The Accidental Public Servant

by El-Rufai, Nasir

  Muhammad, and had read virtually every book written on Islamic jurisprudence, so he could

  successfully debate his opponents to a standstill. The seminal work on Sheikh Gumi, by Professor

  Ismaila Tsiga - "Where I Stand" (Spectrum Books) is recommended reading for all those wishing to

  know more about this visionary, complex, yet grossly misunderstood man.

  “Can you read a newspaper?”

  Fortunately, my father’s request that I continue my education was a good fit for my personal

  disposition, as I had always found school easy and excelled as a student. My elder brother Bashir,

  who has continued to be a role model and mentor throughout my life, taught me the English alphabet,

  in our mother tongue, the Hausa language, starting when I was about five years old or so as there were

  no kindergarten or nursery schools in Daudawa. When Bashir returned from school and would leave

  his books to go out, I took his books and started looking at the pictures and copying what I saw. He

  very soon decided it was better to teach me himself for fear that I would ruin his books.

  In January 1967, as was customary with all our father's male children, I was enrolled in class one of

  the Daudawa Primary School. It was the only school within a 10-kilometre radius, and since I already

  knew the alphabet and could read and write, I found it incredibly boring being taught the alphabet.

  Bashir was in class seven, the final year then.[20] We awoke early five days a week to pray, have a

  quick breakfast and trek about three kilometres to be at school by eight o’clock. At around two

  o’clock, we would trek back home in the hot sun just in time for late afternoon prayers.

  I had just commenced Class Two when our father fell ill and I was out of school till he died. In

  addition to setting forth the path of my education, what my father’s death also did was to bring to the

  fore my sense of vulnerability. I moved to Kaduna to be under the legal guardianship of an uncle I did

  not recall meeting before. I had only been to Kaduna once in my life before then, and my mother

  remained in Daudawa, so I had no real mother figure. There was a lot of anger in me and loneliness -

  a feeling of being all on my own, and despite the care and guidance that my uncle and his wife tried to

  provide, I still had the feeling for quite a while that there was no one there for me. It was a difficult

  adjustment in a young boy’s life.

  Somehow, this turbulence did not affect my studies negatively. In fact, in certain ways, it helped me

  focus on them. When I first came to Kaduna in June 1968, my uncle took me to what was to be my

  new school to register, Local Education Authority Primary School in Kawo. We were waiting in the

  office of the headmaster, Mr Julius O. Audu, and I saw that day’s edition o f The New Nigerian – the

  leading newspaper in the north at the time – on his desk. My uncle said it would be okay to read the

  paper but I should put it back as soon as the headmaster returned. I took the paper and became so

  engrossed in reading it that I did not notice the headmaster standing there watching me when he

  returned. My uncle explained that my biological father had just died, that he had assumed the role of

  being my father, and showed the headmaster the transfer certificate which indicated that I was in class

  two. He then asked my uncle my date of birth as this was not indicated in the certificate. My uncle

  replied after a little hesitation - 16th February, 1960. That was how I came to know my birth date,

  which some 40 plus years later, I found to be of doubtful veracity.

  “You were reading my paper. Can you read a newspaper?” asked the headmaster. I said I could. So

  he asked me to read the headlines, which I then did. He then directed me to read the first paragraph,

  which I also did. Of course, my pronunciation was not perfect, but he was impressed with the extent

  to which I could read because the norm for students coming from a village school to a city school was

  to be held back a grade. “You are in class two. My students here do not read newspapers until they

  are in class five. So I am going to promote you to class four. If you do not make it, then I am going to

  bring you back to class three. We’ll see how you do in your first term. If you are unable to be in the

  top 20 in the class” – we had a class of about 40 pupils – “I will have to downgrade you.”

  Joining a class in the middle of the academic year and two full years ahead of where I was supposed

  to be, became a major challenge. Happily, at the end of that term, I placed ninth, so I remained well

  above the level as per the agreement with the headmaster. By the end of Class 4, I placed fifth. When

  I was cured of my love for football after suffering a right arm fracture in a class game, I then spent

  most of my spare time reading everything I could find. Side by side with modern education, I attended

  and excelled in Islamic School five afternoons a week, where I studied the Qu’ran, grasped a bit of

  classical Arabic and learnt the basics of Islamic jurisprudence.

  A Bully Meets his Match

  While my study habits remained intact after my father’s death, my agreeability did not. In addition to

  being without my birth parents in Kaduna, I was also without Bashir to look after me, and being one

  of the smaller students in my class, it was only a matter of time before class bullies came around to

  test me. I never fought with anyone before my father died. His death, coupled with moving to Kaduna

  and being in a new environment, with new parental guardians, new school and no elder brother

  signalled a major shift in how I related to my peers. The first time I fought with anybody I was

  actually blamed. What I realized very quickly was that since nobody was going to stand up for me, I

  had to do it on my own, and if I did not fight back I was just going to become the punching bag of the

  neighbourhood.

  That attitude changed the way I reacted to anyone that attacked me. People had to know that if they

  fought me, I would fight back, and even if they beat me up, I would leave scratches on their faces or

  something even more permanent so that they would remember that even though they won, it came at a

  cost. To be sure, the bigger boys might always beat me up, but I also always made sure they walked

  away with some sort of mark to remember me by. I never thought twice about resisting every bully

  who had a go at me.

  There was only one bully that I fought more than once, a boy in my school named Sunday, who

  eventually dropped out, joined the army and was rumoured to have died in the Nigerian civil war. I

  do not remember what started us fighting, but he was definitely bigger and stronger than I was and had

  no problem beating me up in that first encounter.

  That first night at home nursing my bruises, the matter was probably over and done with to him, but

  for me, all I could think about was what should be done next. The following day, I watched him until

  we went for lunch break. He got his food and started eating. I took some sand in my hands and went

  and poured it on his food. This meant he had no lunch that day, so he beat me up in anger. The next

  day after that, I did the same thing – and the next day, and every day after that.

  Each time I did that he would beat me up because he was bigger and stronger. However, after about

  two weeks, I noticed that he became paranoid. We would break for lunch and he would get his food

  and ru
n over to the football field way out of my sight. Another thing I used to do to Sunday was wait

  until he would be sitting with his friends, relaxed, and I would walk up behind him and smack him on

  the head, and give him a nice surprise beating. He would then turn around to beat me up. But I had the

  element of surprise so I would always get in the first good slap and he could never relax. Eventually

  he reported me to our class teacher that I was fighting him all the time.

  “But how can this small kid be fighting you?” asked the teacher.

  “He is – he is harassing me,” said Sunday.

  Our teacher then took me aside and asked me what was going on.

  “Sunday bullied me.”

  “When?”

  “Two months ago,” I said.

  “Two months ago?!” exclaimed the teacher.

  “Yes.”

  “Nasir, it was two months ago, it is over.”

  “It is not over. He bullied me. The account is not balanced. He beat me up.”

  After some failed attempts to get us to reconcile, the teacher took Sunday and I to the headmaster and

  said she did not know what to do about this, that this tiny boy – that was my nickname, tiny boy – has

  been harassing Sunday. The headmaster looked at us and said, “This is impossible.” Sunday assured

  the headmaster that it was true and went on to tell the story. The headmaster then turned to me and

  asked what happened.

  “He bullied me,” I said.

  “Did you bully him?” the headmaster asked Sunday.

  “Yes we fought, sir,” Sunday replied.

  The headmaster directed Sunday to apologize to me, which he then dutifully did. The headmaster then

  turned to me.

  “He has now said he is sorry. Go now and do not fight anymore.”

  “But sir, he beat me up several times. Sorry? That is it?”

  “Yes! If I see you fighting on school premises, I will deal with you.”

  The moment we got out of school, off the premises, I started fighting Sunday again. This carried on for

  another month. Eventually, his father came to meet my uncle and explained what had been happening.

  My uncle then sent for me.

  “Is this true – you have been fighting with this boy?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he bullied me.”

  “When?”

  “Three months ago.”

  “Three months? You have been fighting for three months?”

  “Yes, on and off.”

  “Ok, this has been settled now. They have come over. Sunday is sorry. His father has talked to me, so

  no more fighting. Do you understand?”

  “I understand. But can I just slap him one last time?”

  . Since many of our school mates knew about this incident, nobody else fought with me afterwards,

  and the only bullies I had to contend with were around town. This incident taught me a tactic that I

  have since found endlessly useful in public life: standing up to bullies is a good way of buying

  permanent peace. As a child I knew that I was not very strong, I was not big, and I would likely lose,

  but if I can give the bully a hard enough time, he would not do it again. Permanent peace comes about

  as the result of a resolute and uncompromising effort to define your position on a matter – and that is

  the way things are.

  Barewa College Days

  Despite my early struggles against bullies, I graduated from elementary school at the top of my class,

  which meant that I could be expected to go to any high school of my choice. I was admitted to the

  Federal Government College in Sokoto, but Mallam Yahaya Hamza, who was my guardian then, felt

  that I was too fragile and of poor temperament to survive in a place as far away as Sokoto. My first

  choice of high school was Government College, Kaduna, because my best friend, Saidu Abdu Jae,

  was then in the second form. But Yahaya Hamza, then the North-Central State [21] Chief Education

  Officer for teacher training and primary schools, ensured my admission into the elite Barewa College

  in Zaria rather than my preferred first choice. I protested to him, but he insisted that he wanted me as

  far as possible from Kaduna because I was getting increasingly involved with the Tariqah sects and

  their interpretations of Islam which he felt could lead to fanaticism. He was specifically concerned

  about my admiration and close affinity to two Islamic teachers - Sheikhs Mamman Fagge and Umaru

  Sanda, both prominent Tijjaniyya clerics in Kaduna. I cried and cried but ended up going to Barewa. I

  remain grateful to him for this decision, which changed the rest of my life in fundamental ways. Our

  parents often know what is best for us as children even if we disagree.

  The impact – my mourning, really – of my father’s death I think finally began to fade away when I

  arrived at Barewa in January 1972. By that point, I had more or less accepted my uncle as my father

  figure, I was developing some other very close friendships and mentorships and Bashir was in

  university then at Ahmadu Bello University in Zaria, the same town where Barewa is located. So

  there was a bit of a support network, which made my life easier. The challenge I faced during my

  elementary school days in Kaduna of feeling there was no one close by that could stand up for me was

  already changing for the better when I got to Barewa.

  A close friend of the Yahaya Hamza family, Mallam Bello Kofar Bai, [22] who was a senior

  education officer and former teacher like Yahaya Hamza, visited from Katsina. He thought that since I

  was a frail little 12-year old and much too small for my age, I needed care and protection, so he

  personally drove me to school. In line with our culture and tradition, he sought out a senior student he

  knew very well – Halilu Kofar Bai, who was a second year Sixth Form student and house captain of

  Nagwamatse House to be my guardian.

  A couple of days after arriving, I reported to the Principal of Barewa College, a scary old British

  soldier and World War II veteran, Mr S. V. Baker. I was assigned to Class 1A and Mallam Smith

  House. I recall being assigned the same day along with Muntari Abdu Kaita to the same class, but he

  went to Lugard House. Halilu in turn handed me over to Sani Maikudi, a fourth form student also from

  Katsina, to be my guardian in Mallam Smith House. Sani was a wonderful and caring guardian. He

  kept my pocket money, collection of books and clothing, while providing guidance and mentoring in

  academic and related matters. I became closer to him than I was with my own siblings and our

  relationship deepened over the years as he became a brother, careers' guide, teacher, adviser and

  later professional partner in our very first quantity surveying consulting business. It was also through

  Sani that I met Umaru Musa Yar'Adua, his cousin and mentor, sometime in 1973.

  Barewa was a parochial school of sorts in which the hierarchy was clear: the second year students

  could send first year students to buy cigarettes (the possession or smoking of which was even against

  the rules!) for them, to get them food from the dining hall, and generally could treat them any way they

  wanted because they were a year older in the college. That was the system. So I learned to be

  obedient to strange people, who were not my brothers or cousins or uncle, that I had just met in

  school. We did not have that in primary school, we would just come, take classes and go back home.

  At Barewa College, we cleaned the toile
ts, washed the clothes of the seniors, ironed them, and bought

  their cigarettes. I still remember the first person to send me to buy cigarettes – he became the head of

  internal security in Nigeria in 2007, Afakirya Gadzama. I once reminded him of that, something he

  had since forgotten and he was slightly embarrassed because we became very good friends. We got

  closer while I was FCT minister and he a senior director at the headquarters of the state security

  service (SSS). Gadzama remained a guide and mentor throughout my four years as FCT Minister and I

  remain grateful for his generosity and belief in my innocence at the height of my persecution by the

  Yar’Adua administration. Afakirya Gadzama was unfortunately retired from service by President

  Goodluck Jonathan, along with several senior directors of the SSS to pave way for the appointment of

  Ita Ekpenyong as Director General. Gadzama is a thorough professional who spent his entire working

  life in intelligence, and is widely respected till today for his competence, dedication and integrity.

  Early Relationships and Leadership Lessons

  My four and a half years at Barewa remain the most significant in shaping my future life, friendships

  and person. I learned to be less angry, to manage my impatience, quick temper and moderate the

  tendency to speak my mind without thinking; I learned to be more respectful of hierarchies; I learned

  to be more tolerant of others and to obey, particularly rules I do not like or had no regard for; I

  learned about the various ethnic and religious persuasions that make up Nigeria because Barewa was

  very much a melting pot of the best and brightest from all over the country. I made some of my most

  enduring friendships and met virtually all my future business partners in Barewa College. I fell in

  love for the first time and suffered my first heartbreaks while there. I discovered my love for