linger, for my long walk is not yet
ended.”
The first award ceremony organised by the medical
centre also came up before I left FMCG, but I was not
able to attend. I was awarded best senior staff in the
department of obstetrics and gyneacology in 2004. Mr.
A.I Osakue, one of the main organisers of the event,
actually got in touch with me to respond on behalf of
the recipients but I was not in town and I told him that I
would not be around. At that point even if I was in town,
the friction was so obvious that attending such a gathering
would only add salt to the wound. Many members of
staff wondered how you could honour someone as the
best staff and at the same time find it difficult to absorb
him into the system. Many were appalled. This is my side
of the story.

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Chimamanda Adichie’s 2009 TED lecture was titled,

‘The Danger of a Single Story’. While a single story may be
dangerous, listening to both sides at times may be tragic.
Yet, it is always better to listen to both sides of a story
before passing judgment. A two-sided story can at times
be confusing. Check out what Olusegun Adeniyi writes
on Turai Yar’Adua in his book Power, Politics & Death
where he cites Turai’s words to Gusau that “She had never
dabbled into governance issues..” and compare it to what El-
Rufai in his book The Accidental Public Servant writes on the
same Turai, “On his way out, the Chief was ambushed by Turai
who wanted to know if Yar’Adua had included her on the list of
potential successors”, and you will appreciate the danger of
two-sided stories.
Some years after, as I discussed with a very close
friend, Dr. Mayun the issues of my appointment as
consultant with FMCG, he had asked me, “Don’t you
think you also overreacted to the issue of your appointment?” My
answer had been, “Yes, I think I over-reacted.” My over-
reaction was justifiable then. I liken my situation then to
the relationship between Palestine and Israel. The people
of Palestine knew nowhere other than their land and
one day the Israelites came and forcefully ejected them
from their ancestral land. What was the reaction of the
Palestine then and what is it now? Of course I have also
learnt from this experience. If a similar situation happens
in future, I will handle it differently.
My bosom buddy, Dr. Yerima Yusuf sacrificed

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his comfort for me when he sold his car to me, below

the market price, at a time when my car was giving me
a lot of difficulties. This no doubt is a rare attribute. I
remember for some time after, he had no car and he never
complained about it. Not only that, in 2003, he named
his fourth son after me. His wife, Ma-man Abdul used
to wash my clothes when we stayed at the guest house
of FMCG. It’s only in a genuine relationship that such
gestures truly manifest.
In 2001, the news of my father-in-law’s death came in
one evening. For some time, my wife had been nursing
the idea of going to Gembu to see her parents. When
I came back in the evening, I kept the story to myself
and told her that I thought that both of us should go to
Gembu by the weekend. I then told her aunt who was
staying in Gombe about the sad news.
On the morning of the journey, we stopped at her
aunt’s house to take her along. Her husband came to my
wife and condoled with her. He was an elderly man but
it did not occur to him to first find out from his wife if
my wife knew about the death of her father. Even in old
age we still learn some lessons. Her aunt literally rebuked
her husband for the gaffe. My intention was to break the
news to my wife when we arrived at Gembu but before
reaching the house. This I believe would have made our
journey smooth. But that was not to be. While we were
in transit, my first son, then three years old, asked his
mother why she was crying. Such innocence of a child at

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times can change how people mourn.

There were four of us in the car on our way back
from Gembu – my childhood friend cum in-law Musa
Halilu, his wife and my wife’s aunt. So, while we were
coming back, on the hills of biyu da sisi, (biyu da sisi means
additional financial demand by porters to enable them to
carry loads across the cliff), I told them that if there was
brake failure on the hill, survival would be difficult. We
talked about the many problems of the road to Gembu
and the accidents that had happened. I told them that if a
car fell into the valley, not even a corpse could be found.
As I negotiated the turns and twist of the hill, I applied
the brakes but the car did not slow down. I thought it was
not real until I applied them the second and third time.
That was when I knew that we were in real danger. God
in his infinite mercies gave me the wisdom not to utter a
word about the brake failure. When we got to a low land,
the car gradually came to a halt.
When I broke the news of the brake failure to my
co-travellers, the women requested for water to ease
themselves. While we waited, Drs. Y.S Yerima and
D.B Bashir who were on their way to Gembu for the
condolence met us. We explained to them what had
happened but no-one could guess what the problem was.
A commercial driver came by and gave us a convincing
explanation. He said that I had probably applied the
brakes too many times at short intervals and the engine
had heated up. He suggested that I allow the engine to

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cool down and said that the brakes would pick up. So that
was exactly what happened.
When we continued our journey down the hill, it was
purposefully slow in the real sense of it. No-one was
prepared for a repeat of what had happened. Anyone who
knows the hill will testify to the fact that we came within
a whisker of death. It was not until we got to Jalingo, the
Taraba state capital, that it dawned on me how lucky we
were because the brake failure had occurred around one
of the most dangerous bends on the biyu da sisi hill named
Kogin Salihu. The other sharpest points on this road are
found at Konan Dram and Tungan Ahmadu at the last
point to the plateau. The flashback that I had that night
reminded me of a story that I had read in Readers Digest
in the 90s on how a man who went yachting one evening
almost ended up having his yacht capsized following an
ocean wave. He then wrote, and I concur, “That was when
I realised how fragile life could be.”
I recollect with satisfaction an encounter that I had
with a staffer of United Bank for Africa, Gombe branch
while in FMCG. One morning, I went to cash 20 000 naira
from my savings account. I was handed over a bundle of
the amount that I requested. I did not bother to count the
money because I was in a hurry. On reaching home, after
closing from work, I counted the money and found that
it was 25 000 naira in a bundle that was supposed to be
20 000 naira. I recounted and gave it to my wife to count
again. The amount was 25 000 naira. The following day,

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I returned the extra 5 000 naira to the bank and handed

it over to the cashier who in turn took it to the manager.
The manager was surprised and expressed the gratitude
of the bank for the gesture. I contacted my bosom friend,
Dr. Yerima Y. Suleiman in the course of writing this book
to clarify an issue regarding the incident. He remembered
the event as if it were a recent happening.

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PART TEN
THE JOURNEY TO YOLA

“When one door of happiness closes, another opens; but often we

look so long at the closed door that we do not see the one which has
been opened for us.”

Helen Keller

M y stay at FMCG came to a close in April 2007

and that was the beginning of a fulfilling sojourn
at Federal Medical Centre, Yola (FMCY). The medical
director at that time was my revered teacher, Dr. A.M.
Mai who was an exceptional academician and a polished
consultant. In fact, if he had remained in the university,
he would have become a super professor. He was in a
class of his own.
Dr. Mai gave me a consultant appointment at the
twilight of his administration. By the time that I had
reported, Dr. Ali Danburam had already assumed the
mantle of leadership at the FMCY. Dr. Danburam is a
fine gentleman and an administrator of repute. He is
someone who has the interests of his colleagues at heart,

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and he has a humane touch in his dealings with others.

I met two consultants, late Dr. Vandi Kunmanda and
Dr. Shittu on the ground but the latter left shortly after
I had assumed duty. As FMCY was not accredited for
residency training, what we had were medical officers. But
today, most of the medical officers are now in residency
training in various institutions in the country.
While in FMCY, I shared an office with my very close
friend and confidant, Dr. Adamu Dahiru, then the head
of the department of surgery. I enjoyed every day of
my stay in Yola while in the company of Dr. Dahiru. I
encouraged him to join residency training and constantly
reminded him that the consequences of not doing so
would be unpalatable in the not too distant future. I am
so glad that he did. Dr. Adamu Dahiru visited me in
Maiduguri in 2008 after I had an operation. This, I believe
is the height of friendship when someone leaves all that
he has to pay a visit just to say hello.
I met in Yola a childhood friend who also studied at
ATC, Song. He told me that our former principal, Umar
Mukhtar was in Yola. In fact, his house was just a stone’s
throw from my place of abode. One day in the evening,
Umar Hamman and I decided to pay him a visit. After
exchanging pleasantries, I reminded him of what he had
written on my transfer letter to Gembu. He said that, as
a teacher, he was trained to observe people and he could
make out those who would be outstanding in the future,
and that was probably what had informed the choice of

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words that he had used, although he could not remember

the event as it were.
One night, while on a visit to Federal Medical Centre,
Nguru, I received a text message from Dr. Bala Audu,
who was then the head of department of obstetrics and
gynaecology, University of Maiduguri. He said that I
should send an application for lecturer one to the vice
chancellor, through the provost, College of Medical
Sciences, to be accompanied by 10 copies of my curriculum
vitae. I replied to him but, right within me, I hesitated as
I did not want a university appointment. In fact, at that
point I wondered what lecturer one was all about. I did
not give the issue serious thought. When I returned to
Yola, I did what he had asked me to do, although not
with the intention of getting the appointment; it was just
that I did not want to go against what he had suggested.
This was because Dr. Bala Audu is one person who will
do whatever it takes to make sure that one succeeds in
life. He was the one who had encouraged me to write
my cases for the National College Fellowship, which
has now earned me many things that the West African
College Fellowship alone wouldn’t have done. Dr. Bala
has done for me things that only a father or an extremely
committed biological relation would do. These were the
reasons that I applied.
Few months after the application, a letter of invitation
for an interview was sent to me. I did not bargain for that
‘joke’ at all. So, it was a relief to me when a second letter

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was sent stating the postponement of the interview. But,

as the saying goes, ‘no matter how long the night lasts, day will
always break’, and another invitation letter finally came.
I arrived at Maiduguri in the evening and at night Dr.
Bala called to find out if I had arrived. Later, I felt some
guilt because I was the one who should have informed
him that I had arrived and not the other way round.
Four of us attended the interview for the department
of obstetrics and gynaecology. While I was being
interviewed, one of the panellists said that he did not have
a copy of my documents in his file, but the chairman said
that he did. At that point, the acting provost, Professor
H.U. Pindiga, interjected and said to me, “Ok, make copies
and submit after the interview.” The timely intervention by
Professor Pindiga ensured that no-one made a mountain
out of a molehill. It was at the end of the interview that
it had occurred to me that the probability of relocating to
Maiduguri now seemed real.
The letter of appointment as lecturer one came about
four months after I had joined the services of FMCY.
Two months later, on 4th October 2007, I assumed duty at
the University of Maiduguri. That had really distorted my
plans completely. My plan was to stay in Yola for two years
and, if the situation permitted, to extend my secondment
for another two years after which I would decide, based
on prevailing circumstances, to either stay in FMCY or to
go back to FMCG. I had also discussed with my wife that
I would open an ultra-sound scan centre in Yola after a

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feasibility study was conducted and that she would open

a shop in the vicinity where household items would be
sold. My shattered plan reflected in Hamlet’s message in
Shakespeare’s Hamlet, “There is a divinity that shapes our ends,
rough-hew them how we will.”
When I went with my very good friend Dr. Adamu
Dahiru to bid the medical director, Dr. Danburam farewell
in his office, he made profound complimentary remarks
about my contributions and wished me well. He told
me that it was not because I was seated in front of him
that he made the remarks but because my contributions
were unparalleled and my commitment would not go
unrewarded. “Kind words don’t cost much. Yet they accomplish
much,” said Blaise Pascal. For me, I was only doing my
work, just like I had done in FMCG. What Dr. Danburam
had exhibited was aptly captured by Pandurang Asthavale
who said, “The greatest attitude of all is gratitude.”
When I was in Yola, many consultants from Maiduguri
had come on visits to FMCY. When we had discussed
issues about Maiduguri, they had often told me stories of
intrigues and of some dirty politics and what not. Many
had told me of the various camps at the University of
Maiduguri Teaching Hospital. Others said that one could
not survive without being in one camp or the other.
Initially, they so much instilled the fear in me that I said to
myself, this is what I have avoided all my life – intrigues and dirty
politics. But what I said to them was that I would not join
any camp but that I would always stand by the truth. I

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will be objective and fair to all, and if those virtues mean

belonging to a camp, then so be it. My stand reminds me
of the words of Abraham Lincoln, “Stand with anybody
that stands right, stand with him while he is right and part with
him when he goes wrong.” Year 2014 was my seventh year in
Maiduguri and today I am still a loner without any camp.
The impression that one must belong to a camp was
indeed a farce.

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PART ELEVEN
LECTURER BY CHANCE

“Who dares to teach must never cease to learn.”

John Cotton Dana

I t was by chance that I joined the university as it was not

on my ‘to-do list’. Now, I am fully into the academics. I
had my residency training in a federal medical centre where
there were no medical students. So, my first encounter
in the classroom with students was as a lecturer one. It
was not an easy task for me but I realised that instead of
approaching it from the perspective of a threat, I would
work on what I thought were my weaknesses, and within
a short while, things had taken shape.
Before I had assumed duty, I had discussed with my
very close friend Dr. A. Mayun, on how to handle the
issue of lectures for students. Dr. Mayun had joined the
university a year earlier. He advised that I should get all
the lecture topics and make PowerPoint presentations of
them before I assumed duty. I tried, but it was difficult.
So, I abandoned the idea and assured myself that, when

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I got to that bridge I would find ways of crossing over.

The first lecture that I had was on surgical contraception.
In the course of the lecture, the students complained that
I was too fast and that, at times, those at the back could
not hear what I said. Sometimes after the lectures, they
complained that the font size of the printouts was small
and some were barely legible. I often like people to tell
me my weaknesses so that I can work on them. And I
always do. My belief is that anyone who does not have
an opportunity to be told his or her weaknesses is really
an unlucky person. Unluckier is that person who is told
his or her weaknesses but does not do anything about it.
The unluckiest is the one who does not even give room
to be told about his or her weaknesses. Such a person is a
disaster walking about, waiting to happen.
At times, it may not be your friends who will reveal to
you your weakness, as happens in this story by Plutarch,
as narrated by Robert Greene,
“King Hiero chanced, upon a time, speaking with one of his
enemies, to be told in a reproachful manner that he had stinking
breath. Whereupon the good king, being somewhat dismayed in
himself, as soon as he returned home chided his wife, ‘How does
it happen that you never told me of this problem?’ The woman,
being a simple, chaste, and harmless dame, said, ‘Sir, I had thought
all men’s breath smelled so.’ Thus, it is plain that faults that are
evident to the senses, gross and corporal, or otherwise notorious to
the world, we know by our enemies sooner than by our friends and
familiars.”

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For the first few months after assumption of duty, I

stayed in the office of Dr. Bala Audu, my mentor and
H.O.D. Soon after, he found an office for me.
In a letter dated 30th July 2008, Prof. Dili Dogo, Dr.
Haruna Yusuph, Dr. J. Ambe, Dr. Ahmed A. Mayun
and I were nominated by the chief medical director,
Prof. Othman Kyari to attend the fourth Annual
Scientific Conference and All-Fellows’ Congress of the
National Postgraduate Medical College in Zaria, which
was scheduled for 13th-16th August 2008. As fate would
dictate, my haemorrhoids (pile) which I had managed
conservatively for years became complicated (went
into thrombosis) and I had an operation on 8th August
2008. It therefore became impossible for me to attend
the conference. Consequently, I wrote to the CMD and
returned the cheque for the conference to the hospital.
When some people got the information, they told me
in clear terms that such funds were not to be returned
whether or not I attended the conference as this was the
norm. I totally disagree with this concept and take serious
exception to it. I have a prickly conscience such that I am
not just able to keep what I am not legitimately entitled
to. I was glad that my mentor, Dr. Bala Audu, then the
deputy chairman, Medical Advisory Committee (clinical)
was pleased that I had returned the cheque.
When my bosom friend, Dr. Ahmed A. Mayun returned
from the conference, I told him that I had returned the
cheque since I was not able to attend the conference. He

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told the story to his friend, an administrative officer, who

checked my file but could not find the letter that I had
written to that effect. I never gave a second thought to that
piece of information until lately when I wanted to use the
annotated letter as an appendix in my book. We checked
my file and the routes that the letter was supposed to
have journeyed but no evidence was found to prove that
I had written the letter or that I had returned the cheque.
I was told that some of the documents might not have
been returned by the Economic and Financial Crimes
Commission (EFCC) alongside many other documents
that they had earlier investigated. This was when it had
dawned on me that what I thought I had returned to the
hospital might regrettably have ended up in someone’s
account.
My friend, Dr. Mayun told me that medical students
give awards to lecturers at graduation and he told me
that the various awards were for best/favourite lecturer,
most humorous lecturer, friend of the class, best resident
doctor, etc. He went further to tell me that Professor M.
Khalil had received in the past years all but one of the
best/favourite lecturer awards. It was just a discussion
about the happenings in the college, but to me it was a
piece of information to work with. I then said to myself,
why is Professor Khalil unbeatable? He also taught us, and
if we had started giving out awards for best/favourite
lecturer to lecturers while we were medical students, I
was sure that it would have been difficult for any other

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lecturer to wrest the award from Prof Khalil. But for me,
I was ready to give it a try.
Not long after I had joined the university, my clinic
room became the favourite rendezvous for students, same
with ward rounds and all other academic activities. I then
realised that there was something probably that they liked
about the way that I do things. So, I continuously improve
on my teaching skills. I learn from every opportunity
– print and electronic media, seminars, workshops,
conferences, social media, interactions with people from
different walks of life etc., and I bring all these to bear
in my encounters with students. When I prepare for
medical student lectures, I do that as if I was preparing
for postgraduate lectures. I consult as many textbooks
and as much literature as I can find, such that when you
pick my lectures you will find nearly all of the essentials.
My preparation for lectures is not really that
different from that of a sportsman who is rehearsing
for a competition. For me, there is really not much
difference between a sportsman and a lecturer or any
other professional for that matter as the world is all
about competition and excellence. When you want to
achieve excellence in any field, you have to prepare like
a prospective Olympic medallist because, for a lecturer,
teaching is the game and excellence should be what
lecturers aspire to.
When I was at FMCG, what I enjoyed most was my
clinical practice. But when I joined the university I realised

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that I equally enjoy teaching. When I had compared

the two, I found teaching more satisfying than clinical
practice. In his book, Witness to Justice, Matthew Hassan
Kukah writes, “Teaching is something that I have always found
very rewarding and also fascinating.” I feel the same way
about teaching. As a matter of fact, I would like to be
remembered more as a teacher than as a doctor. To me,
teaching goes beyond what a Chinese proverb says, that,
“Teachers open the door. You enter by yourself.” I do not only
open the door but I try to lead my students to where they
can be comfortably seated.
When the first set of students that I taught was
about to graduate, I was asked to write a comment on
the Class of 2010. It was a pleasant surprise to me that
after only about three years in the university, I was given
that privilege by my students to write a comment on the
class which to date remains my favourite class. An excerpt
from my comment on the Class of 2010 reads,
“The encounter dates back to 2007 when I assumed duty as a
lecturer. It was a challenging experience for both the students and
me. For the students, it was their maiden posting while for me it
was my inaugural lecture with students in a classroom. Both of
us faced some teething problems but we mutually understood the
difficulties we faced and therefore accommodated each other. This
led to a convivial relationship between the Class of 2010 and me.
The chemistry is so strong that I feel a sense of emptiness as their
graduation approaches. There are situations in life when one desires
to turn the hand of the clock backwards. The feeling of parting

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with a class so dear to me gives me such desire. If my method of

imparting knowledge has improved over the past three years, then
the credit largely goes to the Class of 2010 because they helped,
through their constructive criticisms, which I never ignored, to polish
my communication skills. Relating with the Class of 2010 was
truly a wonderful experience.”
The award and dinner night then followed. It was held
at Borno State Hotels, at a night in 2010, when Maiduguri
was still the home of peace. I did not want to go alone so I
asked my younger brother Shettima Bukar to accompany
me. Together with me on the high table were my senior
colleagues – Dr. Adamu Rabasa, Dr. Shettima Mustapha,
Dr. Usman Babayo, Dr. A.A Gadzama and Dr. U.M Abja.
I was only invited as a guest but I was not told that I
would be given any award, although when he brought the
invitation card, Kabiru Abdullahi, one of the organisers,
had said that they had something for me when he had
observed that I showed some reluctance to attend the
dinner.
It was a well-organised dinner with the names of award
recipients appearing on the screen when the categories
of awards were mentioned. When the favourite lecturer
category appeared, the master of ceremonies called and
my name appeared. I was both shocked and elated. That
was the greatest award that I had received and I was
extremely happy about it. The reason is that it was an
award given to lecturers by their students. This, to me, is
similar to customers giving an award to the manufacturers

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of goods and services. I thought that achieving a feat of

that magnitude within three years of joining the university
was pretty cool.
After the award, many students came to take pictures
with me: There were many paparazzi there. My brother
had to wait for a while outside because whenever I took a
step or two, other students would come and say, “Sir, let’s
have a snapshot.” I was really shocked by the happening. I
then realised that I had underrated my popularity with the
students all the while.
The following year, I was given the best lecturer award
by the 2011 graduating class and in 2014 I received the
outstanding lecturer award from the class of 2014. When
a junior staffer in my department came to my office and
saw the awards, and I asked him to get me additional
spare nails for hanging awards, he had asked, “That means
you are expecting more awards, sir?” I had not answered him. I
just smiled. The answer is Yes, because I am in a race and
I want to stay ahead for as long as it is desirable.
It is often said that when one is given an award, it
should spur one to do more. In my case, it almost had
the opposite effect. When I had joined the university as
lecturer one, I had observed that the manner in which we
went into teaching without any background knowledge
in education was inappropriate. So, I had plans to obtain
a postgraduate diploma in education (PGDE) so as to
improve my teaching skills. But when I had been given
the best lecturer award after only three years of teaching,

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I told myself that, “Well, in that case, I do not need to go for a

PGDE.” When the second award came, it only reinforced
my earlier decision. But when I discussed with my wife,
she encouraged me to go ahead with the programme
which I had actually started in 2012. Unfortunately, about
three months after, it was cut short by the heightened
security challenges in Maiduguri at that time.
The initial hiccups that I had were not only about
lectures but also about publication. I had four publications
before I joined the university, but my contributions were
more in data collection than in writing. As I wrote in my
booklet, Recipe for Successful Residency Training, “When I joined
the university, a senior colleague told me that in academics the slogan
is ‘publish and flourish, don’t publish and perish’. I chose the former
without a second thought and began publishing like someone who
had been starved of food suddenly finding before him his favourite
dish. I went to the university from a disadvantaged position, having
been trained from a medical centre, but I turned the weakness into
strength. You will truly perish in academics if you do not publish.
And I believe no-one wants to be associated with the word ‘perish’
in any way.”
What I did was, before I finally disengaged from
FMCG, I drafted questionnaires on virtually all the
common conditions seen in obstetrics and gynaecology
and entered the information. Mr. Yusuf Mshelia, who
was a medical record officer, helped me a great deal in
tracing the folders. I did this because I was going to a
new environment where it might take me a long time to

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acclimatise, and if I had to rely on data from Maiduguri,

I would be left behind.
Immediately I settled down in Maiduguri, I started
my data analysis and writing. At that point, I was writing
at a supersonic speed. Many of the papers that I had
written in 2007 and 2008 were published in 2009, such
that by 2009 alone I had 19 publications. At the appraisal
meeting of 2007/2008, I was commended for hard work
at the college level, and by 2011, I was commended for
the number of publications by the university council. But
it all came at the great price that my family paid during my
long absence from the home front. The sacrifices that my
family made were immeasurable.
I was one of the two who had often represented our
department at the annual performance evaluation (APE)
of the CMS since 2008. I observed at the 2007/2008 APE
meeting that a lecturer one from another department had
the highest number of publications among those who
were lecturers one and below. I then told myself that that
was the gold standard against which I would compare my
performance in terms of publications. The subsequent
year 2008/2009, the other lecturer one still had the
highest number of publications, but for the 2009/2010
APE I had gone beyond his number of publications
when I submitted 60 publications. Goal setting is aptly
captured by Lou Holtz when he says, “If you’re bored with
life, if you don’t get up every morning with a burning desire to do
things, you don’t have enough goals.”

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 Lecturer By Chance

I participated in the politics of the Medical and

Dental Consultants’ Association of Nigeria (MDCAN),
University of Maiduguri branch, from 2008 to 2014.
At various times, I served as assistant secretary, acting
secretary, secretary and ex-officio II. I learnt a great
deal from ‘the good, the bad and the ugly’. I learnt that
many people who came into politics did so not in the
interests of the system but for what they could get out
of the system. Some officials’ arguments and positions
change depending on who is in charge of the hospital at
that time, a truly chameleonic approach to politics. But I
resolved to follow the advice of Baltasar Gracian, “Don’t
take the wrong side of an argument just because your opponent has
taken the right side.”
At times, some people would advance positions that
appeared convincing and objective and I would support
them only to realise later that those arguments were a
mere smoke screen to sell a bad or ugly agenda. I learnt
the ropes gradually. Now, it has got to the point that
when some people put forward a proposal, I have to
subject it to a microscopic examination before I can give
my support. The intrigues have got to the stage that when
some people tell me that they are heading towards the
southern pole, I will go and wait for them towards the
northern pole because I am sure that they will go exactly
in the opposite direction. This attitude reminds me of
what someone likened to the difference between a tree
and a human being. He said that a tree from a distance

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appears small, but as you come closer, you will realise

how big the tree really is. On the other hand, a human
being of high repute will appear to you as a colossus, but
when he or she exhibits certain uncivilised or crooked
behaviour then you realise how small the ‘colossus’ really
is. This probably is why people say politics is a dirty game.
But Aristotle is of the view that, “Those who are too smart to
engage in politics are punished by being governed by those who are
dumber.”
When I joined the university in 2007, Dr. Bala Audu
was the head of department. By 2008, Dr. A.G. Mairiga
had taken over the mantle of leadership. When his tenure
expired, I was elected the head of department and I
assumed duty on 1st August 2012. Few months after I
took over the headship of the department, Dr. El-Nafaty
resumed duty in the department after his secondment to
FMCG elapsed.
The first thing that I did was to ask all unit heads to
forward to me all the problems in their units. I then studied
the different submissions and went around looking at the
problems first hand. During the tour, I deleted the things
that I thought we would handle at the departmental level
and added some things that I had observed but which
were not included in the submissions. I then compiled
everything and wrote to the management a proposal
which included targets and goals for our two-year
tenure. The proposal was dated 16th October 2012. The
chief medical director (CMD), Professor Abdulrahman

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Tahir, directed the chairman of the Medical Advisory

Committee (CMAC), Dr. Bashir Tahir, to liaise with me
and to support all aspects of the proposal. By August
2013, virtually all the goals that we had set for the two
years had been achieved. It was such that we had to set
new goals for the remaining one year.
Some of the feats that we achieved were publication
of maiden editions of residency training guides, labour
ward protocols, gynaecology emergency protocols,
patient education leaflets and publication of the annual
report in a booklet form. In addition, we organised the
first award day for the departments where those who
excelled, from cleaners to consultants, were given awards.
We also updated the antenatal card for the first time. In
addition we produced an antenatal health education video
in English and Hausa. To ensure that we got feedback
from our patients, we opened an email and also gave out
telephone numbers for patients to send text messages.
This we believed would help us to serve our patients
better. In fact, the management of the hospital in this
regard wrote to me a letter of commendation dated
10th May 2013 ref. ADM/TH/ISS/VOL.IV/984. We
achieved in the department within this period these and
many other structural changes, including attitude changes,
largely because we had the unflinching support of the
management of the hospital. This is not to say that we
had no obstacles, but like Zig Ziglar said, “When obstacles
arise, you change your direction to reach your goal; you do not change

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your decision to get there.” A second letter of commendation

dated 26th September 2013 ref. UMTH/CON/285/VOL
1 was given to me as head of department.
At the 11th Medical Advisory Committee (MAC)
meeting of the UMTH held on 19th September 2013,
a historic event happened which I will always live to
remember. I was asked by the chairman of the MAC, Dr.
Bashir Tahir to comment on the feedback mechanism
introduced by the department of obstetrics and
gynaecology. It was the sixth item under matters arising
from minutes of the 10th MAC meeting held on 30th May
2013. That I did. The first item under substantive issues
for that day was labour ward protocol and the residency
training guide which the department had developed. After
the presentation, the chairman requested that I should
be given a standing ovation. I was moved because even
a sitting ovation is not commonplace at such meetings
much less a standing ovation. I was really humbled by the
gesture.
One of the pillars of our department is Professor
Calvin Mailaya Chama, a consultant who I have great
respect for. He is an unassuming gentleman and an
embodiment of humility. In fact, he is the most diligent
and most dedicated consultant. Professor Chama is
always available, accessible and dependable. He was the
recipient of the best consultant award for the year 2013.
Another pillar of the department is Dr. (Mrs.) Hadiza
A. Usman. She is a wonderful and highly dependable

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woman who has the interests of the department at heart.

When given the opportunity, she will no doubt take the
department to greater heights.
One of the lessons that I have learnt as a head of
department is that it is good to set realistic targets and
goals, although occasionally it is not out of place to set
overambitious goals. This is because when we set our goals
for two years as a department, I was under no illusion that
we would achieve everything during the tenure of two
years. My belief was that my successor would continue
from where I would stop, but surprisingly, we had
achieved virtually all that we had set out to achieve before
the expiration of our tenure.
Another lesson that I learnt was not to make anyone
indispensable, otherwise certain things will just not work.
Always be prepared to do the work that others fail to do.
Yet another lesson is that one should not assume that
one will get support from some quarters and not from
others because at the end one may be surprised when the
support comes from unexpected quarters. It is important
to try to carry everybody along, but one should not allow
anybody to either slow down the speed or to stop the
journey completely. It is nice if one can carry everybody
along, but in reality it is difficult because some people, no
matter what one does, will not just automatically choose
to work with others. Leave them where they want to be
and continue with the journey, never looking back to see
where they are. Margot Asquith said, “There are some people

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that you cannot change, you must either swallow them whole or leave
them alone.” But if one is not careful, one will end up with
what Franklin D. Roosevelt said, “It’s a terrible thing to look
over your shoulder when you are trying to lead and find no-one
there.”
I have learned that no leadership position is trivial as
long as one wants to make a difference in the lives of
people. I have seen the beauty in identifying promising
subordinates and in devolution of responsibility. But
this becomes more beautiful when you set standards and
monitor the activities of those who you have delegated
responsibilities to. I agree with the view of US writer and
publisher Elbert Hubbard that, “It is a fine thing to have
ability, but the ability to discover ability in others is the true test.”
Reward those who have performed and sanction those
who err. Listening to gossip and surrounding oneself
with hypocrites are sure ways to failure for a leader.
Another way to a woeful failure is to create sacred cows
or ‘untouchables’. You are likely to get the co-operation
of your colleagues when everybody knows that there is a
level playing ground for all.
Some of the things that I hate with passion are
injustice and insincerity. But I have learned that as you go
up the ladder, you will see many more of these attitudes,
and that you just must learn to live with certain things
that you cannot change in people.
If you have subordinates who are insincere, what do
you do with them? At a certain stage you can influence

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their transfer or you can decide who you want to work

with, but at lower levels there is very little that you can
do. The worst is if such subordinates dine and wine with
your boss. There are certain behaviours that are expected
from well-educated people, but you will nevertheless be
surprised at what people do. Certain things happened that
I had accepted on face value only to be ridiculed later for
doing so. I never expected people in such positions to tell
blatant lies or to frame people up and do all sorts of ugly
things. My friends and colleagues, Dr. M.A Arab, Dr. A.M
Kodiya and Dr. M.A Talle, have helped to remove the
clog of naivety from my eyes and I can now see clearly.
One of my strengths is that I always confirm
information that comes through the office grapevine, and
it has been quite helpful. I never take decisions based on
one-sided information because it sure will diminish one’s
standing. It pays to always look at both sides of a coin.
As Baruch Spinoza said, “No matter how thin you slice it,
there will always be two sides.” As a leader, always live above
board, look anyone in the eyes, and tell him/her the truth
because you have no skeletons to hide. Any leader with
skeletons in his or her cupboard will hardly do this and
this is most unfortunate. This is why I love the words of
Elizabeth Barrett Browning, “A great man leaves clean work
behind him and requires no sweeper up of the chips.” When I
listen to people talking about enriching their curriculum
vitae when they become heads of department, I just
shrug. For me, that is not as important as leaving a legacy.

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I consider myself a failure if I have only succeeded in

enriching my curriculum vitae as a head of department
and have left no legacy. I would gladly prefer the reverse.
When my first tenure of two years as head of
department came to a close, there was pressure from
many quarters for me to go for the second and last tenure
of two years. Appeals had come from the management
of the hospital and from the staff of the department. I
respectfully declined because we had achieved nearly 90%
of what we had set out to do. Besides, I had noticed that the
administrative aspect of my work had overshadowed my
clinical duties and I was not satisfied with that position. I
also observed, towards the twilight of my tenure, that the
wonderful relationship that I had with the management
was about to be eclipsed as certain elements that were
not comfortable with my landmark achievements were
bent on creating some friction between me and the top
management. I then decided that it was time to leave. And
I’m glad that I did. After all, it is said that the best time to
leave the stage is when the ovation is loudest.
Professor Dili Dogo, the provost of the CMS,
nominated me as one of the six consultants who
represented the University of Maiduguri for the Joint
Annual Review/Mid-Term Review (JAR/MTR) of the
National Strategic Health Development Plan (NSHDP)
2010-2015. I served as the team leader for Gombe state.
The attitude of this provost was a departure from what
was previously the practice where people had been

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nominated based on some criteria other than merit.

Prof. Dogo has bolstered the image of the college and
defended his constituency exceptionally well.
In December 2012, Professor Bala Audu was in
FMCG for locum. He called me one afternoon and told
me that the department of obstetrics and gynaecology
of the FMCG was making preparations for accreditation
for National Postgraduate Medical College, and that they
were seeking those who had national college as visiting
consultants so that they could get the accreditation.
I obliged and sent my application and got the offer of
appointment as honorary visiting consultant in a letter
dated 21st December 2012. Because of the exigencies of
office, I was not able to visit even once.
When I went for a national assignment in Gombe
in July/August 2013, many were of the view that I had
declined the offer because I had been refused appointment
in the first place even when the management knew then
that there was nobody who had the National Fellowship.
Some said that I should actually decline the offer, but my
response to them was that I do not have any problem
with the system. The problem was with an individual who
is no longer at the helm of affairs at the hospital. So, God
willing when I find time, I will go and contribute to the
development of the hospital.
When I met the new MD, Dr. Abubakar Saidu, during
the national assignment in Gombe, he reminded me
that they had given me a visiting appointment and he

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wondered why I had not visited. He asked, “Or could it

be that you have been visiting but we just haven’t being seeing each
other?” My reply was that I had not actually found time to
come but that I would do so. Dr. Saidu is a very honest,
sincere, fair and impartial leader and I have no doubt that
he will bring positive developments to the centre.
Pharmacist Awak played a wonderful host while
I was in Gombe for the national assignment and even
beyond. Every evening his wife, ‘Maman Sam’, prepared
delicacies and brought them to my hotel room. This
ritual continued throughout my almost two-week stay in
Gombe. I was literally spoilt by ‘Maman Sam’s’ dishes such
that my Ramadan fast away from home was forgotten.
Despite the fact that Pharmacist Awak and his wife are
Christians, they ensured that I enjoyed my Ramadan fast
as though I was in my own house. Such an attitude is
rare indeed in Nigeria today where religious intolerance is
fast becoming the norm. Pharmacist Awak and his family
also stayed in my house at FMCG quarters for almost
a year while I was away for my pre part-one posting. I
believe that these dispositions, if extended beyond the
home front, bring the kind of relationships that will move
our country forward. I furthermore believe that religion
is a personal affair between mortals and an immortal; it
should, therefore, not interfere with mortal relationships.
I concur with General Muhammadu Buhari (rtd) who
said: “For me, the issue of religion was, and should always, be a
matter of personal conviction.”

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 Lecturer By Chance

When I finally returned to Maiduguri after my

residency training in FMCG, I often told my friends that
I had come to my last bus stop. Not long after my return,
my eldest brother Alhaji Umar Bukar surprised me with a
gift of a plot of land. This was the biggest gift that anyone
had ever given to me in my 47 years of existence. I want
to believe that my star is probably the one that repels gifts
as I hardly receive gifts from people. What I have and do
is usually from hard-earned resources. Alhaji Umar Bukar
has tried his best to wear the shoes of my father; it is just
that my father’s shoes cannot size any mortal.
I was promoted to senior lecturer in 2009, two years
after I had joined the university as lecturer one. By 2011, I
was promoted to reader. Both were accelerated promotions
as my publications made the requirements for accelerated
promotion. In the anonymous recommendations of
the two assessors who returned my assessment, the
first assessor wrote, “In view of the above comments and
his impressive overall score, I recommend the promotion of Dr.
Mohammed Bukar from senior lecturer to reader in the department
of obstetrics and gynaecology of the University of Maiduguri.
Dr. Bukar should, in fact, be commended for his prolific writing.
He would be an asset to your university and to the younger ones.”
And the second assessor wrote, “From the forgoing, it is
obvious that Dr. Bukar has maintained an impressive contribution
to scholarship through research in obstetrics and gynaecology, and
exhibited competence in administration. I hereby complement the
decision of your Appointment & Promotion Committee with a

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strong recommendation for Dr. Bukar’s appointment as reader

in obstetrics and gynaecology.” Expectedly, I was happy that
my promotion was out but I was happier after I read the
blinded assessments (when the assessor knows you but
you don’t know the assessor) from the assessors returned
to me by the university.
On a visit to Ibadan in 2011 for the NEC meeting of
MDCAN, I had an experience that emboldened me on
what I stand for. Before leaving Maiduguri, I called one
of the residents who we had trained as a house officer to
book a hotel for me. A day after we arrived at Ibadan, all
four of them who we had trained as house officers, then
as supernumerary resident doctors at UCH, Ibadan, came
to greet me at my hotel. All were then senior registrars,
but now all of them are consultants at FMCG. As I said
earlier, I was a very strict person but at the same time I was
friendly to virtually all who are law-abiding. When they
had been house officers, I had handled them with an iron
fist and I had ensured that anything that was supposed to
be done was done right and timeously. Their visit to me,
I assumed, was an approval of how we had trained them
as house officers. If they can do similar things in their
various departments, now as consultants, I have no doubt
that FMCG will be a centre of medical excellence.
Anyone who travels by air in Nigeria will write a
chapter on disappointments with air travels. One day,
I booked a flight on my second visit to Enugu for the
46th ICS, Annual General & Scientific Conference

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and annual general meeting (AGM). On the eve of the

flight, a message came in via my handset that the flight,
which was due by noon, had been postponed to 3pm.
Nonetheless, I was at the airport by noon. Shortly after
noon, we heard the boarding announcement for Enugu.
In desperation, we moved from one counter to the other
but, before we could complete the merry-go-round, the
flight door was closed. A professor from Enugu and I
rushed towards the plane but the door was already closed
and the plane had started taxiing. When we went back to
the counter to rebook for the next day, we were asked
to pay an additional 5 000 naira. It was difficult for us to
understand such an economic blunder because it was the
airline that ought to have paid us for the inconvenience.
Someone then suggested to us to meet the manager to
sign on the ticket and that was how we saved our 5 000
naira.
The flight that was supposed to leave by 3pm the next
day left around 4pm. By the time we got to Enugu it was
after 5pm. The professor conveyed me with his car to the
venue of the conference. I was in constant touch with the
doctor who I had given money to with which he paid my
registration fee.
The process of induction of new fellows had
commenced by the time I arrived. I immediately got
my gown and put it on and waited for my name to be
called. When my name was not called, I approached the
secretary and complained to him about the series of

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disappointments that I had had after I had left Maiduguri,

but the man could just not reason with me. A reasonable
elder statesman, Dr. (Sir) John Okaro intervened and said
that my case should be considered based on the facts
presented. But the secretary was unyielding. That was
how I missed the induction despite having paid all the
prescribed fees and travelled all the way from Maiduguri
to Enugu, and also having got to the venue at the time of
the induction.
Understandably, I was piqued by the attitude of the
secretary, which I viewed as quite unreasonable. Initially,
I had thought of not coming back the following year as
that would add only little to what I already had but I later
said to myself, one year is not long and so I will come back for
the next AGM.
The 47th Annual & General Scientific Conference and
AGM were held in Ile-Ife between 5th and 8th of June 2013.
I was inducted at that AGM. But despite the fact that we
had paid our fees the previous year, we were made to pay
an additional 50 000 naira because the fee was increased
for 2013. Those of us who were affected could not make
any economic sense out of that and we expressed our
disappointment and annoyance to the organisers. If such
blatant abuse of financial regulations can be condoned
at such professional levels, then I wonder why we always
complain about abuse of financial rules and regulations
by the political class.
The Enugu experience was reminiscent of a similar

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experience that I had during my part II National

Postgraduate Medical College Examination in November
2006. The main examiner had asked me, “When did you
get the approval to proceed with your study?” I had replied, “I
have not received any.” I then explained to him that we were
told at a revision course that we could go ahead with our
data collection whenever we got a response from the
assessors. That was what we had been told by our senior
colleagues who had crossed that path before.
I failed that examination just because of that problem
for which the college, and not the candidate, was
responsible. I then wondered why I needed the National
College Fellowship since I already had the West African
Fellowship. That was the same feeling that I had after the
Enugu ICS encounter. But in both cases, I decided to go
the second time and I conquered. This is why I strongly
believe what Winston Churchill said, “Never, never, never
give up.”
My last day as head of department was Monday,
13 October 2014. During my valedictory address, I
th

reminded members of the department that, “My leadership

style has been to painstakingly listen to all suggestions, ruminate
over them and then separate the chaff from the grain and make
use of the latter.” I also told them the secret of my success,
“My distinguished teachers and colleagues, one of the secrets of my
success is that I do not believe in sentiments of any kind. I believe
in calling a spade a spade and do not refer to a spade as a hoe. I
believe in standing up for truth, fairness and justice. I served this

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department as a loyal servant would to his benevolent master. My

actions were to the best of my knowledge, sincere, transparent and
from the deepest recesses of my heart.”

254
PART TWELVE
TRIBUTE TO MY PARENTS

“You don’t choose your family. They are God’s gift to you, as you
are to them.”

Desmond Tutu

W hen my parents were alive I had no flowers to

shower on them. Now that I have a plethora of
flowers, they are gone. This is my greatest regret. This
book is a way to ameliorate my regret and to pay tributes
to my parents.
History has it that my paternal grandfather, Jigila,
was originally from Arrah in Gwoza Local Government
Area before he finally settled in Warabe, also in Gwoza
Local Government Area of Borno state. He was a ward
head in Warabe and had three wives and nine children.
My paternal grandmother, Zari, was from Guduf also
in Gwoza Local Government Area of Borno state. She
had three children, in order of seniority, Kumba (Musa),
Nziga (Abdullahi) and my father Gupa (Bukar).
We were told that during his leisure time, my paternal

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grandfather had often sat on the summit of a hill in the

evenings while his children and relatives sat at the rump.
He had told them folktales during those times. He had a
large farm and a herd of cattle.
Matuva (Fatima), my maternal grandmother was from
Gamargu in Bama Local Government Area of Borno
state while my maternal grandfather was from Warabe.
My maternal grandfather, Adamu, had 40 children with
four from my grandmother – three females, and a male
who died six months after birth. In order of seniority, they
were Fatima Adamu, Aisha Adamu, the male who died in
childhood and my mother, Aisha (jnr) Adamu. Like my
father, my mother was the last child of her mother. So am
I. My maternal grandmother died shortly after the birth
of my mother and so my mother was raised by a Fulani
woman named Fanta. My maternal grandfather paid
compensation to Fanta before my mother was released to
him. Legend has it that my maternal grandfather died at
the age of 120 years.
While he was alive, my maternal great grandfather
had castrated slaves who cooked for his wives. We were
told about a practice during his time regarding the test
of adultery. If adultery was suspected, a cow would be
slaughtered in public and left there. If indeed adultery had
been committed, a leopard would crawl out of its den but
would not sip the blood. If, however, the suspicion was
false, the leopard would sip the blood!
My parents were related through their grandparents.

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Both my paternal and maternal grandparents were

farmers. My father started his business of buying and
selling hide in Bama, Borno state. Later, he met Alkali
Umar Abiso in Gwoza after a court settlement of a case
between my father and someone about farm land. He was
engaged unofficially in the court presided over by Alkali
Umar Abiso in Gwoza. Alkali Abiso and my father stayed
briefly in Hambagda, in Gwoza Local Government Area
before they moved to Gwoza, the headquarters of Gwoza
Local Government Area. His relationship with Alkali
Umar Abiso blossomed over the years and he became his
trusted ally. We were told that my father was a very honest
and dedicated man. It was because of these attributes
that he was the only one who had unfettered access to
Alkali Umar Abiso and to his wife. My prayer is that this
gene of honesty and dedication should not skip any of
my children and their generation. Apparently, these are
the attributes needed for survival in the future.
Professor Abdullahi Mahadi, in his comment on my
manuscript, added new information about hides and
skin business in Gwoza in those days. He wrote: “Trading
in hides and skin constituted an important aspect of economic
activities. The British Colonial Administration gives it top priority
... at that time it was unthinkable for people to eat skins (pomo).
People were taught how to skin animals to ensure that holes were
not punctured in the skins. The skins were also graded. Skins that
were properly cured fetched a lot of money. Hides and skins were
among the most important trading commodities between Nigeria

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and the rest of the world’’.

The recurring word about my father among all the
people who I interviewed for this book is honesty,
honesty and honesty all the way. One of the interviewees,
Alhaji Kaka Mallam Usman Manyama, a stepson of Alkali
Abiso, described my father thus, “If you give him money to
keep for you, years after, he would give you that same money the
way it was given to him; same package, same denomination.” He
went further to say that in all respects when my father is
to be judged, he will either be first or second, but most
likely first.
The other attribute of my father was his strong
religious convictions. We knew this attribute but the
interviewees all re-echoed the unparalleled nature of his
devotion. He hardly missed congregational prayers. Most
times he was always in the masjid (mosque) before any
other person. As we were growing up, we observed that
he woke up in the wee hours and prayed ’til dawn.
About a year after my father had settled in Gwoza, he
brought his first daughter, Gwaja who was renamed Fanta
by the wife of Alkali Umar Abiso, and not long after,
my father brought my mother, Aisha (Asta) who gave
birth to Umar in Gwoza. Shortly after the birth of Umar,
Alkali Umar Abiso was transferred to Gembu. My father
continued with the issuing of court summons in Gembu,
but when Alkali Umar Abiso was again transferred to
Mubi, my father stayed back in Gembu after the then
Chief Alhaji Mohammadu Mansur pleaded with Alkali

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 Tribute To My Parents

Umar Abiso to allow my father to stay back. Because of

the chemistry that existed between my father and Alkali
Umar Abiso, the former named his first son Umar after
the latter. We were told by Alkali Mohammed Tijjani
Habib that Alkali Abiso and my father were inseparable.
Whenever you saw one, the other would be by his side.
Professor Mahadi in his comments about my book also
observed that: “I knew your father; albeit not closely. However, I
can say authoritatively he and Alkali Abiso were always together.’’
While my father was in Gwoza with Alkali Umar
Abiso, there was an Islamic cleric named Goni Gambo
who often visited Alkali Umar Abiso. On a Friday, which
was a work-free day the trio often assembled in Alkali
Umar Abiso’s house to have brotherly discussions and to
discuss contemporary issues.
What Professor Mahadi remembers about Alkali Umar
Abiso is: “He was incredibly gentle. The thing I remember about
him the most was his majestic walk.’’ On Goni Gambo he
wrote: “He was actually one of my “mallams’’ who “prayed’’
for me whenever I was to sit for an examination! ... He was the
finest gentleman I knew in Gwoza then.’’
My father went to Gembu with Alkali Umar Abiso in
1960 before Nigeria got her independence. We were told
by Alkali Habib Husseini that on the day of independence,
a helicopter came to Gembu and dropped leaflets about
Independence Day.
We were told that since there were no cars going up to
Gembu at that time, horses were used to convey people

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and goods. My father had only two children then, Fanta

and Umar. My sister, the late Hajiya Fanta Abiso, often
reminded us that she had carried Umar as a child on her
back in Gembu. Interestingly, this was the same Alhaji
Umar Bukar who ‘carried her on his back’ as an adult as
he treated her like a mother with all the benefits that a
mother could enjoy from a prosperous son.
Whenever my father visited Gwoza from Gembu, he
often put up in the house of Goni Gambo, despite the
fact that he had his own house in Gwoza rebuilt in the
mid-1960s with bricks and corrugated roofing sheets. This
ritual continued even after the death of Goni Gambo.
It was during one of such visits that he met his second
wife, Zara. The second son of my father, Babagoni, was
named after Goni Gambo.
Whenever my father visited Maiduguri, he often stayed
at the house of Alkali Abiso at Shehuri North. Before
leaving for Gembu, my father would often buy clothing
material and traditional kanuri wears in bulk and sell
them on return to Gembu. Most were not actually sold
on a cash-and-carry basis but on an instalment payment
scheme. Whenever he visited Maiduguri, everybody in
the neighbourhood celebrated his coming as he doled
out money to both the young and the old. That was the
version of one of the beneficiaries of such largesse,
Alhaji Mustapha Usman Manyama. Alhaji Mustapha also
said that one of the things that my father had complained
bitterly about was the nocturnal blind beggars who

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besieged their rendezvous.

This is also one of the things that puts me off easily.
Whenever I see children, unkempt on the streets with
bowls begging, I just wonder what the future of these
children will be. I often tell friends that these street urchins
are time bombs that may explode one day if nothing is
done about the menace. My argument has been that if as
middle class we train these children individually, we are
not doing them favours but we are actually securing the
lives of our own children. This is because if these children
are allowed to roam the streets and grow to become street
adults, they will not allow our children to enjoy whatever
they obtain from the education that we have given them.
My father did visit Maiduguri on business trips three
times a year. Whenever he made such trips he often
assembled between three and five Islamic clerics to pray
for the success and protection of his children. That was
the account of one of the interviewees, Alhaji Mustapha
Usman Manyama, a stepson of Alkali Abiso.
Although my father was not officially employed by the
court, all complaints got to him first before he transmitted
the message to the native judge. The money that he was
given when he went on errands for the court was what
sustained him then. Initially, before court summons were
introduced, he would be sent to invite people through
word of mouth to appear in court as witnesses or as
accused. He always followed Alkali Umar Abiso with a
Holy Quran to the court. He was like the custodian of

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the Holy Quran that was used in the court.

When we were growing up, our parents were old by
our judgement. My father’s first wife died before I was
born, but she bore him two children, a boy and a girl. The
boy died in childhood. Hajiya Fanta Abiso, the surviving
daughter, died at about the age of 56 years in 2011.
When I was growing up, my father had two wives, a
third one (Yawo) came but her stay was brief. Before she
was widowed, my mother, Aisha (Asta) Bukar had three
children, Hajiya Fanta Mandara, Alhaji Ahmadu and a
third who died during childhood. She married my father
after the death of her first husband. She was the first wife
we knew of my father’s and she bore five children for
him, including a set of twins who died shortly after birth.
My eldest brother, Alhaji Umar Bukar is a director with
Tertiary Education Trust Fund (TETFUND) and my
elder brother, Barrister Babagoni Bukar, is an associate
professor of law at the University of Maiduguri.
My stepmother, the late Zara Bukar, had five children:
Hadiza Bukar is an administrative officer with Taraba state
house of assembly, Shettima Bukar is a protocol officer
with the government house, Borno state, Mohammed
Bukar (jnr) is a self-employed engineer, Barrister Musa
Bukar is a private legal practitioner, and Dr. Usman Bukar
is a veterinary doctor.
None of us speaks our dialect, Zalidva. Since we cannot
speak it, our children may not learn the language of their
fathers and forefathers. Unfortunately, this is how many

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 Tribute To My Parents

dialects have gone the way of the dinosaur.

We all grew up under the same roof. When I was
young, my father was a rich man and so we lacked nothing
by the standards of a rural setting. I was told much later
in life that the reason my father was nicknamed Bagomna
(meaning with wealth like a governor) was because of his
immense wealth. Because of his wealth he was the darling
of the high and mighty in Gembu. Sometimes early in
the morning, my father’s parlour would be full of people,
apparently to solicit financial assistance. My father went
to Mecca for Hajj three times in the 60s and 70s. In fact,
one of the very few houses then in Gwoza built with
cement block and contracted out was my father’s house
located near the central primary school in Gwoza.
My father made his money initially as a trader in hide in
Bama. When he moved to Gwoza and stayed with Alkali
Abiso, he earned commissions for services rendered to
the court, notably as interpreter and as the dispatcher of
court summons. Legend had it that my father also made
money from bringing in wanted criminals. Whenever
there was a wanted criminal and the court wanted him to
be brought before it, the court would put a sum of money
on the criminal and my father would go after the criminal
and often brought him to the court to face justice.
My elder sister, Hajiya Fanta Abiso of blessed memory,
told me a story that my father had told her on how he
became close to his benefactor, Alkali Umar Abiso. My
father had a disagreement with someone regarding a

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farmland and the matter went to Alkali Umar Abiso, who

was a judge at that time in Gwoza. The judgment was
in favour of my father but my father gave up the piece
of land to the man who he had the dispute with. Alkali
Umar Abiso was as moved by my father’s attitude as my
father was with the judgment passed and that was the
beginning of their relationship.
Alhaji Kaka Mallam Usman also told me another
story which reinforced my father’s big heartedness. As
a businessman, he went to Lagos to transact a business
and someone gave him fake currency. At that time the
inspector general (IG) of police, Kam Salem was from
Borno. He was the IG between 1966 and 1975 so the
incident happened within this period. An acquaintance
of the IG suggested to my father that he should give him
a note to take to the IG so that the accused man could be
made to face the wrath of the law. My father’s response
was that it was God’s will and that the money probably
was not meant for him by God.
My parents had no formal education but my father
ensured that all his children had both western and Quranic
education. The only exception was his first daughter, who
was married out at the age of 12 and who by then had
not had the opportunity of western education. We were
told by our cousin Mallam Modu Kellube that my father,
despite his advanced age then, made some attempt to go
to school but that he was discouraged by his peers.
My father never wavered when it came to matters of

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education. He provided whatever was needed and/or

requested in school. He had zero tolerance for malingering,
absenteeism and poor performance in school. He was
a strict disciplinarian. Like Nelson Mandela said in his
autobiography, Long Walk to Freedom, “My father had a stern
manner and did not spare the rod when disciplining his children.”
So did my father.
My father confided in Goni Gambo in the presence of
Alhaji Kaka Mallam Usman that he wanted his children
to be educated in both western and Islamic education.
Goni Gambo then prayed that God would answer his
prayers and suggested to him to be prayerful about it.
Years later, my father told Alhaji Kaka that he dreamt that
his children would be successful in life if they pursued
western education.
With his unwavering support and fervent prayers,
all his children have become successful people in their
various endeavours. No child of his has become wayward.
Many who knew him attribute the success of his children
to his unshakeable belief in the power of prayer which he
engaged in personally and through others.
When people celebrate heroes and achievers in society,
they forget people like my father who trained his children
to attain enviable status in society and yet died unsung.
The time is ripe for people to go to the villages and to the
rural areas and to see the meaningful contributions that
those in rural areas have made to the development of this
country. These people used their hard-earned resources

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to train their children.

My father had a razor-sharp memory. When we came
home with our friends, my father would ask who they
were. When he heard their names and those of their
parents, he would tell them not only their dates of
birth but the days of birth and tell them also those who
attended the ceremonies. Despite the fact that he had no
western education, he knew the calendar months and
the dates and he at times picked some things spoken in
English. If my father had had the opportunity of going
to school, he would have been one of the think tanks of
the society. None among his children inherited the full
dose of his memory.
My father was extremely generous. He never
discriminated between his biological children and the
many children who he fostered. This fact was attested
to by one of the interviewees, Alhaji Mustapha Usman
Manyama. We ate the same food, wore the same clothes
and went to the same school with the foster children. In
fact, one of his foster sons was closer to him than his
biological children were.
In the course of writing this book, I interviewed Mallam
Gana Abiso, a retired principal who was also named after
Alkali Umar Abiso. While he was in Teachers College,
Mubi, he visited Gembu during holidays. On one of such
visits, on his way back to school, his namesake gave him
10 shilling while my father who was not related to him
gave him a pound and ten shillings. Later, he married my

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 Tribute To My Parents

father’s first daughter, Fanta.

My father had a herd of cattle at Leme, which was
about nine kilometres from Gembu town. The herd was
shepherded by a man named Nasiru. Because Nasiru’s
place was far from home, we went there only occasionally
to get fresh milk from the teat of the udder. On several
occasions, the shepherd would come and tell my father
that one or more of his cattle had fallen into the valley,
the remains of which were never seen. Whether my father
believed all the stories he was told by Nasiru or not, I
do not know. But as we grew older, we began to wonder
whether those stories were not cock-and-bull stories.
Occasionally, when the cattle were slaughtered, we would
bring the meat back home. On one of such occasions,
the portion that I was given was too heavy for me to
carry and I broke down along the way. My father, being
a brave and courageous man, realised how weak I was
and he did not hide his feelings about it, more so when
none of those who we went together with complained.
The bashing that I received from my father that day made
me to learn how to endure, especially if others in similar
circumstance are enduring.
When it came to showing love and care for his
children, my father was unbeatable. I am not sure of the
percentage, but what I know is that most of his prayers
centred on success and protection for his children.
Whenever my older brothers sent him money, part of it
was spent on sadaqa (alms), principally for the success and

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protection of his children.

I remember one of his prayers for my eldest brother
Umar was that one day he would become a governor.
Well, becoming a Borno state governor requires that you
are born into a particular religion, belong to a ‘superior’
tribe, are lucky to come from a blessed local government
area in the state, do not have the ‘misfortune’ of being a
minority and many other things that my father could not
comprehend; but that was a genuine prayer from a father
to his son. My eldest brother may not be the governor of
his state for obvious reasons, but people often say ‘aim
for the stars so that if you don’t get there you can fall back on the
moon’.
My eldest brother Alhaji Umar Bukar also told me that
our father had told him that our grandfather once told
our father that drummers would beat drums for him. In
those days it was a sign of affluence. When I look back,
I remember that occasionally the chief ’s band came to
play for what they could get from my father. So, what our
grandfather prophesied came to pass both literally and
metaphorically.
My father’s compassion extended beyond his children.
He treated his children and those of others equally. In
fact, he shared in the pains of other people’s children. I
remember the story of my childhood friend Halilu who
graduated with a second class upper division. Years later,
he could not get a job. One day, my father went to Halilu’s
father and told him to buy a calabash and something I do

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not remember, so that he could use it to pray for Halilu to

get employment. Not long after, Halilu got employment
in a federal establishment. Hamidu Barkuna, a foster son
of my father, had told me that many times when he had
come back from school, the food would have all been
consumed by the sea of people in the house. My father
would then forego his food and asked that his share be
given to anyone who had not eaten. There are not many
people in this world who have this rare gift of humanness,
and thankfully, my father was one of them. The emotional
intelligence of my father can hardly be surpassed. In
fact, the author of the bestseller book on emotional
intelligence, Daniel Goleman, would have benefited from
my father’s tutelage on emotional intelligence and human
relations.
When my older brothers and later myself were going
back to school after holidays, the prayers that my father
offered just before the journeys began are still fresh in
my memory. He offered the prayers from the innermost
recesses of his heart. I now realise why our journeys were
often so smooth.
While I was in Bama General Hospital as a medical
officer, a message came from Maiduguri on an evening in
1997 that my father was hospitalised at General Hospital,
Gembu, in Taraba state. That night was one of the
longest nights of my life. I remembered how my father
had suffered to raise us to our level and now that it was
his time to be treated like a king, sickness would not allow

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him to be so treated.
My half-brother Shettima and I took off to Gembu
the next day. No matter how high the speed of the car,
to me it was slow because all that I wanted was just to see
my ailing father. We travelled through the day and spent
the night at Jalingo, the capital of Taraba state. The next
day, we set out to Gembu.
On reaching Gembu, we went straight to the General
Hospital, Gembu where we met our father in a stable
condition. The next stop was the office of the principal
medical officer where we requested for his discharge as
we would be travelling to Maiduguri the next day. Our
request was granted and my father was discharged on
28th August 1997. I told my father that we had taken a
decision that he would no longer return to Gembu after
the treatment. My brothers had taken that decision at the
meeting that we held before we set out to Gembu.
On our way to Maiduguri, we stopped over at Jimeta,
Adamawa state, and spent the night at Lelewal Hotel. We
arrived at Maiduguri the next day and my father spent the
night at my eldest brother’s house. When my immediate
older brother, Barrister Babagoni Bukar, visited, the first
statement that my father made after an exchange of
pleasantries was, “You should co-operate with one another and
maintain the spirit of brotherhood.”
After spending some days following admission at the
University of Maiduguri Teaching Hospital, my father was
discharged. His house in Gwoza had been refurbished

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ahead of his arrival. But about two weeks or thereabouts

after discharge his condition changed. At that time I
shared the same house with Dr. Yerima and his family in
Bama. While I went with an ambulance to Gwoza from
Bama, my father was being conveyed to Bama and so we
missed each other. When my father arrived at Bama, Dr.
Yerima observed that my father’s condition was critical
and that he could not therefore wait for me to return, so
he accompanied my father to Maiduguri where my father
was admitted for the last time.
I had dreamt earlier even before we had brought my
father back to Maiduguri from Gembu that my father
had died in the presence of Alhaji Umar Bukar, Barrister
Babagoni Bukar and myself. But I decoded the message
only after he had actually passed on. When Dr. Yerima
explained to me my father’s condition when he came back
from Maiduguri, I prayed fervently for him to recover but
at the same time I had a feeling that my father’s successful
journey had then come to an end.
On reaching the University of Maiduguri Teaching
Hospital in the morning, I saw my elder sister Hajiya
Fanta Abiso weeping near a kiosk under a tree. I needed
not ask further questions. The inevitable had happened
as my father had gone the way of all mortals at the age
of 82. That was on 13th October 1997. When we got to
the mortuary, I went in so as to pay my last respects to
one of the greatest men in history. When the sheet he
was wrapped in was opened and I saw him, I just walked

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away and waited outside for the pre-burial ritual to be

completed. His corpse was then conveyed to Shehuri
North, and kept in the mosque in front of the late Alkali
Abiso’s house. The funeral prayer was offered after
zuhr prayers and he was buried in Gwange cemetery in
Maiduguri.
My father left for us the best legacy that any father
can give to his children – education. One thing that I had
wanted to take possession of after he passed on was his
staff, but somehow it went missing. What I now have
which I cherish so much is his bead (charbi).
I was depressed longer than was necessary after my
father passed away. I remember Dr. Aina counselled me
when he noticed that my mourning period had gone
beyond the ordinary and I think his counsel helped me.
I had felt, and I still feel a sense of emptiness after
my father’s death. Because of the love that he had for
his children, he was always on his knees praying for our
success and protection. Now that he is no longer there to
do that and there is nobody else to occupy that position;
something is gone, truly gone f-o-r-e-v-e-r. I occasionally
dreamt about my father and, surprisingly, some of those
dreams pass messages across to me to date.
Mandela in his autobiography, while describing Oliver
Thambo, said, “In Plato’s allegory of metals, the philosopher
classifies men into groups of gold, silver, and lead. Oliver was
pure gold; there was gold in his intellectual brilliance, gold in his
warmth and humanity, gold in his tolerance and generosity….”

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This description aptly suits my father as those were his

attributes – everything in p-u-r-e gold.
My mother was an introvert. She was a calm woman
who hardly argued with anybody. My mother could
not hurt a fly. She did her domestic chores and any
responsibility given to her by her husband religiously.
She kept only few friends. In fact, her only close friend
that I knew of was the wife of one Hayatu Tailor, called
Goggo. I went with her to Goggo occasionally.
In 2011, about 27 years after my mother had passed
on, I visited Goggo in Girei in Adamawa state. Because
of senility, Goggo could not remember any of the
events that I tried to remind her of and at the end I was
terribly saddened by the experience. Here was a woman
whose house we had used to go to as children to play.
Occasionally, we had spent the night in her room with
my mother but yet she could not remember any of these
events, even after I reminded her of some. It was a sad
day for me and later I asked myself if it would not have
been better if I had not paid her the visit.
My mother died while I was in secondary school, but
my father died when I was already a doctor. I had the
opportunity of taking a picture with my father when I
was in the university and many of my brothers also have
his picture. But the story is different for my mother.
While writing this book, I asked virtually all those who
had come into contact with my mother for her picture
but no-one could provide me with that valuable treasure.

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What I did was to have a snapshot of my aunt who was

like a carbon copy of my mother. It is her picture that I
use to remind myself of my mother.
My parents sacrificed all that they had to make us
succeed in life. If they were alive today, I would do
whatever was humanly possible, even starving myself if
need be, so that they could have an enjoyable and fulfilling
life just like they themselves starved to make me what I
am today. But unfortunately, this is not to be and this has
been my greatest regret in life.
The dedication to my booklet Recipe for Successful
Residency Training reads in part, ‘To my late parents, Alhaji
Bukar Adam and Aishatu Bukar for their superlative parental
roles’.
Many people who we celebrate today are those
who have made their money through outright theft of
government resources. Yet, they are the ‘heroes’ of our
society. I have no money to build a monument for my
father and I do not have the resources either to set up
a foundation in his honour. But I do have the ability to
immortalise him in ways that God has endowed me with.
That was how the title of this book A Father’s Legacy came
about. This book is in honour of the memory of my
father for his immense contribution to the development
of his children in particular and to the development of
the country at large.

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PART THIRTEEN
MEETING MY WIFE

“A good marriage would be between a blind wife and a deaf

husband.”

Michel de Montaigne

I n part five, I detailed how my late friend Bapetel

Ibrahim Sakaka sold to me the idea of thinking about
taking my friend’s younger sister to the altar. Musa Halilu
was my childhood friend who I shared everything with.
Despite our closeness, I had to rehearse several times
how to tell him about my nuptial plan. I did that when he
visited me in my room one day at the Kashim Ibrahim Hall
in 1994. Usually, Musa Halilu and I planned our journeys
to and from Gembu together. So, we decided that when
we went for the holidays, I would use the opportunity to
see his younger sister. Although we (Musa Halilu and I)
were always together then in Gembu, I could not really
place the face of the younger sister who I was told about.
On reaching Gembu, we went straight to Musa’s
house but unfortunately the younger sister had gone

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to visit her older sister in Nguroje which was about 32

kilometres from Gembu. The following day we had hired
a motorcycle and I went to Nguroje with Musa Halilu.
I wore my best clothes and applied the perfume that I
had bought for that purpose. On getting to the sister’s
house we were told that my fiancée to be had just left
for Gembu. I then said to myself, what a coincidence that
was. I also thought that I may never set my eyes on her
considering the turn of events.
My thought was not to be as we arrived at Gembu
safely and went to Musa’s house. When we had confirmed
that she was in the house, we mapped out a strategy on
how to see her. It was during the harmattan period and so
Musa suggested that I waited in his room while he went
into the house and asked his sister to bring hot water in
a flask for performing ablution. I then positioned myself
strategically so that I could have a full view of her when
she came in. I also adjusted my clothing properly. Not
long after, I heard a knock on the door and when she
entered, the room glowed. She left after the exchange of
pleasantries. When Musa returned, I told him that what I
had seen was fine and that I really liked her.
The next move was to declare my intentions to the
parents regarding marrying their daughter, and that was
done by my father shortly after I had seen her. Before I
had declared my interest, I had criticised people who avoid
close contact with their in-laws and I had considered such
behaviour reprehensible. Things took a different turn

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 Meeting My Wife

after I declared my interest to my father-in-law to be.

One day we came out of Musa’s room and, as we
approached the veranda, I heard the voice of my father-
in-law to be. My legs trembled and I took some steps
backward. Musa then encouraged me to just walk past
his father and to greet him the usual way. I did that but
with some trepidation. That was when it had dawned on
me that there is really a difference between theory and
practice.
One of my childhood friends, Yahaya Imam, was
instrumental in cementing my relationship with my fiancée
as he often encouraged her to go where her heart was.
I remember an elder who we respected, as his younger
brothers were my close friends, who supported another
suitor for my wife to be. He supported a businessman
against me during the struggle to win the heart of my
wife. While Yahaya Imam was on my side, the elder was
on the side of the businessman. The elder’s support was
because the businessman had some money but Yahaya,
despite the fact that he was younger, was far-sighted
probably because of his level of education; he was already
a university graduate.
Like my parents, my wife’s parents were also not from
Gembu but they had settled in Gembu. My father-in-law,
late Alhaji Halilu Hong, and my mother-in-law, Aisha
Halilu, were both of Kilba extraction from Hong Local
Government Area of Adamawa state.
There are certain things that my wife and I share in

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common. Both of us were born in the same locality

after a set of twins, and so we were nicknamed Gambo.
Gambo was the gender neutral name given to a child
who came after twins in our environment. In addition,
we are the last children of our mothers. The year of my
birth was 1967 while that of my wife was 1976. Just like
we exchanged marital vows, when the last two figures of
these years are exchanged, you arrive at the same thing.
This, really, is a case of, “What God has joined together, let no
man put asunder.”
We walked down the aisle shortly after my internship.
I wanted to be at the venue of the wedding fatiha but my
friend Yahaya Imam dissuaded me from going. His reason
was that it would appear alien if I did so. Well, I stayed
back, but not because I was convinced of the reason but
because I wanted to allow the status quo to be respected.
In Gembu, then grooms did not appear at the wedding
fatiha, but participated in other activities that follow the
fatiha. This practice is, however, gradually changing as
grooms are nowadays seen during their wedding fatiha.
The fatiha is usually held at the house of the bridegroom.
I was 29 years and my wife was 18 years when we got
married. Some would consider 18 years young but, in
the African context, such is considered a ripe age. Ben
Carson, in his book Gifted Hands noted of his parents,
“They married when my father was twenty eight and my mother
was thirteen.” Okot p’ Bitek in his book Song of Lawino
captured the mindset of the typical African society in the

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60s. He wrote,

“Periodically each woman

Sees the moon,
And when a young girl
Has seen it
For the first time
It is a sign
That the garden is ready
For sowing,
And when the gardener comes
Carrying two bags of live seeds
And a good strong hoe
The rich red soil
Swells with a new life.”

But this was a poem of the 60s. Certainly in the 21st

century, when a girl sees the moon for the first time, it is
a sign that the fruit has started to mature but that it is not
yet ripe for consumption.
My father was fully supportive of my marriage, as he
was with his children’s marriages before mine. He never
interfered in such decisions. My eldest brother Alhaji
Umar Bukar supported me with 5 000 naira which I
used to buy the items for asking the hand of my fiancée
in marriage. I got married before my immediate older
brother, Barrister Babagoni Bukar. I heard tongues wag,
“How can he marry before his older brother?” My response

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was that they should show me the evidence anywhere

that it was prohibited that a younger brother should
marry before his elder brother. Expectedly, they could
not provide any. Unfortunately, such a stereotype is still
commonplace.
I took my wife to Ogugu in Kogi state where I was
posted for my National Youth Service Corp in 1996/1997.
After the service year, we settled in Bama, in Borno state
for one year and then moved to Federal Medical Centre,
Gombe where we spent eight years. During the six
months that I spent in Yola, Adamawa state, she was like
a grass widow. It is now our seventh year in Maiduguri,
Borno state.
Our first son, Abubakar, named after my father, was
born in Bama on 20th June 1998. Our second child, born
in Gombe on 31st May 2004, was named after my eldest
brother, Alhaji Umar Bukar, and the last child, Aisha,
named after my mother-in-law, was also born in Gombe
on 31st January 2006. Abubakar is intelligent, Umar is
hard-working and Aisha has an uncommon wisdom. All
three are lovely children with their strengths and their
weaknesses. Rashida, my sister-in-law, joined my family in
2002 when she was 13 years old. We had trained her in all
respects the way that we would want our daughter, Aisha,
to be trained. I am proud of her.
I have heard stories of difficulties in marriages, conflicts
and intrigues in some families, the trouble with women
and all that. Whenever I hear such issues being discussed,

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 Meeting My Wife

I hardly contribute because I do not have experience in

the subject. My wife is a decent, well-behaved, cultured,
well-nurtured and deeply religious woman, with an
impeccable angelic composure. I remember a story once
told during a Ramadan Tafsir. The story went thus, “One
day, angel Gabriel decided to take a tour of the heavens. Suddenly,
he saw lightning and then prostrated. God then asked him why he
prostrated. He replied, ‘Because I have seen one of your signs’. God
replied that what he had seen was not one of his signs but a sparkle
from the teeth of a woman in heaven.” I often jokingly say that
for me, if given the choice, I would rather go with my
wife to heaven and leave others to enjoy those women,
the sparkle of whose teeth even the angels confuse for
the wonders of God.
Our marriage has been a bed of roses for the past 18
years and this is probably because we understand each
other and respect each other’s view. Like Zig Ziglar said,
“Many marriages would be better if the husband and the wife
clearly understood that they’re on the same side.” However, this
is not to say that there have not been disagreements, but
rather that those disagreements never degenerated to a
level that we could not handle between us. No third party
has ever been invited to solve our countable problems.
This was a promise that we made to each other 18 years
ago when I was 29 years old and she was 18 years old. If
we have been able to keep this promise thus far, I believe
that we shall keep it to the end.
Many marriages crash shortly after take-off owing

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to impatience, distrust and lack of communication. To

a large extent we have avoided all these three enemies
of a successful marriage. An anonymous writer captured
a scene about marriage thus, “Before marriage, man talks
and the woman listens. After marriage, woman talks and man
listens. Long in marriage, man and woman talk and neighbours
listen.” Such a marriage would not last and even if it did,
it’s doomed to fail. Remember also what Anais Nin said,
“Love never dies a natural death. It dies because we don’t know how
to replenish its source. It dies of blindness and errors and betrayals.
It dies of illness and wounds; it dies of weariness, of witherings,
of tarnishing.”
One of the things that I am guilty of in our marriage,
which I have promised to rectify several times but have
failed so far, is busyness. Richard Templar said, “Never be
too busy for loved ones.” I am always too busy for loved ones!

286
PART FOURTEEN
THE BIRTH OF RECIPE FOR
SUCCESSFUL RESIDENCY
TRAINING

“Give them pleasure. The same pleasure they have when they wake
up from a nightmare.”

Alfred Hitchcock

M y first booklet, Recipe for Successful Residency Training,

was self-published in November 2012. The idea
came to me sometime in 2010 of the need to write a
book that would guide future generations of prospective
resident doctors and even consultants who are open-
minded. This idea was mooted because I have never seen
a book that serves as a guide for resident doctors. One
thing that I enjoy doing is counselling students, resident
doctors and fresh consultants on how to organise
themselves to be more successful in what they do. I have
done that at every available opportunity, especially when
I joined the university.
I wrote in the preface about the driving force behind

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the book, “My passion in life is to help boost people. Thankfully,

as a teacher, the opportunity of moulding opinion and helping people
grow comes unsolicited. At every opportunity with my students and
residents, I always steal some moments to convey didactic messages
and encourage them to be positive in life. I do this as often as is
practicable. But I soon realised that the number of people who will
benefit from this guidance is few if it continues one on one. This
was how the idea to write this book was conceived. This book is,
therefore, a way to quench my thirst for reaching out to as many
prospective students as possible.”
I wrote the booklet over a six week period during my
annual leave, which I spent doing locum at the FMCY. The
workload in FMCY was not as hectic as it is in Maiduguri
as there were no medical students. Immediately after the
day’s work I usually stayed back late into the night in the
office to do the business of writing. When I was done,
I would send soft copies to many of my friends to go
through and make their suggestions. The suggestions
really improved the quality of the book. For instance,
Professor J.P. Ambe of the department of paediatrics
at UMTH suggested that I should have an introduction
that would give an overview of the residency training
programme. Professor C.M. Chama of the department
of obstetrics and gynaecology, UMTH, suggested that
I include the need for residents to build bridges across
professional lines. Dr. Kodiya reminded me that I wrote
the booklet as if all resident doctors would have to travel
for examination while in actual sense some just leave

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 The Birth Of Recipe For Successful Residency Training

their rooms and walk to the venue of the examination.

Dr. Alkali Umar of the National Assembly Clinic, Abuja,
suggested that I include the financial implications of the
residency training programme, while Dr. A.M. Talle of
the department of internal medicine, UMTH, suggested
that I should include something about mentorship and he
also gave me an article on mentorship. The contributions
of some were changes in words and phrases which may
appear small but which were quite significant in polishing
the booklet.
There were many ideas that I got from books that I had
read earlier. Others were from newspapers and magazines.
Many of the quotations in the book are actually quotes
that I had scribbled in my old diary as a student in the
clinical years between 1991 and 1995. I included graphic
arts to capture each of the chapter titles because, as the
Chinese proverb says, ‘A picture is worth more than a thousand
words’. I got the idea of graphic arts from Peter Enahoro’s
books, How to be a Nigerian, and The Complete Nigerian. I
was given the first book How to be a Nigerian by my MD at
FMCG, Dr. Ali Gombe.
While in Gombe, I performed the role of master of
ceremonies (MC) and I often told jokes, the jokes that
I learned from my adventures into the literary world.
One day, Dr. Ali Gombe asked his secretary to call me.
I did not know why he had sent for me but when I got
to his office, he handed over to me the book, How to be a
Nigerian, and said that he thought that I would like it. I did

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like it. In fact, when I got the opportunity to play another

MC, I cited one of the jokes in Peter’s book to highlight
something and the MD was also at the event. The story
went thus: “An expatriate acquaintance of mine was told the
story of the Nigerian student who went into a London restaurant
and ordered a whole roast chicken. When the Nigerian saw the bill,
he was aghast. At home a roast chicken would cost 6/- or less and
here he was paying 18/-. He decided he had to do justice to his
extravagance and was noisily breaking the bones between his teeth
and sucking at the marrows, when an English gentleman presiding
over a cup of chocolate ice-cream on the next table, asked him icily
what they fed to their dogs in Nigeria. ‘Chocolate,’ answered the
Nigerian.”.
I also borrowed the humour aspect of writing from
How to be a Nigerian. From John Mason’s Why Ask Why,
I learnt to be liberal with relevant quotations. Still from
John Mason, I appreciated how to make a small book
appear not really small by interposing pictures or designs.
From the author of How To Develop Self-Confidence For
Success, P.C. Ganesan, and The Rules of Life by Richard
Templar, I borrowed how to bring out important points
as footnotes.
My booklet was about 10 000 words but the many good
things that I had borrowed from renowned writers made
the book popular among residents. As a matter of fact,
the first month that I received the copies from the printer,
I recouped the amount that I had spent on the booklet. I
received so many encouraging comments about the book,

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 The Birth Of Recipe For Successful Residency Training

but my interest is really in having someone critique my

work so that I can improve on it in future, just like what
Bill Gates said, “Your most unhappy customers are your greatest
source of learning.” Comments that I could easily retrieve
from my handset were from two of my former students
– Dr. Abdulhakeem M. Ngulde sent me a text message
on 7th May 2013, “Salam. Just finished reading one of
your publications Recipe for Successful Residency Training. I
must admit, it’s a masterpiece. The richness of content
as well as the in-depth advice you outline in the book
has just benefited me by influencing and strengthening
my choice of postgraduate specialty. Thanks for your
tutelage, jazakhalla.” Also, Dr. Mohammed Gashua sent
the following text on 5th May 2013, “I may disturb you
by this time, but I feel I can’t hold onto my thanks for
you to morning as I started reading your book now.”
Other observations that I was told personally were that
the examples that I gave were more related to the surgical
rather than the medical field, and that there was need to
expand some of the chapters.
One of the things that baffled me after completion of
the booklet was the disappointment that I received from
some friends. When I gave out the manuscript for input
from colleagues, some of my close friends who I assumed
would show much enthusiasm about the booklet did not
even return the manuscripts. I was, however, consoled
when I read a similar story of the author of the French
Revolution, Thomas Carlyle. Many months after he had

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given his manuscript to a friend, the friend told him that

he had lost the manuscript and unfortunately, Thomas
did not have a duplicate. So, my experience is as child’s
play compared with that of Thomas Carlyle.
I gave out complimentary copies to all the professors
and to some of my senior colleagues at UMTH and to
some principal officers in the university. When I attended
a workshop organised by Medical Education Partnership
Initiative in Nigeria (MEPIN), at Ijebu-Ode in April 2013,
I distributed copies to all the participants. I remember, a
professor who was to leave the following day did not get
a copy and he came to me to request a copy, which I gave
him later that evening. At the end of the workshop, the
lady who had given the closing remarks also thanked me
for the copies of the booklet.
Back home in Maiduguri, many did not even
acknowledge the receipt of the booklet let alone give me
any encouragement to do more. When we came back for
the follow-up on the workshop of MEPIN in Lagos in
September 2013, some of those who I had given copies
to in Ijebu-Ode thanked me again for giving them the
booklet. Another professor, who did not attend the
Ijebu-Ode workshop, received a copy of the booklet in
Lagos and he was very excited about it and gave me an
encouraging handshake.
When one looks at the two reactions, one realises that
while one reaction encourages the younger person to
grow, the other is either indifferent or discouraging. It is

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worth remembering that any society that fails to invest in

its younger generation is unlikely to be able to compete
in the global market of the future. This divergent attitude
between the north and the south is also the reason why
mentorship plays a very prominent role in the south west
while it is applied selectively in some parts of the north
east.
A lesson I have learnt in self-publishing is that it is fast,
but when the goods arrive you will have to contend with
how to distribute them. This is quite challenging. What I
did initially was to target meetings of resident doctors. In
UMTH I gave the booklet out through the chief resident
of my department to all chief residents and it was a hit
with the residents. Subsequently, whenever someone was
travelling for a meeting or for a revision course, I would
give them some copies to go with. But what I realised was
that not many people were comfortable with marketing.
Some would go with the booklets and would sell only a
few copies while others who were outgoing sold most, if
not all the copies given to them. This was based purely
on the consultant-resident relationship. What I have
discovered lately is a relationship whereby I need to
engage book vendors and agree on certain percentages
that they would have after sales. Here, the relationship is
purely business and nothing else.
One of the mistakes that I made initially was to expect
cash after the sale of the booklets. What happened rather
was that, at times, I only received cash for 30 copies out

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of the 50 copies that I had given out. The explanation for

the shortage was that buyers bought on credit to pay at
the end of the month. Initially, it amused me how people
could collect a book on loan, but I later came to terms
with the fact that, in the Nigerian context, anything from
household provisions to birthday gifts can be bought on
credit to be paid either after a thrift contribution or at
the end of the month! I have now acclimatised to such
deals and it would not surprise me if in future someone
decides to pay for a booklet in three or four instalments!
Some of my colleagues ask me how I create time
to read and to write things outside medicine because
whenever they come to my office they find me busy
doing one thing or the other, especially now that we are
trying to reposition our department. The analogy that I
often give is to ask a rhetorical question like, “How do
some CEO’s with more than one wife find time for their mistresses
despite their very tight schedule?” It’s all about one’s passion
and what one enjoys doing. If you have a passion for
something you will create time even when apparently
there is no time to spare. It is also about the three As of
Neil Pasricha – Attitude, Awareness and Authenticity.

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PART FIFTEEN
THE DARK DAYS

“Life is difficult. And the rule is to thank God it is so. If it was all
fluffy and easy we wouldn’t be tested, tried, forged in the fire of life.
We wouldn’t grow or learn or change, or have a chance to rise above
ourselves. If life were a series of lovely days, we’d soon get bored.
If there was no rain, then there wouldn’t be any feeling of great joy
when it finally stopped and we could go to the beach. If it was all
easy we couldn’t get stronger.”

Richard Templar

A s I observed earlier, I probably inherited the gene

of introversion from my mother. I am the type who
has little time for extra-curricular engagements. My usual
itinerary is hospital to home and vice versa and that is
how it has been since I began my career. Whatever I do
or whatever I am assigned to do, I never put in 99% but
always 100% of my resources. I don’t know how to do
things halfway and I don’t want to know how it is done
that way. I am a strong believer in the old maxim, “Whatever
that is worth doing is worth doing well.” If you genuinely want

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to frustrate me, then give me an assignment with a docile

chairman. On the other hand, if the buck stops at my
table, I can work extra to fill in the gaps just to ensure
that the work is done. I agree with Abraham H. Maslow
when he wrote, “If you deliberately set out to be less than you are
capable, you’ll be unhappy for the rest of your life.”
Whenever I talk or write about percentage, I cannot
help but remember a joke told to us during an award night
organised by ARD at the FMCG, “There was a top Nigerian
official who went for a course in one of the West African countries.
One day, his host invited him for lunch. The Nigerian official was
very impressed with the magnificent building and its exotic element
and so he asked his host ‘How did you do it?’ The host replied
‘10%’. Few years later the official from the neighbouring country
paid his Nigerian counterpart a visit. The visiting official could not
believe his eyes. The top Nigerian official lived in such splendour that
made his own home appear ordinary. He then asked his Nigerian
host ‘ How did you do it?’ The Nigerian official replied, ‘100%’.”
Because of the way that I do my things, some of my
friends accuse me of being too careful. Because I did
not want a situation where I would be leaving work for a
school run, I decided to buy a car that would serve as a
taxi for commercial purposes and at the same time would
convey my children to school. But the main purpose
for buying the car was actually to convey my children to
school.
The first golf car was given to my nephew to do what
it was meant for. Six months after, the car was not in

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good shape, so I had to sell it.

Sometimes after, I bought another car for the same
purpose. I then asked Abdul Usman to help me to get
a driver since he is a son of the soil. He got me one
Bajida who did not keep his promises and so he was
fired after about five months. I then contacted a driver
named Mailafiya. He was a driver to my eldest brother
and before I bought my taxi, he was the one conveying
my eldest brother’s children to school. Along the way, he
parted ways with my brother. I had observed Mailafiya
over the years as he had worked for my brother and I had
found him to be a reliable person.
After I relieved my driver of his job, I gave Mailafiya
a call that I had a car which I wanted him to manage for
me. He apologised and said that he already had one. I
requested that he got me someone as reliable as he was to
manage my car.
Two days later, he brought his friend, Baide. While
Mailafiya had no formal education, Baide had some
tertiary level education. The next day, Baide started the
business. Baide was fond of the children and, unlike my
first driver he often came early and went for the school
run on time. He settled as and when was due until about
six months after, when the bills became epileptic. The
cars were usually parked in the houses of my drivers and
I never cared to know where their houses were located.
But my younger half brother, Usman, knew the houses
of both drivers, Bajida and Baide.

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Sometime in 2011, the peace which Borno and Yobe

states had regained after the Boko Haram onslaught of
2009 was once again punctured. Bomb explosions and
assassinations became routine in the north east, especially
in Maiduguri and Damaturu. People were killed in cold
blood. Human life became so cheap and worthless. Under
such circumstances one could not help but remember
what Albert Camus said, “There are causes worth dying for,
but none worth killing for,” and Bertrand Russell also noted
that, “I would never die for my beliefs because I might be wrong.”
When children went to school, one’s heart would be
in one’s mouth until they returned. At times we stopped
them from going to school if we were woken up by bomb
explosions or gun shots.
On Wednesday, 29th February 2012 we woke up to a
salvo of gunshots which continued into the early hours
of the day. When Baide came to convey the children to
school, we told him that they would not go because of
the gunshots that morning. This was a familiar action
whenever there were bomb blasts or gunshots that we
suspected were close to home or to the road to school.
The following day Thursday, 1st March 2012 Baide
did not come to convey the children to school at the
expected time. I called his number around 7.15am but
he did not respond to the call. This was quite unusual
of him as he often came by 7am and he always called if
there was a problem along the way to explain either his
lateness or his inability to come on a particular morning.

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I often go to work early. In fact, by my rule, if I get to

work at 8am I am late for that day. So, I left home around
7.30am after having tried Baide’s number several times. I
did not contemplate taking the children to school because
it was already 7.30am and if I had done so I would have
been late for departmental morning activity which usually
started at 8am on that day.
I was in Bamaiyi’s office after 9am when Mailafiya
called me to confirm if Baide had conveyed the children
to school that Thursday morning. I told him that he had
not and that I had tried his number several times, but
that there was no response despite the fact that his phone
rang. He went further to say that Baide had not slept at
home the night before, which was unusual. I suggested to
Bamaiyi that, based on the security situation in Maiduguri
at that time, I should report the case to the police. He
suggested that we should wait until noon before we
report since the day was still young.
While I waited in my office, many thoughts crossed my
mind. Was he involved in an accident?; Was my car stolen?; Was
he caught in a cross-fire between Boko Haram and the military?;
Was he a victim of a bomb blast, accidental discharge or targeted
killing? While I was deeply engrossed in these thoughts
in my office, one of my younger half brothers came in.
I explained to him the situation and informed him of
my decision to report to the police at noon. I told him
that I would go to a police station which was close to
where I worked but he asked me the place of abode of

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the driver and I told him, Karamci ward. He said that the
report should be in the police station that covers where
the driver’s place of abode is. He then asked me some
questions which embarrassingly I could not provide the
answers to. I did not know the full name of the driver,
and the car’s number plate. Luckily, we had signed an
agreement with the driver before I had released the car to
him. The signing of the agreement had been witnessed
by Mailafiya and Danyabu. We then went home and got
the particulars of the car. My brother, being a lawyer,
then volunteered to report the case to the police while I
went back to the hospital.
On Friday, 2nd March 2012 my brother met me in
the office and said that he had reported the case to the
police. I asked him for the evidence and he said that they
had only done a recording but that they had not given
any document. I couldn’t understand that, but I was told
that that was how the system worked.
That same day, Friday, I called Baide’s line, it rang but
there was no response. Mailafiya and I were in constant
touch but there was nothing forthcoming about the
whereabouts of Baide. I began to suspect that Baide
had gone with my car outside Maiduguri and had had an
accident on the way which was against our agreement.
My suspicion was heightened when Mailafiya called to
tell me that they had gone to nearby police stations in
neighbouring villages but that they could not see the car.
I called Mailafiya the following day, which was Friday,

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and he said that they had looked for Baide but could
not find him and that they were planning to come to
the mortuary to check. I told him that I would check
the mortuary in UMTH while he checked that of the
Specialist Hospital. Records at UMTH mortuary revealed
that no corpse had been brought from outside on
Thursday and up to the time I went on Friday. According
to Mailafiya, there was no record of any corpse deposited
at the Specialist Hospital on Thursday or Friday at the
time that he had visited.
I called my brother and asked him to meet me on
Sunday so that we could get someone to take us to Baide’s
house. On Sunday morning, we went to Orji Quarters
where we explained to Abdul Usman what had happened
and we requested that he should take us to Mailafiya’s
house. Abdul was the one who had introduced Mailafiya
to my eldest brother. So, my assumption was that he
would know Mailafiya’s house but surprisingly he didn’t.
Abdul was also of the belief that Baide had probably
gone into hiding because something had happened to my
car.
I then left my car in front of Alhaji Usman’s house and
we drove in Abdul’s car to the rendezvous of taxi drivers
in Anguwan Hausawa ward. Abdul alighted and asked the
drivers individually and in small groups if anyone knew
the whereabouts of Baide but none of them knew. But
when he asked them of Mailafiya he was told that he just
left not long before we came. Abdul then called Mailafiya

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and told him that he should meet us at Orji Quarters.

When Mailafiya replied that he was far away, we then told
him to wait for us near the Ethiopian house.
Mailafiya parked his car near the Ethiopian house and
we drove to Karamci ward together with my brother in
my car. It was my first time of going to that ward. The
look on the face of Baide’s wife suggested to me that she
also was at a loss as to the whereabouts of her husband.
Nonetheless, we asked some questions that would have
given her away if she had lied but her answers were
consistent. When we left the house, Mailafiya said that
Baide’s mother was in the opposite house which belonged
to Baide’s older brother. I then suggested that we greet
the mother. On reaching the front door, we met someone
praying while the mother was seated at the entrance to the
house. The prayer ended by ‘God will bring him back safely’.
That was when I realised that my suspicion was wrong
and that probably something sinister had happened,
more so because it was the fourth day since he had gone
missing.
On Monday, 5th March 2012 between 9am and 10am,
Mailafiya called to inform me that the older brothers
of Baide had found Baide’s fresh corpse at the morgue,
deposited that same day. I expressed my condolence to him
and told him to inform me of the funeral arrangements. I
was devastated, so I just locked myself in the office.
Around noon, a call came from my head of department
that some plain clothes’ security agents had come to see

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 The Dark Days

me. They interrogated me about my car and I told them

everything just the way I have written here. They showed
me the particulars of the car and I confirmed to them
that it was the particulars of my car. The leader of the
security team expressed surprise openly when I told them
that the driver was dead. At the end of the interrogation,
the leader of the team said that I should accompany them
to their office for further questioning. When I informed
my H.O.D, he called the CEO, who then directed the
chief security officer [CSO] to accompany us. We also
contacted the legal officer who advised that I should not
allow the security agents to intimidate me.
When we got to the security office, we were asked to
keep all our handsets at the reception. At the office of
the head of the team, I was given a paper to write my
statement. When I saw the title as suspect statement or
statement of the suspect (I am not very sure of the title
but what I was sure about was that it contained the word
suspect), I told the team leader that I was not going to fill
in the form as I was not a suspect. The officer, who was
calm, then replied in a stern voice that, “Doctor, you have
to make your statement on that form.” At that time I realised
that I had to, so I made my statement. Shortly after, I was
led to the office of the director by the most senior officer
who had interrogated me. Immediately I sat down, the
director asked if I had seen the particulars of the car and
if it belonged to me. I replied in the affirmative. He then
asked me,

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“What is your relationship with the driver?”

I replied, “He is just my driver and nothing more but if you
want to know more about him then Mailafiya, his guarantor, will
be able to shed more light on him.”
He then asked, “Will you be surprised if I tell you that your
driver is a Boko Haram member?”
So I replied, “I will be surprised.”
He then told me that my driver had been involved in
a shoot-out with members of the Joint Task Force (JTF)
and that two AK-47 rifles had been found in the car. He
also said that two other passengers in the car suspected to
be members of Boko Haram had escaped with gunshot
wounds. I was speechless. Speechless because Baide had
not appeared to me like somebody who would seriously
hurt someone let alone use a gun to kill. Nevertheless,
that was as far as human assessment is concerned. But I
am also not unmindful of Shakespeare’s statement which
I often like to quote, “There is no art of reading the mind’s
construction on the face.”
The director turned to the officer and said harshly,
“Go and get the guarantor now!” When we left the director’s
office, the officer advised that I should call Mailafiya and
tell him to meet me at their office. My phone was then
brought to me from the reception and I called Mailafiya
in the presence of the officer and he promised to come.
After we had waited for some time and he did not
show up, we made a second call, after which he said that
he would not come that day as he was still mourning

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the death of Baide. His reply suggested to me that I

was inconsiderate. The body of his friend had been
discovered just in the morning and they had not even
completed the burial arrangement and there I was asking
him to come over to sort out issues about my car. This
probably was what was going through his mind, I thought.
I then informed the officer of what had transpired. The
officer came back from the office of the director and told
me that, based on their investigations I had no case to
answer. But he said that I should ensure that Mailafiya
came to the office the next day.
My H.O.D, the CSO and I left the office after 5pm
that day. We exchanged telephone numbers with the
officer handling the case. One of the questions that the
officer asked me was about my itinerary. I told him from
home to hospital and back home. He probed further
about the friends I kept, the places I frequently visited
and attendance of tribal or village meetings. I gave him
the names of my friends but the other questions had no
answers really as I had nowhere that I visited regularly
and I do not attend tribal or village meetings. It was after
this encounter that I had realised that I am truly a first-
class introvert.
The following day was Tuesday, 6th March 2012. I went
for a meeting of the technical working group on maternal
and child health. Before the meeting started, my phone
rang. It was a call from the officer handling the case. He
said, “The director wants to see you now.” I then rushed back

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to the hospital and informed my H.O.D, who transmitted

the information to the CEO. The CEO directed that the
CSO should accompany me using the security vehicle of
the institution.
When we got to the security office, the officer said
that they had not seen Mailafiya up to that moment. I
then called him again and he promised to come. While
we waited for Mailafiya, the officer told me that it was
the commander of JTF who wanted to see me. I was
shocked because 24 hours earlier, the officer had cleared
me and had said that I had no case to answer. Why would
the commander of JTF want to see me? I wondered.
As we waited, Mailafiya arrived accompanied by a man
who later turned out to be the PRO of their taxi drivers’
union. The officer then called some officers and handed
us over to them after some documentation. We were then
taken to Barub Barracks in a Hilux guarded by heavily
armed security agents. Mailafiya and I were sandwiched
between the security agents while the PRO and the CSO
followed us in their separate cars. I remember that one
of the officers was reluctant to take us because, he said,
since the time was after 2pm, nothing could be concluded
that day. It was after we had got to Barub Barracks that I
appreciated the concern of the officer.
When we were handed over to the JTF, the officer in
charge said to me, “So, you will be here with us until investigations
are completed.”
“Well, I can go and come back whenever you want me,” I

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suggested.
“No,” he had said firmly. “We don’t do like that here.”
“Where were you arrested?” he added.
“We were not arrested,” I explained.
I went further to explain what had happened. We
were then asked to go to the next room. Before I entered
the room, I made a call to my older brother who is a
lawyer. I told him about the unfolding drama. He said
that unfortunately with JTF there was nothing that they
could do. He advised that I contact my CEO who could
intervene at their level. I immediately put a call through
to the CEO and told him that they had said that I would
have to remain in Barub Barracks. The CEO was mad
about it and said that he would contact a director who
would talk to the JTF commander. Coincidentally, I had
only got the CEO’s number from my H.O.D about 24
hours earlier.
A military man then came to me and said that they
did not allow phone calls there and he asked why I was
making a call. I told him that I was not aware that calls
were not permitted there. So, he collected our phones
and asked us to sit outside. Meanwhile the CSO and the
PRO were not allowed entry into the barracks; thus they
did not know what was going on.
When it was evening we were called in and told to
remove our wrist watches and shoes. We did that and
then returned to the bench outside. While we were there,
we saw many people tied to pillars, with some facing the

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pillars and others backing the pillars. When it was night,

one of the military men came with handcuffs and tied me
and Mailafiya together and fastened us to a motorcycle.
He did the same for other people we had met there and
to some who came after us. I couldn’t comprehend what
was going on. Here you had a law-abiding citizen being
treated like a criminal. Even if one were a criminal, we
are often inundated with ‘anybody is assumed to be innocent
until proven otherwise’. I did not see that in practice at Barub
Barracks.
In the evening, we bought bread and mineral water
from barracks girls who sold food and drinks. Since
we were handcuffed and fastened to a motorcycle, we
couldn’t move even if we had wanted to. Whatever you
wanted to do, you did it where you were. I remember I
used the bread wrapper to collect my urine. Since we were
tied together we had to change positions for our mutual
comfort. In the wee hours, we saw the JTF come with
many suspects.
We spent the night outside on the cold and bare
ground. This was because the cell was filled to the brim.
In the morning when they opened the cell, the swarm of
people who came out of the cell was unbelievable. Many
came out with bottles of urine and some with plastic bags
containing their excreta.
We were unfastened from the motorcycle in the
morning but we were still handcuffed together. I was less
worried about myself than about my wife because I knew

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that she would be more devastated than I was. But under

such circumstances, I was not in control of myself much
less of anybody else.
The interrogation started in the morning. While we
were seated on bare dusty ground, my car was driven
in by military personnel, and I observed a bullet hole at
the rear end of the car and the rear glass was shattered.
My interrogation was brief while that of Mailafiya was
lengthy, convoluted and done repeatedly. I had written
my statement just like the way I had at the security office.
For me even after a century, the story would not change
because, as Mark Twain said, “If you tell the truth, you don’t
have to remember anything.”
The security agents interrogated us under a tree
outside. They took notes but there was no tape recorder.
At the end of the interrogation I was asked to sign and
thumb print. One of the security agents told me that my
luck was that I had reported the case otherwise nothing
would have exonerated me from the complicity. The
handcuff was removed when I went for interrogation
and we were tied together after the interrogation.
One of the senior officers came later in the day and
asked after me. He then directed the security agents that
they should ensure that they complete the process and
allow me to go home. The manner which the interrogation
and other processes followed suggested that a directive
from above was being obeyed. I was finally released after
5pm. The description of my appearance was simple

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– I wore a pair of white Chinox trousers, had slept on

dusty bare ground in the open, had had no bath, and no
brushing of teeth. And I was psychologically traumatised.
But like Albert Einstein said, “Life is like riding a bicycle. To
keep your balance, you must keep moving.”
One of the things that cushioned my trauma was that
for long I developed a philosophy that I wouldn’t ask why
me? if anything happened to me. Like I said in my booklet,
Recipe for Successful Residency Training, “My belief is that if it’s
not my portion, then whose portion is it? Why someone else’s?”
On my way home, at a time when no-one knew
that I had been released, my phone rang and someone
introduced himself as Mailafiya’s friend. He wanted to
inquire about Mailafiya. I told him that I had just been
released and had been asked to return the next day. I
called my wife on my way home and tried some humour
but it did not work. Charlie Chaplin believes that, “To truly
laugh, you must be able to take your pain, and play with it.”
Many people came to sympathise with me. For the
following three days I visited Barub Barracks with the
CSO, and after that, the visits ended. The first time that I
had visited Barub Barracks after my release, I had wanted
to see Mailafiya but the security said that I could not. So,
throughout the visits I only waved at him when I saw him
and I have not heard about him since then.
It was not until this misfortune happened that I
interpreted a dream that I had had few days before the
incident. I dreamt that my father was extremely unhappy.

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Although he did not utter word, the frown that he wore

was unmistakable. I dreamt occasionally about my father.
In some I just saw him in white clothes, in others he
scolded me but the expression on his face was different
from what you would see on the face of one scolding
another person. It was after this episode that the message
became crystal clear to me. On 13th March 2014, I had
another dream with my father clad completely in white.
The following day, Friday 14th March, insurgents attacked
Giwa Barracks in Maiduguri. To many of us, it was the
worst nightmare ever. I could not relate the dream of my
father in complete white and that black Friday. Few days
after, news of my promotion to reader filtered in. This
was when I again understood the import of that dream.
I learned many lessons from what happened. One of
the lessons that I learnt from this is that some people
who you think are very close to you can appear far away
when you face some challenges in life and others who
you thought were far away can be so close in times of
need. This is also probably what Alphonse de Lamartine
captured when he said, “Grief and sadness knits two hearts
in closer bonds that happiness ever can; and common sufferings are
far stronger than common joy.” Secondly, I learnt not to take
things for granted. Thirdly, I learnt that whatever you
want to do in life, do it right away for if you delay, the
opportunity may not come again.
It is said that every cloud has a silver lining. After that
experience, I promised to give more time to my family as

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I would have just disappeared if someone had decided

to pull a trigger at me during those turbulent moments.
I also promised to be less strict with my children so
that they could enjoy the other side of a father. The
experience also reinforced my belief that when you are
doing what is right, any set back in life is only temporary.
That experience also spurred me to write my first booklet
because I realised that if something had happened to me,
I would have gone to my grave with an idea that I had
conceived but which I had failed to execute. This reminds
me of a Chinese proverb, “The smallest good deed is better
than the grandest of intentions.”
I had also observed some interesting encounters at
Barub Barracks. There was a young military officer who
treated suspects with unbelievable kindness. That officer
is best suited for a humanitarian rather than a military
duty. The other was a barracks girl who had hawked food
and drinks. She treated everybody with the kind of utmost
respect that was unlike a barracks girl. All those who had
come across her had expressed surprise at a rare barracks
girl who was well nurtured and culturally sensitive.
Over one year after the incident, my younger half
brother, being a lawyer, suggested to me that I should give
him the go-ahead to pursue the case of my car which was
still in JTF custody. I told him that I was not interested in
opening old wounds and that he should also forget about
the car. To date I have no idea what eventually happened
to my car.

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There are many questions that are still begging for

answers regarding the whole saga. Some of the things
add up but others do not, and they cannot add up when
evaluated by any discerning mind. It is deliberate that I
have told a story without giving reasons, explanations or
drawing conclusions. Let the reader make out whatever
he or she thinks of the situation. After all, Alan Watts
says, “Muddy water is best cleared by leaving it alone.”
Professor Abdulrahman Tahir and Dr. Bashir Tahir
played decisive roles during the crisis. My older brother
Barrister Babagoni Bukar showed extraordinary concern.
Professor Bala had played the role of an older brother,
teacher and mentor. Dr. Mairiga, as the H.O.D, had
played a role beyond his official call of duty, while my
brother Barrister Musa Bukar helped a great deal during
my trying moments. Dr. (Mrs.) Hadiza A. Usman and Dr.
A.M. Kodiya were with my wife to give her strength. For
some time after, Dr. Kodiya conveyed me from different
destinations to the hospital, a gesture very few people can
do without giving excuses. The prayers of Dr. Usman
Idris Takai and those of my housemaid, Hajiya Khadiza,
are well appreciated. To all these and to others who stood
by us during the dark days, I say thank you. Like John F.
Kennedy said, “We must find time to stop and thank the people
who make a difference in our lives.”
Finally, I would like to end my story with the words of
Frank Herbert, “There is no real ending. It’s just the place where
you stop the story.”

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The car with shattered rear glass and a bullet hole

Out in the cold chained to a motorcycle

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APPENDICES
Appendices

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Appendices

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A Father’s Legacy

326
Appendices

327
A Father’s Legacy

328
Appendices

329
A Father’s Legacy

330
Appendices

331
A Father’s Legacy

332
Appendices

333
A Father’s Legacy

334
Appendices

335
A Father’s Legacy

336
Appendices

337
A Father’s Legacy

338
Appendices

339
A Father’s Legacy

340
Appendices

341
A Father’s Legacy

342
Appendices

343
A Father’s Legacy

344
Appendices

345
INDEX

Abba, Bashir Suleiman 101,105

Abiso, Alkali Umar 18, 259, 260, 261, 262, 263, 265, 266,
268, 274
Abiso, Hajia Fanta 91, 262, 264, 265, 273
Abja, Dr. 235
Abubakar Sa’ad 78
Abubakar, Bobboi Jauro 7, 21
Abubakar, General Abdulsalam 201
Achebe, Chinua 34, 85,106
Adamawa state 20, 57, 75,81,82, 95, 104, 284
Adichie, Chimamanda 214
Agada, Captain Joe 157
Ahmadu Bello University, Zaria 7, 83, 84, 103
Ahmed, Abdulkadir 114
Akunyili,Prof.Dora 55
Aliyu, Bashiru 125
Alkali(s) 39, 40, 41, 42, 44, 45
Almajirai 1, 43, 44, 46, 58
Alzheimer’s disease 93
Ambe, Professor J. P. 290
Anaesthesia 190

347
A Father’s Legacy

Angelou, Maya 211

Annual Scientific Conference and AGM 250, 252
Arrah 257
Arab, Dr. M. A. 245
Arabic Teachers’ College, Song 32, 57, 75, 80
Aristotle 240
Ash, Mary Kay 123
Asquith, Margot 243
Asthavale, Pandurang 225
Atkins, Chet 183
Audu, Dr. Bala 186, 187, 189, 207, 208, 212, 223, 224,
231, 240
Awak, Pharmacist Usman 154, 155, 156, 161, 167, 248
Association of Resident Doctors 190
Audu, Professor Bala 20, 247, 317
Auno 40, 41, 45, 46, 47, 57, 79
Autobiography 5
Awolowo, Chief Obafemi 79
Babangida, General Ibrahim Badamosi 113
Bagomna 265
Baide 301, 302, 303, 304, 305, 306, 308
Balami, Dr. Wapada 145
Balla, Hajiya Dijatu 11, 20
Bama 19, 46, 47, 145, 174, 176, 179, 259, 265, 273, 284
Bama Emirate Council 46
Bama General Hospital 175, 271
Bama Local Government 17, 46, 133, 258
Barub Barracks 310, 311, 312, 314, 316

348
 Index

Bello, Dr. Zainab 200

Bisalla, Prof.Ekele 195
Bitek P’ Okot 282
Bobzom, Dr. 130
Boko Haram 203, 303, 308
Bolt, Usain 59
Bomb explosions 302
Bono 75
Borno state 19, 32, 37, 40, 46, 48, 50, 90, 99, 109, 128,
147, 173, 259, 284
Borno State Hospital Management Board 130, 173
Borno State Hotels 235
Borno State Government 18, 122
Borno State Medical Students 129
Browning, Elizabeth Barrett 245
Buhari, Muhammadu General (rtd) 248
Bukar, Alkali Shettima 43, 47, 60
Bukar, Alhaji Umar 18, 122, 123, 128, 249, 262, 264, 270,
273, 283, 284
Bukar, Umar 38
Bukar, Barr. Babagoni 18, 135, 264, 272, 273, 283, 317
Bukar, Mallam Abdullahi 17, 57, 61, 66, 82
Bukar, Shettima 235, 264, 272
Bukar, Zara 264
Caesarean 159
Camus, Albert 302
Cardiology 175
Carlyle, Thomas 293, 294

349
A Father’s Legacy

Carnegie, Andrew 89
Carnegie, Dale 153
Carson, Dr. Ben 30, 282
Central Bank 114
Chama, Prof. C. M. 242
Chaplin, Charlie 314
Chase, James Hadley 115
Chigger 113
Child education 30
Childhood 37, 38, 51, 55, 60, 62, 67, 70
Children 44, 47, 49, 52, 56, 66, 68, 69, 71, 263
Churchill, Winston 253
College of Medical Sciences 125
College of Medicine 127
Community Bank 161
Community health officer 168
Consultant 185, 197, 204, 205, 207, 211, 212, 214, 225,
242, 246, 289
Corper doctor 160
Dahiru, Dr. Adamu 20, 222, 225
Danburam, Dr. Ali 221, 225
Dana, John Cotton 229
Dark days 317
Darwin, Charles 151
Dawson, Christopher 115
Dogo, Professor Dili 131, 132, 231, 246, 247
Eid El fitr 69, 110
Eid El Kabir Sallah 69, 111

350
 Index

Einstein, Albert 134, 314

El-Kanemi Hall 130
El-Nafaty, Dr. 185, 194, 196, 206, 240
El-Rufai, Nasir 29, 214
Emerson, Raiph Waldo 139
Enahoro, Peter 291, 292
Enugu 166, 251, 252, 253
Examination 188, 189, 190, 195, 200, 203, 205
Father 17, 31, 42, 49, 50, 62, 63, 70, 75, 76, 77, 89, 90,
95, 97, 104, 110, 111, 112, 159, 160, 161, 197, 249,
259, 260, 261, 262, 263, 264, 265, 266, 267, 268,
269, 270, 271, 273, 274, 275, 280, 283, 284, 314,
315, 316
Federal Medical Centre, Gombe 19, 20, 174, 179, 183,
284
Federal Medical Centre, Nguru 223
Federal Medical Centre, Yola 20, 207, 221
Fellowship Training, Gombe 33
Formative years 32, 37
Freud, Sigmund 212
Friend 19
Fulani 78, 258
Funeral 274
Gajere, Dr. Danladi 173
Gamargu 258
Gambo, Goni 261, 262, 267
Gana, Alhaji Ismaila 202
Ganeson, P.C 292

351
A Father’s Legacy

Garuwa 60
Gashaka Local Government Area 48, 83, 86
Gates, Bill 293
Gatugel, Hamidu 81
Gembu 17, 18, 38, 40, 45, 46, 49, 51, 58, 59, 65, 66, 69,
70, 71, 72, 75, 77, 78, 79, 80, 81, 82, 84, 85, 86, 89,
90, 91, 92, 95, 97, 102, 104, 106, 110, 111, 113, 114,
121, 122, 123, 125, 127, 128, 144, 147, 155, 215,
216, 222, 261, 262, 265, 268, 269, 272, 279, 280,
281, 282
Girei, Abubakar Usman 70
Green, Robert 101, 230
Goggo 275
Goleman, Daniel 271
Gombe 19, 20, 21, 33, 104, 174, 179, 183, 201, 215, 217,
247, 248, 291
Gombe, Dr. Ali 183, 185, 193, 194, 201, 291
Gongola state 57, 75, 76, 80, 81, 82, 103
Good Samaritan 44, 45, 157
Gracian, Baltasar 208, 239
Guduf 20, 257
Guduf, Dr. 191, 206
Guinness Book of Records 60
Gunshot 302, 308
Gwaja 260
Gwoza 17, 18, 90, 91, 102, 125, 259
Ha’ram day 61
Habib, Alkali Mohammed Tijjani 18, 261

352
 Index

Haley, Alex 41, 133

Halilu, Ahmed 56, 188
Halilu, Musa 12, 56, 123, 128, 135, 216, 279, 280
Hambagda 259
Hammadikko, Alhaji Saidu 76
Herbert, Frank 317
Hill, Napoleon 178
Hitchcock, Alfred 289
Holtz, Lou 238
Hospital 140, 146, 156, 159, 161, 163, 164, 165, 168, 176,
178, 185, 186, 194, 195, 198, 231, 232, 239, 247,
299, 304, 309, 317
House officers 139, 141, 144, 145, 193, 194, 195, 196,
197, 198, 199, 212, 250
Hubbard, Elbert 244
Huxley, Aldous 209
Ibadan 10, 199, 200, 203, 250
Ibrahim, Alhaji Awwal 212
Imam, Yahaya 71, 84, 97, 281, 282
Imam, Shehu 84, 85
Islamic cleric 261
Islamic education 267
Jain, Chandra Mohan 196
Jauro, Mallam Sani 202
Jigila 102, 257
Jim, Rohn 173, 176
Joda, Ahmed 43
Joint Task Force (JTF) 308

353
A Father’s Legacy

Jos 145
Jos University Teaching Hospital 185, 190
Kaduna 188
Kano 145, 147, 151
Kanuri 109, 262
Kara, Ahmed 123, 124, 127, 201
Kara, Babale 83, 84
Karimu, Alkali 40, 42, 45, 47
Kashim Ibrahim Hall 279
Katsina-Ala 155
Keller, Helen 221
Kennedy, John F. 317
Khalil, Professor 232
Kilba 281
Kizaya, Dr. Donatus 9, 183, 184, 185, 187, 205
Kodiya, Dr. A. M. 9, 130, 203, 245, 317
Kukah, Matthew Hassan 34, 234
Kumba 257
Kunta kinte 41
Laboratory 157, 160
Labour 158, 177
Lagos 160, 161, 170, 188, 189, 266, 294
Lamartine de Alphonse 315
Lamido’s palace 76
Lecturer 196, 232, 233, 234
Lee, Bruce 37
Leme 269
Lincoln, Abraham 226

354
 Index

Liaison officer 139

Mahadi, Prof. Abdullahi 7, 21, 41, 259, 261
Mai, Dr. 221
Maiduguri 47, 48, 122, 147, 151, 152, 174, 175, 178, 189,
212, 222, 224, 225, 226, 235, 237, 238, 249, 250,
252, 262, 263, 271, 272, 273, 274, 284, 290, 294,
302, 303, 304, 315
Mailafiya 301, 303, 304, 305, 308, 309, 310, 312, 313, 314
Mairiga, Dr. 240, 317
Malcolm X 133
Mallam 54, 56, 66, 109, 133, 134, 202, 266
Mallam, Alhaji Kaka 18, 102, 122, 260, 266, 267
Mambilla Plateau 17, 21, 37, 86, 114
Mammadu, Auno 47
Maman Abdul 214
Maman Jummai 102
Maman Sam 248
Mamman, Usman 121
Mandela, Nelson 121, 192, 213, 261, 274
Mansur, Chief, Alhaji Mohammadu 68, 70, 111, 260
Mansur, Shuaibu 49, 57
Marriage 135
Marwa, Brigadier Gen. Mohammed 32, 128
Marwa House 141
Maslow, Abraham H. 300
Mason, John 92, 292
Maternal and child health 309
Matuva 258

355
A Father’s Legacy

Mayun, Dr. Ahmed 20, 125, 127, 214, 229, 231, 232
Mazrui, Ali 45
Mecca 77, 187, 265
Medical and Dental Consultants’ Association of Nigeria
(MDCAN) 239
Medical officers 222, 271
Medical Partnership Initiative in Nigeria 294
Medical student 158, 232
Michika Local Government Area 82
Mileski, Dr. 144
Modibbo Adama College, University of Maiduguri, Yola
campus 125
Modibbo, Ibrahim 105, 106, 121
Mohammed, Dr. Ibrahim S. 20
Montaigne, Michel de 279
MOPOL 71
Mother 40, 41, 46, 62, 63, 64
Mother-in-law 56, 281, 284
Msheliza, Dr. 19, 184, 188
Mubi 102, 260, 268
Muktar, Umar 82, 222
Mumuye 60
Murphy, Edward 48
Musa, Alhaji Song 77, 78, 79, 86
Muslim Student Society 105
Mustapha, Dr. Zainab 144, 145
Nagarjuna 46
Nakowa Specialist Hospital 174

356
 Index

NAFDAC 66
National Assembly Clinic, Abuja 20
National Eye Centre, Kaduna 188
National Postgraduate Medical College 208, 247, 253
National Youth Service Corp 284
Neurosurgeons 31
Ngemda 56
Nguroje 280
Nin, Anais 286
Nostradamus 97, 98
Nurul-Ulum Primary School 54, 63
Nyanbon, Jonathan D. 113, 114
Nziga 257
Obama, Barack 29, 31, 200
Obstetrics and gynaecology 183, 198, 206, 237
Ogugu 19, 32, 153, 154, 155, 156, 157, 162, 164, 165, 166,
167, 168, 169, 284
Ojebode, Dr. Ayo 10, 29
Okolie, Dr. Henry 208
Okpo 155, 166
Okpo Cottage Hospital 153
Olubenga, Dr. Aina 174, 274
Omigbodun, Professor A. 188
Onuaha, Mr. Sylvanus 169
Onyewotu, Professor 131
Optometrist 152
Osuwagau, Reverend Sister (Dr.) 156, 166, 167
Parents 51, 196, 197, 215, 257, 258, 266, 276, 280, 281

357
A Father’s Legacy

Pascal, Blaise 225

Pasricha, Neil 296
Pindiga, Professor 202, 224
Primary school 37, 38, 55, 56, 63, 68, 90
Pulaku 78
Quranic education 57, 266
Rabasa, Dr. Adamu 235
Ramadan 69, 70
Reagan, Ronald 93
Residency training 199, 213, 222, 229, 249, 290, 291
Resident doctors 289, 290, 295
Role model 31
Roosevelt, Eleanor 197
Roosevelt, Franklin D. 244
Rural hospital 176
Russell, Bertrand 302
Saidu, Dr. Abubakar 247, 248
Sakaka, Bapetel 134, 135, 279
Salem, Kam 266
Salihu, Ya’u 55
Sallah celebration 59, 110
Sangaya system 58
Sardauna Hill 114
Secondary school 19, 57, 66
Serti, Gashaka 48, 83
Shakespeare 58, 225, 308
Shaw, George Bernard 29
Shehu, Professor Umar 132

358
 Index

Shettima, Mamman 45, 46

Sokoto 135, 174
Song 75, 76, 77, 78, 79, 80, 85, 89, 222
Specialist Hospital, Gombe 183, 186, 212
Specialist Hospital, Maiduguri 139, 141, 144, 145
Spinoza, Baruch 245
Stephen, Mr. 48
Surgery 222
Tahir, Dr. Bashir 241, 242, 317
Tahir, Professor Abdulrahman 240, 317
Takai, Dr. Usman Idris 317
Talle, Dr. M.A. 20, 175, 245
Taraba state 48, 82, 86, 99, 272
Teacher’s Training College, Mubi 103, 268
Television 68
Templar, Richard 286, 292, 299
Thambo, Oliver 274
The Accidental Public Servant 29
Tutu, Desmond 157, 257
Twain, Mark 313
Ultra-sound 166, 174, 178, 224
Umar, Dr. Alkali 12, 20
University 196, 229, 233, 234, 236, 237, 250, 289, 294
University Council 238
University of Ilorin Teaching Hospital 188
University of Maiduguri 20, 121, 124, 125, 130, 224, 246,
264
University of Maiduguri Teaching Hospital 48, 190, 225,

359
A Father’s Legacy

272, 273
Usman, Dr. (Mrs.) Hadiza A. 132, 242, 317
Usman, Dr. Abdulrahman 173
Vaginal hysterectomy 202, 205
Varma, Professor 127
Wakil, Dr. Mercy 145
Warabe 21, 257, 258
Watts, Alan 317
West Africa College of Surgeons 195, 202
West African Fellowship 253
Western education 33, 82,266,267,268
Wife 19, 33, 155, 165, 166, 167, 174, 175, 178, 179, 194,
201, 215, 216, 224, 230, 237, 259, 281, 284, 285,
312, 314, 317
World Health Organisation 33
World Medical Association 167
Wukari Local Government Area 82
Wuro Ardo Primary School 57
Yahaya, Dr. U.R. 200, 204
Yawo 59, 264
Yerima, Dr. 20
Yerima, Sule 129, 135, 139, 151, 152, 174, 184, 190, 214,
216, 218, 273
Yola 20, 33, 75, 76, 80, 84, 85, 86, 208, 209, 222, 223, 224,
225, 284
Yousafzai, Malala 30
Yusuf, Alhaji Imam 76, 84
Zalidva 264

360
 Index

Zara 262
Zari 257
Zigler, Zig 241,285
Zubairu, Alhaji Ndotti 97

361