The last certificate: How scrapping NBAIS creates the next generation of bandits

By Faruk Ahmed

The boy who once memorised the Qur'an now counts bullets.

His name is Usman. He is seventeen. He has been in the forest for two years. Before that, he spent seven years in a Tsangaya school in Kano, learning to read and write in Arabic, memorising verses that his teachers said would lead him to paradise. He was good at it. His Mallam said he had a gift. "This one will go far," the Mallam used to tell visitors. "He will sit for NBAIS one day. He will get his certificate. He will go to university."

Usman believed him.

He believed it so much that he would sit under the shade of the neem tree every evening, reading his Arabic texts by the light of a solar lamp. He would trace the letters with his finger, whispering the words, memorising the meanings. He dreamed of wearing a white gown and a cap, of walking across a stage, of his mother's face beaming with pride.

That dream died on a Thursday in June 2026.

 

The policy that closed a door

It started with whispers. In the market, people said the government was planning to scrap NBAIS. In the mosque, the elders spoke in hushed tones. "They want to cancel our certificates," they said. "They say it is not equal to WAEC. They say it violates the constitution."

The National Board for Arabic and Islamic Studies (NBAIS) was established in 1969 by the Northern State government under the Northern Nigeria Education Law No. 10, and later became a federal body. For over five decades, it has provided certification for students who combine Arabic and Islamic studies with conventional subjects such as Mathematics and English.

By 2017, the board had become autonomous, like WAEC and NECO, with its certificate internationally recognised. The Federal Ministry of Education and the National Universities Commission had directed tertiary institutions to accept the Senior Arabic and Islamic Secondary School Certificate Examination (SAISSCE) as a valid O-level qualification.

Then came the petition.

In May 2025, a coalition of Christian leaders under the banner of the National Prayer Altar submitted a petition to the Federal Government, demanding the reversal of the policy equating NBAIS certificates with WAEC and NECO. Signed by 122 members, including professors and clerics, the petition argued that recognising an Islamic examining body violated Section 10 of the 1999 Constitution, which prohibits the state from adopting any religion.

They argued that "the NBAIS is, without controversy, a purely Islamic body. The curriculum is strictly Islamic, the subjects are exclusively Islamic, and the objectives are wholly Islamic". They warned that recognising NBAIS "promotes one religion above others and undermines the secular foundation of Nigeria".

They won. Or so they thought.

 

The human cost

Usman does not understand what the constitution has to do with his studies. He has spent seven years learning Arabic and Islamic studies, studying Mathematics and English alongside his religious texts. He is preparing to sit for the Senior Arabic and Islamic Secondary School Certificate Examination (SAISSCE) – the only certification pathway available to him. He has been told that if he passes, doors will open.

But those doors are now shaking. The debate in the Senate, the petition from the Christian coalition, the uncertainty from the Federal Government – all of it has reached his ears. He hears whispers that his certificate may soon be worthless. He does not know what "secularism" means. He does not know what Section 10 of the Constitution says. He only knows that he is afraid.

His Mallam has tried to reassure him. "Keep studying," the old man says. "They cannot take away what you have learned." But Usman sees the worry in his teacher's eyes. He sees the other boys, the older ones, who have already passed the examination. They have no jobs. They have no university admission. They have no future beyond the Tsangaya.

If the Federal Government bows to pressure and scraps the NBAIS equivalence, millions of children like Usman will see their years of work rendered worthless. The debate is ongoing, but for children like Usman – who have invested seven years of their lives in the Tsangaya system – the uncertainty is already a form of punishment. They wait, not knowing if their years of study will ever open a door.

And while they wait, they grow hungry. They grow angry. They grow desperate.

 

A factory of insecurity

There is a phrase that experts use to describe what happens next. They call it the "Almajiri factor". The Foundation for Peace Professionals (PeacePro), after a fact‑finding tour of seven northern states, described the Almajiri system as a "factory of insecurity" whose consequences now threaten to destabilise the entire West African sub‑region.

PeacePro warned that Nigeria is "mass‑producing millions of excluded, uneducated and desperate children yearly," describing the situation as a "looming regional catastrophe". The group cautioned that children raised without education, family care, or civic identity "grow into adults disconnected from the state and easily recruited by criminal gangs, extremist movements and violent political networks".

 

The genesis

The Almajiri system was not always this way. Originally established in the 15th century, it was a system of traditional Qur'anic education where children moved with their teachers to learn the Qur'an and other Islamic texts. Under the Sokoto Caliphate, the schools were fully funded from the state treasury. Students were taught in various stages: recitation, learning the alphabet, memorisation, and advanced learning of books on different branches of knowledge. The community, parents, zakah, and sadaqah also contributed.

Then the British came. Colonial taxation reforms abolished funding sources for the Almajiri system, undermining its viability and leading to a dysfunctional framework. The colonial masters abolished state funding of Tsangaya, arguing that they were religious schools.

"Karatun Boko" – Western education – was introduced and funded instead. With no support from the community, Emirs, or government, the Almajiri system collapsed. The teachers and students had no financial support, so they turned to alms begging and menial jobs for survival.

Today, the system has devolved into what Punch Newspapers called "an army of dysfunctional unemployed, unemployable and uneducated youth". The Almajiri has been described as "the most abused personae in Nigeria's North and beyond. Abused and abandoned, he has been forced to turn into monsters separately called Boko Haram, Bandit, Shekau, Turji and many more to come".

Usman did not know any of this. He only knew that he was hungry. That his mother could not afford to feed him. That his Mallam had no money to keep him. The certificate in his hand could soon become a piece of paper less worthy than a suya paper.

He left home the week after the announcement. He walked for two days. He found other boys like him – former Almajiri, former students, former dreamers. They had all lost the same thing. They had all been told that their years of study meant nothing. They had all been left with nothing but anger.

 

The recruitment

The man who recruited them was patient. He did not speak of religion or politics. He spoke of food, of safety, of respect. He showed them rifles and said, "This is your certificate now." He told them that the people who had taken their future would one day beg for mercy.

The boys believed him.

The connection between the Almajiri system and insecurity is well documented. In 2018, the mother of Abubakar Shekau, the slain leader of Boko Haram, revealed that her son was an Almajiri who left home in search of Islamic knowledge. Like most Almajiri lads, Shekau ended up roaming the streets of urban centres begging for alms and food. It was in Maiduguri that Shekau came in contact with Mohammad Yusuf, the founder of the Boko Haram sect, and got indoctrinated.

The pattern repeats. A child is abandoned. A child is hungry. A child is angry. A child is recruited.

 

The irony

Today, Usman sits in a forest in Zamfara State. He has been part of a bandit group for two years. He has participated in attacks on villages. He has seen men die. He has done things he never thought he would do.

He still remembers the verses. He still knows the Qur'an by heart. Sometimes, late at night, when the others are asleep, he whispers the words he learned as a child. He remembers the evening light, the neem tree, the solar lamp. He remembers his mother's face. He remembers the dream.

He is seventeen years old. He has worked for a certificate that may soon mean nothing. He has a rifle that means everything.

The irony is this: the people who are campaigning to scrap NBAIS do not see the children behind the certificate. They see a "purely Islamic body". They see a violation of secularism. They see discrimination. They do not see Usman. They do not see the thousands of other Usmans whose only path out of poverty is the one they are trying to destroy.

 

The masquerade

There is no Christian equivalent to NBAIS. The National Prayer Altar itself acknowledged this, arguing that the absence of such a board was "discriminatory and unfair to Christian students". But instead of calling for the creation of a Christian equivalent, they called for the destruction of the Islamic one. Their argument was not for equity. It was for erasure.

The consequences are not abstract. They are visible in the forests of Zamfara, in the camps of bandits, in the faces of boys who once dreamed of certificates and now count bullets. PeacePro warned that "if this crisis is allowed to persist, Nigeria will not burn alone. The sheer scale of excluded, uneducated, and desperate youths being produced annually is enough to set the entire West African subregion on fire".

But the warnings may come too late for Usman.

 

The choice

He is seventeen years old. He has a rifle. He has a group of boys who, like him, had nowhere else to go. They are angry. They are hungry. They are desperate.

They are the future that Nigeria is choosing if we allow this to happen.

A decision to scrap NBAIS would not protect secularism. It would destroy futures. And destroyed futures do not disappear; they become bandits, terrorists, and the next generation of insecurity.

NBAIS was founded in 1969. It has operated for over five decades. Its certificates are recognised by the Federal Ministry of Education and accepted by many tertiary institutions in Nigeria as equivalent to other national secondary school qualifications. It conducts three major examinations annually, including the Senior Arabic and Islamic Secondary School Certificate Examination (SAISSCE) and the Tahfeez Examination for students specialising in Qur'anic memorisation and sciences.

It is not a threat to Nigeria. It is a lifeline for millions of Nigerian children.

The choice before us is clear: we can defend a narrow interpretation of secularism and create more bandits, or we can defend the educational rights of millions of children and build a more secure future.

Destroying NBAIS would not protect secularism. It would create bandits.

Faruk Ahmed is the Coordinator of The Nation Builders Initiative (TNBI) and the Head of School at Barkalheri Global Academy, Kano. He writes about education, insecurity, and the urgent need to reform the Almajiri system.