Governor Abdullahi Sule of Nasarawa State deserves credit for reopening one of Northern Nigeria’s most uncomfortable conversations. His call on the National Assembly and Northern governors to enact legislation curbing the Almajiri system is more than a policy proposal; it is an acknowledgement that one of the region’s oldest educational traditions has become one of its greatest development challenges. By linking the Almajiri phenomenon to the alarming number of out-of-school children, poverty, youth vulnerability and insecurity, he has challenged Nigerians to confront a fundamental question: can a nation build a competitive future while millions of its children remain outside meaningful education?
The scale of the challenge is sobering. Current Federal Government education reforms estimate that Nigeria has about 18.3 to 20 million out-of-school children, the highest populations anywhere in the world, with the overwhelming majority concentrated in Northern Nigeria. Recognising the centrality of the Almajiri challenge, the Federal Ministry of Education has begun integrating Tsangaya reforms into its national strategy for reducing out-of-school children.
The instinct to legislate is understandable. Every responsible society must protect children from exploitation. Yet legislation alone is an inadequate response to what is essentially a crisis of governance, human capital and the social contract. Before Nigeria outlaws Almajiranci, it must understand what it seeks to abolish. Is it an ancient Islamic educational tradition that produced generations of scholars across West Africa, or the modern distortion of that tradition, which has reduced thousands of children to street begging in the name of education? Mistaking one for the other risks producing bad law from good intentions.
Historically, Almajiranci was never synonymous with child begging. The word Almajiri, derived from the Arabic al-Muhajir, refers to one who migrates in search of knowledge. Across the Kanem-Borno Empire and later the Sokoto Caliphate, young pupils travelled to study under respected Islamic scholars in systems sustained by communities through charity and endowments. These schools nurtured scholarship, discipline and moral character. Children were not abandoned to fend for themselves.Â
What exists today is the collapse of that order. Colonial disruption weakened indigenous institutions; urbanisation eroded communal responsibility, while population growth, poverty, insecurity and decades of inadequate investment in public education transformed a respected educational institution into a coping mechanism for impoverished households. The modern Almajiri crisis is therefore less a failure of religion than a failure of governance. The numbers reinforce this conclusion. Nigeria’s National Multidimensional Poverty Index shows that 67.5 per cent of Nigerian children are multidimensionally poor, while 51 per cent of all poor Nigerians are children. Poverty among children exceeds 90 per cent in parts of the North-East and North-West, precisely the regions where the Almajiri phenomenon is most prevalent.
The irony is that Northern Nigeria itself once demonstrated a different path. Under the leadership of the late Ahmadu Bello, education was treated as the cornerstone of regional development. Through the Northern Regional Government, institutions such as the Northern Nigeria Development Corporation and the Ahmadu Bello University symbolised an ambition to build human capital alongside economic growth. While access to education remained uneven, the policy direction was unmistakable: lasting prosperity would be built through learning and institutional development. Today’s challenge is therefore not to invent a new philosophy, but to recover that developmental vision and adapt it to contemporary realities.
This distinction is crucial because Islam neither prescribes child neglect nor glorifies organised begging. The first revelation of the Qur’an was Iqra – “Read” – affirming the centrality of knowledge. The Prophet Muhammad (peace be upon him) described the pursuit of knowledge as obligatory, while the objectives of Islamic law emphasise the protection of life, intellect, dignity and family. A system that leaves children hungry, vulnerable and deprived of holistic education contradicts these principles.
Equally misleading is the tendency to frame the issue primarily as one of security. While poorly educated and economically vulnerable youths are susceptible to criminal recruitment, insecurity is merely the visible consequence of a much deeper developmental failure. The child begging at a traffic intersection is not first a security threat; he is first a child failed by family, community and state. Criminalising the child or even the institution that produced him, without addressing the conditions that sustain his vulnerability merely relocates the problem.
Political philosophers Thomas Hobbes, John Locke and Jean-Jacques Rousseau argued that government derives its legitimacy from a social contract through which citizens receive protection and essential public goods, foremost among them education. When millions of children remain outside school because of poverty and institutional neglect, that contract is fundamentally broken. This resonates with the late Professor Peter Ekeh’s theory of the “Two Publics,” which explains why families continue to trust traditional Qur’anic institutions while confidence in state education remains fragile. Children thus fall between two systems, one preserving tradition, the other failing to deliver universal education. This is why legislation alone cannot drive reform. Nigeria already has laws against child labour, trafficking and exploitation, yet they remain ineffective where institutions are weak. Laws matter, but they succeed only when backed by quality schools, social protection and accountable governance. A child cannot be legislated into a classroom that does not exist.
The constitutional basis for reform already exists. Sections 17 and 18 of the 1999 Constitution commit the state to expanding educational opportunities and combating illiteracy, while the Child Rights Act places the best interests of the child at the centre of public policy. Whether viewed through constitutional law, Islamic ethics or sound governance, the conclusion is identical: allowing children to survive through begging under the guise of education is incompatible with Nigeria’s legal and moral obligations.
Fortunately, Nigeria is not the first country to confront this challenge. Indonesia integrated its Pesantren into the national education system, combining Qur’anic studies with science, mathematics and vocational education. Malaysia modernised its Tahfiz schools through accreditation and curriculum reform, while Morocco and Senegal strengthened traditional Islamic schools without destroying their religious identity. These examples demonstrate that the choice is not between faith and modern education.
The economic argument is overwhelming. Every serious development economist agrees that human capital, not oil, minerals or land, is the foundation of long-term prosperity. UNICEF estimates that two out of every three Nigerian children experience multidimensional poverty, lacking combinations of quality education, healthcare, nutrition, clean water or protection. Such deprivation is not merely a humanitarian concern; it is a direct constraint on Nigeria’s future productivity and competitiveness.
Too often, Almajiri children are viewed either as objects of charity or potential security threats. They are neither. They are national assets whose potential is being wasted. Every naira invested in educating a vulnerable child yields greater long-term returns than billions later spent combating crime, insecurity and violent extremism.Â
The persistence of the Almajiri phenomenon reflects a political economy of poverty. Poor families see traditional Qur’anic schools as one of their few options. Many Mallams themselves struggle with limited resources. Governments frequently respond to the consequences of educational failure as security emergencies instead of addressing their developmental roots. The result is a vicious cycle in which poverty produces educational exclusion, exclusion fuels unemployment, unemployment feeds insecurity, and insecurity deepens poverty.
Governor Sule’s proposal should therefore become the beginning of a broader national compact on child development. Qur’anic schools should be registered, supported and integrated into national education policy through minimum standards for child welfare and the inclusion of literacy, numeracy, science, digital skills and vocational education. At the same time, school feeding programmes, conditional cash transfers and targeted support for poor families should reduce the economic pressures that push children onto the streets, while traditional institutions reclaim the communal responsibility that once sustained Almajiranci with dignity. This aligns with the Federal Government’s emerging strategy, which includes Tsangaya teacher training, curriculum integration and a national framework for Almajiri and out-of-school education, recognising that sustainable reform lies in integration rather than abolition.
Legislation remains necessary, but it must be carefully targeted. The law should criminalise child abandonment, organised begging, trafficking and abuse, not Islamic education. It should punish exploitation, not faith; neglect, not culture. Only such an approach will command public confidence and avoid unnecessary religious polarisation.
Ultimately, the Almajiri debate is not about Islam, nor is it solely about Northern Nigeria. It is about the kind of nation Nigeria seeks to become. A country that abandons millions of children cannot credibly pursue economic transformation or national security. A country that invests in every child’s education, regardless of birthplace or religion, lays the strongest foundation for sustainable development.
The true legacy of this debate should not be that Nigeria outlawed Almajiranci. It should be that Nigeria rescued a noble educational tradition from decades of neglect, ended the exploitation of children in the name of learning, and rebuilt the broken social contract between the state and its youngest citizens. That would honour both the spirit of Islamic scholarship and the promise of the Nigerian Constitution. More importantly, it would affirm a timeless truth: the measure of a nation is not the wealth of its elite, but the future it secures for its children.
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John Onyeukwu, is a lawyer and public policy analyst with interdisciplinary expertise in law, governance, and institutional reform. He holds an LL.B (Hons) from Obafemi Awolowo University, an LL.M from the University of Lagos, and dual master’s degrees in Public Policy from the University of York and Central European University. He also earned a Mini-MBA. John has managed development projects on governance, public finance, civic engagement, and service delivery. He can be reached on john@apexlegal.com.ng
Almajiranci at the Crossroads