By Abdulrauf Aliyu
Leadership in Nigeria today, more than ever, finds itself on trial—not just in courtrooms or public debates, but in the daily lives of citizens who wake to darkness, navigate broken roads, and stand in queues for the most basic dignities of life. Governance, which should be a solemn contract between the ruler and the ruled, is too often reduced to ceremony and noise, stripped of substance, and left hollow. Yet in the folds of Magana Jari Ce, Abubakar Imam’s timeless masterpiece, we find stories that are both mirrors and maps: mirrors reflecting our current failures, and maps pointing to forgotten principles of leadership, accountability, and moral governance.
In the tale of Sarki da Bawa mai wayo—the king and the clever slave—we encounter a ruler steeped in pride and entitlement. The king dismisses the thoughts of those beneath him, believing that wisdom resides only in thrones. Yet the slave, with patience and wit, constantly outsmarts his master. In time, the ruler becomes a spectacle of ignorance, while the slave becomes a model of intelligence and temperance. Imam uses this tale to unmask the illusion of hierarchy. Leadership, he teaches us, is not born of titles or opulence, but of insight, empathy, and competence. The story cuts deeply into the Nigerian condition, where too often leaders are elevated by political machinery rather than merit, and where appointments are made not on capability but on loyalty, region, or tribe. The tale asks, unflinchingly: if a leader cannot learn, can he truly lead?
Another tale speaks of the king who trusted only his praise singers, surrounding himself with flatterers who told him only what pleased him, never what helped him. In time, the kingdom rots, but the king hears none of it. His ears are filled with honeyed lies until the day truth arrives not as a whisper, but as ruin. This is no fantasy—it is the chronic illness of governance in Nigeria today. Leaders are often insulated in bubbles of sycophancy, detached from the realities of the people they serve. The roads may crumble, salaries may go unpaid, and youths may flee the country in droves, but in their echo chambers, the music plays on. Imam’s warning is stern: the leader who fears truth will be destroyed by it.
There is also the memorable story of Aku the parrot, who serves not just as a narrator but as a conscience. Aku remembers everything. He sees the patterns. He watches leaders come and go, and tells their stories without embellishment. In one instance, Aku recounts how a king once respected for justice becomes blinded by power. He begins to make decisions in anger, punishing dissent and silencing questions. When famine comes, the king blames others. Aku observes, quietly but piercingly, that “girma ba ya nan da gashi, yana nan da hali”—greatness is not in the beard, but in the character. Nigeria’s leaders would do well to learn from Aku’s wisdom. A big office, a convoy, a motorcade—these are not signs of greatness. It is one’s halin shugabanci—leadership character—that determines one’s legacy.
Imam also presents tales of justice, such as the story of the poor farmer wrongfully accused of stealing royal yams. The king, eager to display decisiveness, condemns the farmer without investigation. Only later does a child expose the truth: it was the king’s own guard who had stolen the yams. The king is shamed, the guard is punished, and the farmer is freed—but not before enduring injustice. The tale’s resonance with Nigeria’s broken justice system is unmissable. Our prisons are filled with the poor, while the corrupt walk freely. Governors mismanage billions, but it is the petty thief that bears the weight of the law. Imam’s narrative underscores a central truth: justice without truth is tyranny.
A particularly clever tale is that of Gizo da kokiya, the spider and the hard nut. Gizo boasts that he can crack the nut that no one else can. He tries trickery, strength, speed—none succeed. Eventually, it is through cooperation with a bird and a squirrel that he finds success. Gizo must admit he cannot do it alone. The message is sharp: governance is not a solo project. It is collaborative, interdisciplinary, intergenerational. Yet many Nigerian leaders prefer the myth of the strongman—the single savior, the lone visionary. Imam reminds us: even the smartest leader needs counsel. Even the fastest needs guidance. Nation-building is not a one-man theatre.
One of the more tragic stories involves the calabash of truth, owned by a widow who can no longer bear the lies of her village leaders. When she uses the calabash, it begins to reveal who among the chiefs is stealing, who is lying, who is scheming. At first, the people celebrate her. But as the calabash continues to speak, discomfort grows. Eventually, the people smash it. This tale is chillingly familiar. Whistleblowers are silenced. Activists are jailed. Journalists are threatened. Imam shows that it is not just leaders who resist truth—it is often the very society that claims to want change. The question remains: do Nigerians truly want accountability, or only the performance of it?
There is also the humorous yet cautionary tale of the monkey and the crocodile, where the monkey, clever and chatty, manipulates the crocodile into revealing his plan to eat him. The monkey escapes. The crocodile, embarrassed, sinks into the river in shame. The tale reminds us that cunning may survive once, but it cannot sustain rule. Many Nigerian politicians are monkeys in this tale: masters of evasion, skilled in slogans, brilliant in deception. But like the crocodile, the people remember. And one day, they may refuse the ride.
Even animal tales serve a governance function. In one fable, the lion declares himself king, promising fairness. Yet once in power, he eats any creature that annoys him. The forest becomes a kingdom of fear. The rabbit, small but wise, sets a trap. The lion falls, and the forest breathes again. The allegory is clear: leadership that devours dissent must eventually face revolt. Fear may silence a people for a time, but it never builds peace. Imam teaches that justice is the lifeblood of governance. Without it, even the most powerful king is only a tyrant waiting for a trap.
Throughout Magana Jari Ce, Imam is not preaching abstract values. He is diagnosing social illness, prescribing moral treatment, and offering blueprints. He uses folklore to articulate frameworks of power, duty, and consequence. His stories are governance in disguise. They show that leadership is not about glory, but about responsibility; not about dominion, but about service.
In today’s Nigeria, where corruption competes with confusion, and where governance too often feels like theatre without direction, Imam’s tales remain uncomfortably relevant. Each one holds a mirror to our institutions. Each one asks a question of our leaders. And each one dares us, citizens and rulers alike, to remember: stories are not just for telling. They are for learning. And in the heart of every story lies a choice—lead with justice, or be led by history
