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The Nation Builders Initiative, Plot 1436, Gaida Cikin Gari, Kumbotso (2026)

04/04/2026

They went out to beg. They came back in body bags.

On March 16, 2026, a su***de bomber killed four young Almajirai in Maiduguri. Their teacher, Ibrahim Goni, told Trust TV: "I wasn't myself for days."

This is not an isolated tragedy. It is a pattern.

Maitatsine – 4,000+ dead in Kano, 1980.
Boko Haram – tens of thousands dead, 2009–present.

Both movements recruited heavily from the Almajiri system. Neglected children. Uneducated. Angry. Easily weaponised.

One former Almajiri, now a Christian, admitted: "I don't give them a kobo. Any kindness to them is training your own killers." He infiltrated the system and saw how easily it can be corrupted.

If a non-Muslim can walk into any Tsangaya and sway a Mallam with money, how many have already done so?

This is not about blaming Islam. It is about protecting children – and our nation.

We have a choice: reform the Almajiri system, or keep burying the victims.

Read the full story. Share it. Act.

Here: https://nationbuildersmag.blogspot.com/2026/04/Almajirci-stop-Nigeria-time-bomb.html

24/03/2026

*How Airtel, MTN smoke lives out of Nigerians*

You can imagine how you would feel if your nose and mouth were shut forcefully with a pillow by an attacker. Your soul would feel like it was departing—from your legs, to your stomach, through your neck, out of your head, and up to heaven.

This is exactly what telecommunications companies like Airtel and MTN are doing to Nigerians. Slowly. Systematically. With impunity.

*The collapse*
Starting from Sunday, March 15, 2026, my Airtel line began to stutter. It would connect intermittently—a message here, a notification there—then fade into silence. I assumed it was a temporary glitch. By Monday, it was gone completely.

No WhatsApp. No email. No access to the websites I rely on for work.

By Wednesday, March 18, it became clear that this was not a glitch. It was a collapse.

I borrowed my wife's MTN line to get back online. It worked—but not perfectly. Calls dropped. Data fluctuated.

I tried to port my Airtel line back to MTN. The local operator told me I would have to visit MTN's office. I did not have time. I tried to buy and register a new MTN line. The operator himself was suffering from network fluctuations and could not complete the registration.

I am a writer. I coordinate a civic initiative. I run a school. My work happens online. For seven days, Airtel shut me out of my own life.

And I am not alone. Friends, colleagues, and strangers around me were complaining about the same thing. Airtel data is dead. MTN struggling. Glo—long ineffective in the North—nowhere to be found.

*The pattern*
This did not happen overnight.
Between 2015 and 2016, MTN had skirmishes with the Nigerian Communications Commission and the Federal Ministry of Communications over unregistered SIM cards. They paid a fine of ₦330 billion. After that, their network developed nausea. Calls became so bad that many Nigerians—myself included—ported their lines to Airtel.

For years, Airtel rewarded that loyalty with clear calls and stable data. I didn't give a hoot about MTN. So far, I could make calls clearly, and I was fine. Moreso, at that point in time, Airtel's data connectivity was also spotless. So why should I complain?

But somewhere along the line, the reward became a trap.
For months, I noticed that come Friday evenings, Airtel data would freeze. Saturdays were a write-off. Sunday mornings were shaky. By Sunday afternoon, it would return. I learned to work around it—publishing articles late Saturday nights, trusting that my readers would find them in the morning.

I called it a cheat code. I was adapting to a system that was slowly strangling me.
The freeze was inconvenient but manageable. The five-day blackout was something else entirely.

*The choke*
Now, here is what I want you to understand.

Nigerians make fewer calls and send fewer SMS nowadays. We chat, send pictures and voice notes, make audio and video calls, do businesses and much more online. We use our data connectivity to read news, stories, listen to music, watch movies, skits, and shorts.

Most of our lives—just like others elsewhere in the world—are online-based.

The telcos know this. Sensing that revenues from calls and text messages have dried up, they jacked up the costs of data, calls, and text messages. But even with the price hikes, Nigerians were still able to bear the costs. Our social and business lives online continued.
But now they have found a new weapon: deliberate network collapse.

Airtel calls are still clear. But the data—the thing Nigerians now depend on for everything—has become unreliable. The Friday freeze was the warning. The five-day blackout is the reality.

*The system*
I switched to my wife's MTN line, hoping for relief. What I found was a different flavour of the same problem.

MTN data fluctuates. Calls are poor. The local operator who tried to help me register a new line was himself caught in the network's instability. And Glo, the indigenous network that once promised competition, has long been ineffective in the North.

This is not a story about one bad network. This is a story about an oligopoly that has captured the sector. Nigerians have few choices. And those choices are all broken in their own ways.

*The cost*
For five days, I was offline. In that time:
* I missed opportunities I cannot calculate.
* I lost connections I cannot rebuild.
* I delayed work that had deadlines.
* I spent hours troubleshooting, visiting operators, borrowing my wife's line, trying to find a way back online.

The telcos will not compensate me for this time. They will not apologise. They will not even acknowledge it. They will wait for me to accept this as normal. They will wait for all of us to accept it.

*The questions*
So I ask:
* What should Nigerians do to get out of this conundrum?
* What homegrown solutions can we work on?
* Airtel, why are your calls crystal clear but your data dead for five days?
* MTN, why are you still fluctuating after all these years?
* Glo, why have you abandoned the North?
* What should the Nigerian government do to protect consumers from an industry that treats us as captives?
* Why does the Nigerian Communications Commission have no teeth?

For over seven days now, my Airtel line has been dead. I am using my wife's MTN line. Can you imagine the cost of the missed opportunities? Can you calculate the time stolen from my life?

I am back online now, using my wife's MTN line. But I am still waiting for my Airtel line to return. I am still waiting for a system that works. I am still waiting for someone to tell me why five days of silence is acceptable.

I will not wait forever.

*Faruk Ahmed is Coordinator of The Nation Builders Initiative (TNBI) and Head of School at Barkalheri Global Academy, Kano*

22/03/2026

Imagine your nose and mouth being shut with a pillow by an attacker. That’s exactly how I felt when my Airtel line went completely dark for five days—no data, no calls, no explanation.

I’m a writer, a teacher, and a coordinator of a civic initiative. My work lives online. For five days, Airtel shut me out of my own life. And I’m not alone.

I wrote about the collapse, the silence, and the questions we should be asking:

Why are calls clear but data dead?

Why does the NCC have no teeth?

How many days offline will it take before someone answers?

Read the full story here 👇
https://nationbuildersmag.blogspot.com/2026/03/airtel-mtn-smoke-lives-Nigerians.html

Have you experienced this too? Tell your story in the comments.

22/03/2026

Eid Mubarak from The Nation Builders Initiative (TNBI).

We are grateful for the blessings of Ramadan and for every hand that has helped us move closer to our goal: *a future where every Almajiri child can read, write, and thrive.*

May these moments bring peace to your homes and renewed strength to our shared mission.

Eid Mubarak, Nigeria.

— Faruk Ahmed, Coordinator TNBI

15/03/2026

*How almajirci could become the next banditry*

By Faruk Ahmed

On December 24, 2016, I climbed into an Audi 4x4 at Kwanar Dawaki motor park in Kano. The driver was a soldier returning from the Sambisa battleground. The seats were cushy. Music blared. Cool air hit my face. I thought I was riding to heaven.

I was heading to my hometown, Jattu in Edo State, for a cousin's wedding. The park was chaotic with Christmas travellers, and fares had skyrocketed. Then this soldier appeared, heading to Akwa Ibom, offering rideshare. He would pass close to my destination. I did my due diligence, paid, and hopped in.

There were already four passengers. I became the fifth.

Three days later, I was still on the road.

The car broke down constantly. We spent hours fixing it. The soldier could barely drive. At some point past Abuja, I took the wheel and drove us most of the way to Akwa Ibom. (How I ended up in Akwa Ibom instead of Edo is a story for another day.)

But the worst nightmare came somewhere past Lokoja.

Night had fallen. We approached a checkpoint. Before I could slow down, our driver bolted out of the car and vanished into the darkness.

Then came the shouts: "Ku sauka! Ku sauka!!" — Get down! Get down!

Slaps. Kicks. Guns.

We were being robbed by fake soldiers.

The robbery happened a stone's throw from a real police checkpoint we had just passed. When our driver finally reached them and begged for help, they did not move until morning. By then, the robbers had taken everything—our phones, our money, our watches, our dignity.

I lost count of how many times we were searched, how many small bribes we paid at checkpoints along the way. But one thing stayed with me long after I finally reached home:

The robbers spoke Fulani.

*The prophecy*

Exactly one year earlier, in November 2015, I had written an article titled: "Cattle Rustlings: The making of new 'Boko Haram'."

I had travelled to Falgore Forest on the outskirts of Rano Town in Kano State. There, I met Alhaji Jibrin, a Fulani herdsman in his sixties. He had lost 80 cows in a single night. His two sons lost 60 and 40 respectively. Armed bandits had stormed their settlement, shot sporadically, and driven away over a thousand cattle before disappearing into the forest.

"Over 1000 cows have been rustled from Fulani herdsmen," Alhaji Usman Usman, National Chairman of APC Fulani Nationwide, told me then. "About 17 Fulani herdsmen killed." He fumed at the government's indifference.

I wrote then:

"The cattle rustlers are emboldened when authorities turn blind eyes. That is a lesser evil. But the kegs of gunpowder waiting to explode are the deprived cattle owners.

"Fulani herdsmen marry early and bear many children. By 18, a boy is already a man. He is given cattle to rear, multiply, and sustain his family. When his children come of age, the cycle continues.

"Majority of Fulani are barely educated—neither Islamic nor western. So when they are robbed of their cattle, they have nothing to fall back to.

"When the desirable is not available, you make the available desirable. But you can only teach when you are learned. The Fulani are scarcely learned. So what do they turn to? Nothing. And that is the bubble about to burst."

I did not know then what shape that bursting would take. But by 2016, I had met them on that dark road past Lokoja. By 2020, banditry and kidnapping had become the order of the day across the Northwest and Northcentral. And today, everyone knows who the perpetrators are.

I am not a prophet. I was just paying attention.

*The connection*

Here is what I learned from that journey and the years that followed:

When you strip a man of his livelihood—and give him nothing to replace it—he will find a way to survive. When you deny him education, you deny him options. When you deny him options, you leave him only one door: crime.

The Fulani herdsmen whose cattle were rustled did not become bandits because they were evil. They became bandits because they were empty. No skills. No education. No hope. And a nation that refused to see them created the monsters it now fears.

Every checkpoint we passed on that road, every bribe we paid, every official who looked away—they were all part of the system that produced those robbers. The police who refused to move until morning were not just lazy. They were symptoms.

*The almajiri parallel*

Now look at the almajiri child.

Hundreds of thousands of boys, scattered across Northern streets. No literacy. No numeracy. No skills. No one teaching them that they have worth. Their parents have abandoned them. Their Mallams cannot feed them. Their government does not see them.

They beg because they have no choice. They are beaten when they fail. They are prey for anyone who offers food, shelter, or belonging.

Sound familiar?

It should. This is exactly where the Fulani herdsmen were fifteen years ago.

*What Nigerians are saying*

I am not the only one seeing this. Read what Nigerians are saying on Facebook.

Kongs Shamaki wrote about Auwal, an eight-year-old from Katsina sent to Jos to become an Almajiri:

"No phone calls, no messages, no visits, zero contact. Every day, he begs for food. He rarely bathes. He has no access to modern education. He is insulted daily. He watches other children with their parents and cries. Everyone looks at him and turns away.

“Tomorrow, when he grows up, everyone will expect him to be moral and peaceful. As it stands, no bill, no plan, no journalism is directed at solving his problem. This is the root cause of rising insecurity."

Paul Luka replied with anger—and painful honesty:

"I don't give them a kobo. Any act of kindness to them is training your own killers. When they come begging, I tell them: 'Should I give you money to buy matches and knives?' I know this system because I was once an Almajiri in Maiduguri."

Habib Muhammad put it simply:

"Poor parenting is breeding bandits, Lakurawa, and Boko Haram. Parents of these children should face the wrath of government."

Read those words again. These are not haters. These are Nigerians who have watched this system for years and seen where it leads.

*The stakes*

Here is the truth no one wants to say aloud:

If we do not fix the Almajiri system—if we do not give these children literacy, skills, dignity, and hope—they will become the next bandits. Not because they are evil. Because they will have no other choice.

The Fulani herdsmen became kidnappers because cattle rustling emptied them. The Almajiri child will become a terrorist because neglect emptied him first.

This is not speculation. This is pattern recognition.

Already, terrorists hide among them. A youth sent to plant bombs in Maiduguri mosques was recently found hiding in an Almajiri school in Damaturu. The bowl becomes a cover for destruction.

And when they come for us—when the Auwals of today become the bandits of tomorrow—we will have no one to blame but ourselves.

*The solution*

That is why a group of us came together.

We are scattered across Kano, Lagos, Abuja, Bauchi, Nasarawa. Some of us are writers. Some are lawyers. Some are teachers. Some are simply citizens who refused to look away.

We call ourselves The Nation Builders Initiative (TNBI) .

We are not waiting for government. We are not writing reports that gather dust. We are building a pilot that adds literacy, numeracy, life skills, and identity education to existing Almajiri schools.

One Malam. One community. One term.

We have a curriculum. We have a literacy specialist refining how we teach—using methods that mirror how these children already learn. We have a team member shaping weekly identity talks, so children know who they are and what they are worth. We have a legal mind willing to review our work.

We also have a respected figure, Prof. MB Sh*tu, who has offered to host the pilot at a school he already supports—where four Almajiri children come to his home daily, fed, cared for, and not begging.

We are small. We are slow. But we are doing.

*The call*

I do not know who will read this. But I know someone out there knows a Malam. Someone out there has resources. Someone out there has been waiting for permission to act.

Consider this your permission.

Support initiatives like ours. Start your own. Talk to the Mallam in your neighbourhood. Feed one child. Teach one child to read. Show one child that they matter.

Because if we do not, the Auwals of today will become the bandits of tomorrow. And when they come for us, we will have no one to blame but ourselves.

I met them on that dark road in 2016. I do not want to meet them again.

If you believe in this work—if you have a lead, a skill, a resource, or simply a prayer—reach out.

*The Nation Builders Initiative (TNBI)*
WhatsApp: 080 3535 4008
Email: [email protected]

*Faruk Ahmed is Coordinator of The Nation Builders Initiative. He passed through the Almajiri system three times. He was robbed by Fulani bandits in 2016. He is now working to ensure the next generation does not have to choose between begging and banditry.*

14/03/2026

I Sold My House So They Could Learn. Now I'm Begging You to Help Me Finish What I Started.

Good day.

My name is Faruk Ahmed. I am the founder of Barkalheri Global Academy.

I am writing this with a heavy heart, but also with hope. Hope that somewhere out there, someone will read this and decide to help us save something precious: the future of 150 children.

I started Barkalheri Global Academy because I believe that every child—no matter how humble their background—deserves a chance to learn, to grow, and to become a leader.

For years, I poured everything I had into this dream. But recently, the dream began to crack.

Our school was struggling. We didn't have enough classrooms. Children were crammed into spaces too small for them. Teachers struggled to teach. Parents worried about the quality of learning.

I looked at the situation and asked myself: "What is more important? My house, or these children's future?"

So I made a decision that shocked even my own family.

I sold my personal house.

With that money, we constructed four new classrooms. They are not fancy. They are made of wood, bamboo sticks, and zinc. But to us, they are palaces. Because today, in those humble structures, teaching and learning are actually happening.

Our students—bright, eager, hopeful—now have a place to sit. Our teachers have a place to stand and shape young minds.

But the fight is not over.

Right now, Barkalheri Global Academy has nine classes in total.

But three of those classes are in a rented space—and we have been ordered to vacate that premises by April 22, 2026.

That is just weeks away.

If we cannot build three additional classrooms before the third term begins, we may have no choice but to shut down.

Imagine telling 150 children: "There is no school for you anymore." Imagine telling their parents—many of whom struggle daily to pay fees, who have seen real improvement in their children, who trust us—that we failed.

I cannot let that happen.

Barkalheri Global Academy is not just a place for children.

In these same humble structures, we run adult education classes for women and men who never had the chance to learn when they were young. We run Islamiyya classes to nurture the spiritual growth of our pupils.

This school has become a community. A family. A beacon.

Just today, a parent asked me: "When will you open an SSS section?"

I smiled and told him we are not there yet. But inside, my heart ached. Because the truth is, we are fighting just to keep what we have.
We are not asking for a palace. We are not asking for marble floors or air-conditioned rooms.

We are asking for three humble classrooms—simple structures made of wood, bamboo, and zinc—so that 150 children do not lose their education.

We have estimated that constructing these three classrooms will cost approximately N1,500,000.

We are not contractors. We are not a big organization. We are just a small school with a big heart and an urgent need.

No amount is too small. Every contribution—whether N1,000 or N100,000—brings us closer to keeping these classrooms open.

You can send your support to:

Union Bank: 0104884844
Account Name: Barkalheri Global Academy

Opay: 8035354008
Account Name: Ahmed Umar Faruk

If you cannot donate, please share this message. Share it on WhatsApp, on Facebook, in your groups. You never know who might see it and decide to help.

I sold my house for these children. I am not saying this to impress you. I am saying it so you understand: I have nothing left to give except my tears and my prayers.

I am now on my knees, asking you—begging you—to help us finish what we started.

Do not let 150 dreams die.

Do not let this school close its doors.

Please. Help us build these three classrooms. Help us keep the lights on. Help us give these children the future they deserve.

"Whoever builds a mosque for Allah, Allah will build for him a house in Paradise." (Bukhari)

This is not a mosque, but it is a place of learning. A place where future leaders are molded. And your support will be a sadaqah jariyah—a continuous charity—that rewards you every single time a child reads, writes, or prays in these walls.

May Allah reward you abundantly. May He open your hearts and your hands. And may He never let this school fail.

With tears and hope,

Faruk Ahmed
Proprietor, Barkalheri Global Academy
080 3535 4008 | 080 2949 4139

08/03/2026

*The bowl, the fear, and the future we keep ignoring*

By Faruk Ahmed

Aisha Salihi saw a photograph that shattered her.

A young boy sat on a dusty street. In his hands, an injury festered—raw, infected, neglected. In his lap, a plastic bowl. The universal symbol of Almajiri existence. A plea for alms. For food. For survival.

She learned why he was injured. He had been sent to beg. When he returned without enough, he was beaten.

"This picture," Aisha wrote, "will haunt me forever."

It should haunt us all.

*The twisted tradition*

The Almajiri system began with noble intentions. Children leaving home to seek Quranic knowledge. Parents entrusting them to Malams. A tradition of scholarship and discipline stretching back centuries.

The very name comes from Al-Muhajirun—those who left Mecca with the Prophet (peace be upon him) in search of knowledge and faith.

But somewhere along the line, the tradition broke.

"It is a name that speaks of a noble, ancient tradition," Aisha writes. "But somewhere along the line, that tradition has been twisted into a nightmare of neglect and abuse."

Today, hundreds of thousands of boys roam Northern streets. Their duty is twofold: to learn and to beg. They must return to their seniors not just with verses memorized, but with food. Enough food. Good food.

And if they fail? If the day is slow? If people are not charitable? If the bowl remains empty?

The price is paid in pain.

"They are beaten," Aisha writes. "Severely. The stick becomes a more frequent teacher than the Qur'an. The lesson it teaches is not of God's mercy, but of the world's cruelty."

*The witness*

Tijani Ibrahim grew up in Kano, the son of a Mallam. He watched Almajiri children from his window—roaming, begging, surviving hand-to-mouth.

As a child, he almost joined them.

One day, he picked up a plate and started to follow. His mother noticed. She stopped him. She kept him inside for days.

"Only Allah saved me," Tijani says now, years later, living in Lagos.

He thinks about the parents who bear children they cannot feed. The Malams who accept more students than they can support. The government that looks away. The society that has normalised the bowl.

"This is not just about the children," he says. "It is about all of us."

*The stolen childhood*

Try to imagine that child.

He isn't thinking of games or friends or the comfort of his mother's embrace. He is thinking of survival. He is calculating how much he needs to avoid the pain. The innocence of childhood is stolen, replaced by the grim mathematics of hunger and fear.

"My heart doesn't just break for these injuries," Aisha writes. "It breaks for the stolen laughter, the lost education, the crushed potential, the love they are desperately missing."

We see them every day. We give them a few naira, a morsel of food, and we pat ourselves on the back for our charity.

But the problem is not a lack of food in their bowls today. It is the system that put the bowl in their hands in the first place.

*The truth we cannot escape*

Zainab Usman, a member of our team, said something that stopped us cold:

"Citizens who were not cared for when they were vulnerable cannot be expected to care for the country that neglected them."

This is not charity talk. This is national security. This is the future.

A child who grows up begging, beaten, and forgotten does not become a patriot. He becomes a recruit. A liability. A wound that infects the whole body.

Terrorists know this. They hide among these children. A youth sent to plant bombs in Maiduguri mosques was recently found hiding in an Almajiri school in Damaturu. The bowl becomes a cover for destruction.

But a child who is fed, taught, and valued? That child becomes a citizen. A contributor. A builder.

*The hypocrisy*

Aisha writes one sentence that cuts deeper than any analysis:

"Meanwhile, none of these Malams send their children to Almajiri school anymore."

They know. They know what the system has become. They know their own children deserve better. And yet the system continues, because it serves someone—just not the children.

*The government's abdication*

Sulaiman Ahmad Dandago, a lecturer with the Aminu Kano College of Islamic and Legal Studies, reflecting on this crisis, pointed to the root:

"The most problematic issue here is from the government. Things must be run by a standard policy. All necessary actions should be at government's hand—not individuals or organizations—because of deceit and corruption."

He is right. The government has abdicated. There is no policy. No oversight. No standards. No penalties for abuse. No rewards for care.

But while we wait for government to act, children are beaten. While policies gather dust, bowls remain empty. While officials meet and deliberate, another child's innocence dies on the street.

We cannot wait any longer.

*The proof of potential*

Ridwanullahi Musa was an Almajiri boy. He begged. He struggled. But he refused to stay there.

He worked. He sponsored himself through school. Today, he is running a successful logistics business for lawyers. When he read our first article, he sent one line: "Thank you for sharing, sir."

He is not alone.

Aliko Dangote passed through this system. Abdul Samad Rabiu did too. So did Gwani Haruna Makoda, now Kano's Commissioner of Education. Sha'aban Ibrahim Sharada, former federal lawmaker. Most of the affluent families across Northern Nigeria have Almajiri roots.

The system produces billionaires and governors—and also produces street children.

The difference is not the system. It is what we add to it, or fail to add.

*What we are building*

A group of Nigerians—scattered across Kano, Lagos, Abuja, Bauchi, Keffi—have come together. We call ourselves The Nation Builders Initiative.

We are not here to abolish Almajirci. We are here to restore it.

- Ibrahim Musa has drafted a curriculum that adds literacy, numeracy, and life skills to Quranic education.
- Keyna Agbo, a literacy specialist, is refining how we teach—using the Jolly Phonics method, which mirrors how children already learn in Quranic school.
- Ahmad Harouna is shaping weekly identity talks, so children know who they are and what they are worth.
- Aisha Salihi, whose words opened this story, wants to help document the journey.
- A university don—connected by a team member—may soon review our work.

We have the plan. We have the people. We have the will.

But we are missing one thing.

*The ask*

We need a Malam. A tsangaya. A community willing to trust us with their children.

We are looking for someone who:

- Runs an Almajiri school anywhere in Nigeria
- Has at least 10–20 children under his care
- Is open to adding something new alongside Quranic education
- Will let us start small—one or two sessions a week

We are not here to criticise Malams. We are here to support them. We know they carry burdens no one sees. We want to lighten that load, not add to it.

Do you know someone?

Maybe the Malam you grew up under. Maybe a tsangaya behind the market in your town. Maybe you pass one every day and never stopped.

Even a vague lead helps. "There is a school behind the mosque in my area" is enough to start.

WhatsApp: 080 3535 4008
Email: [email protected]

Tell us where the school is. Tell us how to reach the Malam. Tell us anything you know.

If you don't have a lead but have a story, share that too. Your perspective matters.

And if you can only offer a prayer, offer it. Ask Allah to guide us to the right person, the right place, the right moment.

*What happens next*

Once we find a Malam willing to talk, we visit. We listen. We explain. We earn trust.

Then we run a pilot. One term. One community. We document everything. If it works, we have a model. If it fails, we learn why.

And when it works—because with the right people, it will—we share it. So that other communities, other Malams, other children can benefit.

*Return to the bowl*

Aisha's photograph still haunts her.

A boy with an injury. A bowl. A future no one is betting on.

But here is what Aisha also knows: that boy could be Ridwan. He could be Dangote. He could be the next person who builds something that feeds a nation.

"This little boy in the picture," Aisha writes, "is not just an Almajiri. He is our son. He is our brother. He is a piece of our collective soul. And his silent cry for help is a test of our own humanity."

We are ready to answer that cry.

Are you?

*Faruk Ahmed is the Coordinator of The Nation Builders Initiative (TNBI), a civic action group focused on accountability, civic renewal, and community development. He passed through the Almajiri system three times. He is now working to make it better for the next generation.*

Connect with TNBI:

· WhatsApp: 080 3535 4008
· Email: [email protected]

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