Kano politics is controversial by design, historical by inheritance and emotional by nature. The more one watches it unfold, the less simple it becomes to explain. Alliances are loud but fragile, loyalty is deep but conditional, and power rarely stays where it is first deposited. In Kano, political history does not move in straight lines; it circles back on itself, dragging old rivalries into new eras and turning protégés into adversaries.
What is today framed as a crisis between Senator Rabiu Musa Kwankwaso and Governor Abba Kabir Yusuf is not an isolated drama. It is a familiar chapter in a much older story, one shaped by ideology, class struggle, personality politics and the enduring question of who truly owns power in Kano: the electorate, the officeholder, or the political godfather.
Modern Kano political crisis can be traced to the 1950s, when Mallam Aminu Kano disrupted the feudal calm of Northern Nigeria. His politics was revolutionary in tone and populist in content. Through the Northern Elements Progressive Union (NEPU), later the PRP, Aminu Kano challenged the emirate system, aristocratic dominance and inherited privilege.
This was not merely electoral competition; it was ideological warfare. Politics became a struggle between the talakawa and the ruling elite. Protest, mobilisation and defiance were normalised. Kano people learned early that power must be contested aggressively, not politely transferred.
By the Second Republic (1979–1983), Kano had become one of Nigeria’s most politically polarised states. Violent clashes between PRP and NPN supporters were common.
Elections were emotional, divisive and intensely personal. Federal intervention often deepened rather than resolved disputes.
Military rule suppressed this energy but did not cure it. When democracy returned in 1999, Kano politics simply resumed where it had paused.
From 1999 onwards, Kano politics was shaped less by institutions and more by personalities. Governors were not just administrators; they were symbols of ideological camps.
Rabiu Musa Kwankwaso emerged during this period as a disciplined organiser with a strong sense of structure. His first tenure as governor (1999–2003) coincided with intense rivalry with Malam Ibrahim Shekarau, whose conservative, cleric-aligned politics appealed to a different segment of Kano society.
When Shekarau governed from 2003 to 2011, Kwankwaso did not fade away. Instead, he rebuilt, methodically.
Kwankwaso’s return to power in 2011 marked a turning point. He did not just win an election; he institutionalised loyalty. The Kwankwasiyya movement fused politics with identity. The red cap became both symbol and statement of belonging, defiance and collective purpose.
Thousands of youths, civil servants and grassroots organisers were absorbed into this political structure. Scholarships, empowerment programmes and visible infrastructure projects strengthened the bond. For many supporters, Kwankwaso represented access, opportunity and recognition.
Yet embedded in this movement was absolute centralisation.
Loyalty flowed upward. Decisions flowed downward.
This structure produced efficiency and discipline, but also resentment among those who believed governance should evolve beyond personal command.
Ganduje: the First Major Rupture
In 2015, Kwankwaso backed his long-time deputy, Abdullahi Umar Ganduje, to succeed him. At the time, it appeared to be a seamless transition. But the underlying assumption, that Ganduje would govern while Kwankwaso retained decisive influence, quickly collapsed.
According to insiders, disagreements over appointments, contracts and political direction surfaced almost immediately. Kwankwaso’s continued assertion of authority reportedly clashed with Ganduje’s desire to establish himself as governor in fact, not just in title.
The symbolic moment came with the Kwankwasiyya red cap. Kwankwaso reportedly insisted Ganduje must continue to wear it. Ganduje resisted.
What followed was one of the most bitter political feuds in Kano’s history: mass defections, street violence, open insults, and the controversial creation of additional emirates in 2019, widely interpreted as a political move to weaken Kwankwaso’s base and the influence of the Kano Emirate.
By the end of Ganduje’s tenure, the message was clear: Kano does not forgive power struggles; it amplifies them.
Then When Abba Kabir Yusuf emerged governor in 2023 under the NNPP, it was celebrated by Kwankwasiyya supporters as a political homecoming. Kwankwaso had returned from the national stage, and Kano was again under his ideological banner.
But beneath the celebration, concerns lingered. Would history repeat itself?
Initially, Governor Abba projected loyalty and calm. Yet governance soon collided with structure.
Power Behind the Curtain: Miller Road and Governance by Proxy
Multiple senior aides within the Abba administration, who spoke to VERITY NEWS on condition of anonymity, described a governance process heavily influenced from outside Government House.
They alleged that key decisions, including selection of commissioners, special advisers, some senior special assistants and executive secretaries of boards, were taken at Senator Kwankwaso’s Miller Road residence in Kano.
One aide said:
“This was not advice; it was instruction. Names were compiled and forwarded. Sometimes the governor was informed after decisions had been taken.”
Another source added:
“No governor can function that way. It creates resentment, paralysis and confusion.”
The aides described a situation where Governor Abba struggled to assert autonomy without provoking a backlash from the political machinery that brought him to power.
When reports emerged that Governor Abba would defect to the APC, even before he finally defected, Kano erupted.
But not all insiders were surprised.
One senior official offered a detailed justification:
“I don’t see it as betrayal. Abba had been very obedient to Kwankwaso. No governor will tolerate what happened, from selection of commissioners to local government chairmen and councillors being picked at Miller Road without his inputs.”
The source further claimed that Abba informed Kwankwaso in advance and urged him to defect together.
“He even begged him to come along, but Kwankwaso insisted the APC must tell him what he stands to gain. He wanted either to be vice president or a minister in a ministry of his choice, plus appointments for his loyalists.”
One argument strongly pushed by pro-Abba supporters is strategic alignment. Kano is Nigeria’s most populous state. Access to federal power matters.
Days after Abba’s defection, the Federal Government approved a multi-billion-naira rail infrastructure project linking Kano more closely with national logistics corridors. While officials insist the project was already in the pipeline, the timing strengthened the perception that Kano benefits more when aligned with the centre.
Supporters argue that development follows proximity.
“You cannot develop Kano from opposition forever,” one analyst said. “At some point, pragmatism overrides sentiment.”
Six commissioners resigned in loyalty to Kwankwaso. But the majority of the cabinet stayed. The Commissioner for Information, Ibrahim Waiya, went further, publicly calling on the deputy governor, Comrade Abdulsalam Gwarzo believed to be aligned with Kwankwaso to resign. The government
effectively split.
From Zaria Road to Zoo Road, Sabon Gari to Hotoro. arguments rage.
At Kantin Kwari, some call Abba ungrateful.
At Dawanau Market, traders praise “political maturity.”
Among elites, analysts are equally divided: betrayal versus emancipation.
No doubt, each political rupture leaves Kwankwaso more ideologically respected but structurally thinner. Ganduje broke free. Now Abba appears to have done the same.
The question confronting Kano is no longer whether Kwankwaso is influential, but whether his model of command politics remains sustainable in a system that increasingly rewards negotiation, coalition and institutional power.
Kano’s political history suggests a pattern: godfathers create governors; governors eventually resist; the state absorbs the shock and moves on.
Which brings Kano to its most delicate question yet:
Like Ganduje before him, is it only a matter of time before Abba Kabir Yusuf completely removes the Kwankwasiyya cap, not just from his head, but from Kano’s political future?
In Kano, history rarely whispers. It warns.
Ozumi Abdul is a journalist, fact-checker, editor, columnist and strategic communication expert. He can be reached via abdulozumi83@gmail.com
Red Caps, Broken Bonds and the Godsons Who Rebel By Ozumi Abdul
Kano politics is controversial by design, historical by inheritance and emotional by nature. The more one watches it unfold, the less simple it becomes to explain. Alliances are loud but fragile, loyalty is deep but conditional, and power rarely stays where it is first deposited. In Kano, political history does not move in straight lines; it circles back on itself, dragging old rivalries into new eras and turning protégés into adversaries.
What is today framed as a crisis between Senator Rabiu Musa Kwankwaso and Governor Abba Kabir Yusuf is not an isolated drama. It is a familiar chapter in a much older story, one shaped by ideology, class struggle, personality politics and the enduring question of who truly owns power in Kano: the electorate, the officeholder, or the political godfather.
Modern Kano political crisis can be traced to the 1950s, when Mallam Aminu Kano disrupted the feudal calm of Northern Nigeria. His politics was revolutionary in tone and populist in content. Through the Northern Elements Progressive Union (NEPU), later the PRP, Aminu Kano challenged the emirate system, aristocratic dominance and inherited privilege.
This was not merely electoral competition; it was ideological warfare. Politics became a struggle between the talakawa and the ruling elite. Protest, mobilisation and defiance were normalised. Kano people learned early that power must be contested aggressively, not politely transferred.
By the Second Republic (1979–1983), Kano had become one of Nigeria’s most politically polarised states. Violent clashes between PRP and NPN supporters were common.
Elections were emotional, divisive and intensely personal. Federal intervention often deepened rather than resolved disputes.
Military rule suppressed this energy but did not cure it. When democracy returned in 1999, Kano politics simply resumed where it had paused.
From 1999 onwards, Kano politics was shaped less by institutions and more by personalities. Governors were not just administrators; they were symbols of ideological camps.
Rabiu Musa Kwankwaso emerged during this period as a disciplined organiser with a strong sense of structure. His first tenure as governor (1999–2003) coincided with intense rivalry with Malam Ibrahim Shekarau, whose conservative, cleric-aligned politics appealed to a different segment of Kano society.
When Shekarau governed from 2003 to 2011, Kwankwaso did not fade away. Instead, he rebuilt, methodically.
Kwankwaso’s return to power in 2011 marked a turning point. He did not just win an election; he institutionalised loyalty. The Kwankwasiyya movement fused politics with identity. The red cap became both symbol and statement of belonging, defiance and collective purpose.
Thousands of youths, civil servants and grassroots organisers were absorbed into this political structure. Scholarships, empowerment programmes and visible infrastructure projects strengthened the bond. For many supporters, Kwankwaso represented access, opportunity and recognition.
Yet embedded in this movement was absolute centralisation.
Loyalty flowed upward. Decisions flowed downward.
This structure produced efficiency and discipline, but also resentment among those who believed governance should evolve beyond personal command.
Ganduje: the First Major Rupture
In 2015, Kwankwaso backed his long-time deputy, Abdullahi Umar Ganduje, to succeed him. At the time, it appeared to be a seamless transition. But the underlying assumption, that Ganduje would govern while Kwankwaso retained decisive influence, quickly collapsed.
According to insiders, disagreements over appointments, contracts and political direction surfaced almost immediately. Kwankwaso’s continued assertion of authority reportedly clashed with Ganduje’s desire to establish himself as governor in fact, not just in title.
The symbolic moment came with the Kwankwasiyya red cap. Kwankwaso reportedly insisted Ganduje must continue to wear it. Ganduje resisted.
What followed was one of the most bitter political feuds in Kano’s history: mass defections, street violence, open insults, and the controversial creation of additional emirates in 2019, widely interpreted as a political move to weaken Kwankwaso’s base and the influence of the Kano Emirate.
By the end of Ganduje’s tenure, the message was clear: Kano does not forgive power struggles; it amplifies them.
Then When Abba Kabir Yusuf emerged governor in 2023 under the NNPP, it was celebrated by Kwankwasiyya supporters as a political homecoming. Kwankwaso had returned from the national stage, and Kano was again under his ideological banner.
But beneath the celebration, concerns lingered. Would history repeat itself?
Initially, Governor Abba projected loyalty and calm. Yet governance soon collided with structure.
Power Behind the Curtain: Miller Road and Governance by Proxy
Multiple senior aides within the Abba administration, who spoke to VERITY NEWS on condition of anonymity, described a governance process heavily influenced from outside Government House.
They alleged that key decisions, including selection of commissioners, special advisers, some senior special assistants and executive secretaries of boards, were taken at Senator Kwankwaso’s Miller Road residence in Kano.
One aide said:
“This was not advice; it was instruction. Names were compiled and forwarded. Sometimes the governor was informed after decisions had been taken.”
Another source added:
“No governor can function that way. It creates resentment, paralysis and confusion.”
The aides described a situation where Governor Abba struggled to assert autonomy without provoking a backlash from the political machinery that brought him to power.
When reports emerged that Governor Abba would defect to the APC, even before he finally defected, Kano erupted.
But not all insiders were surprised.
One senior official offered a detailed justification:
“I don’t see it as betrayal. Abba had been very obedient to Kwankwaso. No governor will tolerate what happened, from selection of commissioners to local government chairmen and councillors being picked at Miller Road without his inputs.”
The source further claimed that Abba informed Kwankwaso in advance and urged him to defect together.
“He even begged him to come along, but Kwankwaso insisted the APC must tell him what he stands to gain. He wanted either to be vice president or a minister in a ministry of his choice, plus appointments for his loyalists.”
One argument strongly pushed by pro-Abba supporters is strategic alignment. Kano is Nigeria’s most populous state. Access to federal power matters.
Days after Abba’s defection, the Federal Government approved a multi-billion-naira rail infrastructure project linking Kano more closely with national logistics corridors. While officials insist the project was already in the pipeline, the timing strengthened the perception that Kano benefits more when aligned with the centre.
Supporters argue that development follows proximity.
“You cannot develop Kano from opposition forever,” one analyst said. “At some point, pragmatism overrides sentiment.”
Six commissioners resigned in loyalty to Kwankwaso. But the majority of the cabinet stayed. The Commissioner for Information, Ibrahim Waiya, went further, publicly calling on the deputy governor, Comrade Abdulsalam Gwarzo believed to be aligned with Kwankwaso to resign. The government
effectively split.
From Zaria Road to Zoo Road, Sabon Gari to Hotoro. arguments rage.
At Kantin Kwari, some call Abba ungrateful.
At Dawanau Market, traders praise “political maturity.”
Among elites, analysts are equally divided: betrayal versus emancipation.
No doubt, each political rupture leaves Kwankwaso more ideologically respected but structurally thinner. Ganduje broke free. Now Abba appears to have done the same.
The question confronting Kano is no longer whether Kwankwaso is influential, but whether his model of command politics remains sustainable in a system that increasingly rewards negotiation, coalition and institutional power.
Kano’s political history suggests a pattern: godfathers create governors; governors eventually resist; the state absorbs the shock and moves on.
Which brings Kano to its most delicate question yet:
Like Ganduje before him, is it only a matter of time before Abba Kabir Yusuf completely removes the Kwankwasiyya cap, not just from his head, but from Kano’s political future?
In Kano, history rarely whispers. It warns.
Ozumi Abdul is a journalist, fact-checker, editor, columnist and strategic communication expert. He can be reached via abdulozumi83@gmail.com