I still remember my first political philosophy class at Bayero University, Kano. Some students dreaded it, but those of us drawn to critical thinking eagerly anticipated it. Our class was relatively small; others had opted for Islamic Political Thought. In walked a tall, athletic lecturer, dressed in track pants, a polo shirt and trainers. He looked ready for the basketball court, which I later learned was his pastime. Then, in the deep bass voice I would come to know so well, he introduced himself: “Good morning, everyone. I am Ibrahim Mu’azzam, and I will be introducing you to political philosophy.”
For me, that encounter marked the beginning of a relationship that would extend far beyond the classroom. Malam became my teacher, mentor, comrade and, over the years, an older friend. More than three decades later, I still engage with the questions he first taught me to ask.
There are teachers whose courses we complete and teachers whose influence we never outgrow. Long after we leave their classrooms, earn our own qualifications, and take on responsibilities in the world, their teaching remains part of our intellectual disposition: how we read, how we argue, how we recognise a problem, and how we examine what others would prefer us to accept. Malam Ibrahim Mu’azzam has been such a presence in my life. Our relationship has grown and changed over the years, but through it all, he has remained Malam.
I have been reflecting on this as we prepare to celebrate Malam Ibrahim Mu’azzam with the public presentation of The Quest for Philosophical Understanding: Essays in Honour of Malam Ibrahim Mu’azzam. The book, a Festschrift recognising his intellectual contribution, distinguished scholarship, and enduring legacy, will be presented on Saturday, 24 October 2026, at the Aminu Kano Centre for Democratic Research (better known as Mambayya House), Kano. This occasion invites a wider reflection on mentorship and the public responsibilities of intellectuals.
I probably belong to the middle generation of his students. His university teaching career stretched from the 1970s to his retirement in 2020. I was an undergraduate at Bayero University, Kano, from 1990 to 1993, and I completed my doctorate in 2009. But I knew Malam by reputation long before I entered his classroom, through his public engagements in Kano. State
As students of the College of Arts and Sciences, CAS, Kano, we were already familiar with the names of the radical and celebrated academics at BUK and Ahmadu Bello University, Zaria. Their reputations travelled beyond their campuses because they participated in the public debates and political struggles of the time. For some of us, entering university meant coming into direct contact with intellectuals whose commitments had already begun to excite our imaginations.
Of Malam’s courses, Classical Political Philosophy and Contemporary Political Thought left the deepest impression. He introduced me to political philosophy and helped make it an enduring intellectual interest. Through Plato and Aristotle, we encountered questions of justice, citizenship and the purposes of political community. Machiavelli compelled us to examine how power operates in practice and its difficult relationship with morality. Locke raised questions of rights, property, consent and limited government; Rousseau confronted us with the tensions between inequality, freedom and collective authority.
Hegel drew us into debates about history, freedom and the state, while Marx directed our attention to class relations, material conditions and the historical character of institutions. Ibn Khaldun’s Muqaddimah, particularly the concept of ‘asabiyyah, opened questions about solidarity and the rise and decline of political authority. Al-Farabi brought ethical purpose, knowledge and political leadership into conversation through his reflections on the virtuous city.
What made these encounters memorable was Malam’s insistence that we engage the arguments. He provoked us, questioned us and expected us to defend our positions. Even an argument that supported our political convictions had to withstand scrutiny. Agreement was no substitute for understanding. Malam was himself a philosopher in the seriousness with which he approached a question. He could take an apparently obvious proposition and reveal the assumptions concealed within it. What had seemed a satisfactory answer could become the beginning of a much more difficult discussion.
I can still hear the deep bass voice, eloquence in delivery, the provocative observation and the careful unfolding of a difficult idea. There were the occasional wicked jokes and the animated laughter. You could laugh with Malam; you did not take him lightly. His humour coexisted with an unmistakable expectation of intellectual seriousness. His teaching and the example of others helped inspire my interest in an academic career.
For some of us, that education continued in his office, at his home, seminars, conferences, and around political meetings. We had access to his private library and opportunities to return to questions that a lecture had left unresolved. My interest in books, particularly classic works, owes much to those encounters. Malam made a life of reading and inquiry tangible. He gave us access to the materials we could use to begin building such a life ourselves.
His teaching extended to comparative federalism, political theory and Ideas, and political economy. I also remember him introducing a new Law and Politics course during our undergraduate years. The course encouraged us to examine law within the relations of power through which it is made, interpreted and enforced. Constitutions, rights and legal institutions became subjects of political inquiry. We had to consider whose interests a legal arrangement served and why formal guarantees could coexist with unequal experiences. These questions remain central to understanding Nigeria.
When I returned to BUK for doctoral work, Malam Mu’azzam, alongside Malam M. M. Yusif, became an informal academic adviser. He reviewed drafts, offered comments, recommended books and often supplied them himself. He challenged my assumptions and required me to revisit propositions I thought were sufficiently established.
Much of this effort falls outside formal supervision. The institutional record may identify who supervised a thesis while revealing little about the wider relationships that helped give it intellectual substance. Mentorship depends on people willing to invest time and attention beyond the minimum requirements of their positions. Malam took my work seriously enough to challenge it. He supported me with the expectation that I would produce a stronger argument and better thesis.
The same generosity extended into the student movement. He contributed from his salary towards our travel for National Association of Nigerian Students (NANS) activities and supported our participation in student union politics. For young activists with limited resources, that assistance mattered. It enabled participation and demonstrated a practical commitment to wider national struggles and to the development of younger people.
He was also a repository of the movement’s history. We learned our history from him, learning about earlier struggles, organisational debates, and the circumstances that led to particular choices. His knowledge of the Academic Staff Union of Universities and its internal dynamics was remarkably deep. He helped us locate our immediate concerns within a longer history.
My undergraduate dissertation on ASUU and the Popular Struggle for Democracy in Nigeria emerged from this environment. I was close to the ASUU community, including Professor Attahiru Jega, then national president; M. M. Yusif, the BUK chapter chairman; Y. Z. Ya’u; Musa Auyo; and Lukman Diso, among others. Scholarship and democratic struggle met in the lives and work of people we knew. Their example gave concrete meaning to the university’s and intellectuals’ public responsibilities.
These recollections matter because mentorship raises a question about how intellectual traditions survive. Books preserve arguments; institutions provide continuity; personal relationships help younger people acquire the confidence, discipline and judgement required to contribute. A movement also needs people who can transmit its history critically, enabling another generation to understand both its achievements and its failures.
I have always argued that we all need mentors: people we can turn to, whose judgement we trust, and who will have our backs. That trust becomes especially valuable when it permits candour. Sometimes we need encouragement. At other times, we need someone willing to tell us that our reasoning is weak or our judgement mistaken. A mentor’s support should help us develop the capacity to think and act independently. This requires room for disagreement. A mentor must be willing to invest in another person’s development without demanding permanent agreement or personal dependence. The person being mentored must accept that growth may require the revision of deeply held assumptions.
Apart from our parents, some people become lifelong teachers. We may gain seniority, lead institutions, and become mentors ourselves, but the relationship remains significant. We return to them with different questions because our responsibilities have changed. Their influence continues through the habits of thought and standards of conduct we have made our own.
Malam has been one of those people in my life. As my work has moved across academia, activism, International development, and humanitarian practice, I have continued to value the disposition he helped cultivate: examining the assumptions behind a policy, locating institutions within their historical and social relations, and asking whose interests a particular arrangement serves. These habits require constant renewal. In my case, they begin inseparable from his teaching.
Celebrating him therefore obligates those of us who benefited from his generosity. We must ask how accessible we make our own experience, books and critical attention to younger people. Gratitude acquires substance when it influences our conduct. The continuity of an intellectual tradition depends partly on whether its beneficiaries accept responsibility for helping others develop.
The Quest for Philosophical Understanding is a fitting title for a volume honouring Malam. It speaks to an intellectual disposition that remains open to questions, including those that unsettle our own certainties. In my experience, Malam cultivated that disposition through rigorous teaching, political engagement and a generosity that made room for others to grow.
On Saturday, 24 October 2026, I join YZ Ya’u and CITAD in inviting his students, colleagues, comrades, friends, and all who value scholarship and the public role of intellectuals to join us at Mambayya House, Kano. Let us celebrate Malam Ibrahim Mu’azzam and the many lives his teaching has helped shape. Let us also renew our commitment to the work of mentorship. Some of the most enduring contributions we make will be carried forward by those whose possibilities we helped to enlarge.
Dr Hussaini Abdu is an Abuja International Development and Humanitarian Specialist and the Country Director of CARE International.