By Israel Adebiyi

“When truth is buried underground, it grows, it chokes, it gathers such explosive force that on the day it bursts out, it blows up everything with it.”
— Émile Zola

There’s a kind of silence that settles over the land after years of failure. A silence made of shame, denial, and carefully chosen half-truths. In Northern Nigeria, that silence has become an institution — polite, predictable, and profoundly dangerous.

Then came Uba Sani — with words that cut through like harmattan wind.

At a recent citizen engagement summit in Kaduna, Governor Uba Sani did what few northern politicians have ever dared. He faced the region and told it the truth: “We failed our people.” Not they. We. All of us who have held power in the North in the past two decades, he said, must offer the people an apology.

In that single moment, he shattered the convenient forgetfulness the North has grown used to. He didn’t call out Abuja. He didn’t drag the South. He didn’t blame some vague colonial past or “outsiders.” He pointed the finger inward — and included himself.

That is no small thing. That is not politics. That is an act of courage.

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Because what Governor Sani spoke to is not just political miscalculation. It’s a generational betrayal. A betrayal that has left too many Northern children unschooled, too many women dying in childbirth, too many communities in darkness, and too many homes listening for the next gunshot.

Let’s stop for a moment and look at the evidence — not the emotion, but the math.

According to the 2022 National Multidimensional Poverty Index, nine of the ten poorest states in Nigeria are in the North. In Sokoto, over 90% of people live in poverty. Kebbi, Zamfara, Jigawa — same story. We’re not just failing; we’ve normalized failure.

And yet, this is the region that has held the most power in Nigeria since independence. Presidents. Military heads of state. Senators. Generals. Governors. Ministers. National Security Advisers. We’ve produced them all. But not the outcomes.

We’ve built palaces in Abuja, but not a working school in Shinkafi. We’ve padded budgets but abandoned hospitals in Birnin Kebbi. In some states, over 60% of children aged 6–15 have never seen the inside of a classroom. What kind of leadership allows this?

Northern mothers still die in delivery rooms at three times the national average, according to the latest NDHS report. Some rural health centres don’t even have paracetamol. The elites fly abroad. The poor bury their dead.

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Security? Forget it. From Zamfara to Katsina to Niger, bandits have made homes out of forests. Whole villages are ghost towns. And yet, most of the top military chiefs in the last decade came from this region. Who, then, is to blame?

Let’s talk money. The North is land-rich but cash-poor. While Lagos alone contributes over 30% to Nigeria’s GDP, most northern states struggle to hit 1%. But the same northern governors go cap-in-hand for federal allocation and call it development. Where are the industries? Where is the productivity?

This is what Sani is shaking — a region that has grown comfortable with underdevelopment and allergic to self-reflection.

Some elites have pushed back, of course. Former senators and political juggernauts who built their careers on recycled loyalty have tried to downplay his remarks. They say he was too harsh. That he forgot their “service”. That he shouldn’t “wash dirty linen in public.”

But if that linen hasn’t been washed for 40 years, where should it be aired?

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Let’s be honest — it is easier to blame Buhari, or Tinubu, or the South. But Sani refuses the easy route. He says: we, the North, are not victims here. We are architects of our own decline.

He refuses to play the amnesia game.

You can feel the discomfort in the air. He has stepped on toes — and many of those toes wear agbadas. But the truth is not about comfort. It’s about course correction.

This isn’t about just Uba Sani. It’s about whether the North still has the capacity to face its reflection. To see the rot — and clean house. To stop building dynasties and start building schools. To stop naming roads after ancestors and start giving roads to rural farmers.

Too many of our children are stuck in almajiri cycles while the children of the elite occupy UK universities. Too many of our mothers die in labor while wives of past governors set up foundations for photo-ops. Too many old names have stayed too long — and are grooming their sons for the throne.

That is what Governor Sani is fighting: not just silence, but the inheritance of silence.

He says, “Let’s apologise.” But apology alone is not enough. It must be backed with a plan. A Marshall Plan for the North — real investment, not campaign slogans. Functional education, not workshops. Security that protects, not retaliates. Jobs that empower, not enslave.

It must come with the rethinking of what power is: not title, not convoy, not prayer photos — but legacy measured in lives changed, not lives lost.

Governor Sani’s voice may be lonely now. But history listens to such voices. And perhaps, just perhaps, in that lone voice, the North might find a new beginning.

Because silence, when it becomes tradition, is nothing but consent.

And now, one man has dared to shout.