By: Mallam Mande Faru
The news of the passing of His Royal Highness, Alhaji (Dr.) Ibrahim Bello, the 17th Emir of Gusau, came to me not through official channels, nor through traditional networks of palace informants, but from the quiet, faceless scroll of a Facebook post. I had only just called his phone days earlier to inform him of my intention to visit. There was no answer. I tried again later—still no response. And then, like a heavy veil torn from the sky, I read the terse announcement that he had departed this world. I was stunned. I was pained. But above all, I was reminded of the fleeting nature of this life and the noble legacy that some leave behind.
The Emir of Gusau, whom I knew personally and affectionately, was not just a traditional ruler. He was a man of deep humanity, a man of faith, and a man of extraordinary simplicity. My relationship with him was not forged in the corridors of power or at public ceremonies, but through shared values, mutual respect, and a long-standing connection that began decades ago.
It all started with my elder brother, Abdullahi A. Faru, who was the Emir’s schoolmate at Kotorkoshi Boarding Primary School. The bond they formed as young boys endured long into adulthood, well beyond the playgrounds and morning assemblies of their childhood. When my brother passed on, I continued the relationship with the Emir, and he welcomed me warmly into his circle. I had visited him several times, not just as a friend of his late schoolmate, but as a brother and confidant.
One of the most touching episodes I remember occurred during a period of family tension. I had a disagreement with my late brother, and not knowing who to turn to, I went to the Emir. He didn’t brush aside my concerns or delegate the issue to others. No. He personally invited both of us, sat us down, and mediated between us with wisdom, fairness, and a fatherly calm that only men of high moral and spiritual discipline possess. That was the man I knew—a peacemaker, not merely by title, but by conviction and habit.
Perhaps what endeared me even more to him was his deep religiosity and love for knowledge. When I discovered a rare and beautiful manuscript titled “The Booko Prayers” by Malam Sambo, I immediately thought of him. The collection, rich in supplications and spiritual insight, matched his religious temperament. When I showed it to him, he was visibly excited. He saw its potential and insisted that it must be published and made available to the public. But sadly, I failed to meet his expectation. The software I used to try and reconstruct the old manuscript was inadequate. I couldn’t produce a reliable, publishable copy. I was ashamed to tell him, so I kept silent. Yet deep inside, I carried that burden of disappointment—not because he would have rebuked me, but because I knew how much it meant to him.
During one of our conversations, as Zamfara was being ravaged by the scourge of banditry and violence, I paid him a private visit. I told him of my academic background, that I had done my Master’s degreeo focusing on security issues. I proposed to him a simple but radical idea: divide the bandits from within. Identify cracks and exploit them. Create disunity among their ranks. And more importantly, I told him that the foundation of peace is spiritual. I suggested to him that the government must make Istighfār (seeking forgiveness) a state-wide spiritual campaign. I reminded him that Allah had promised: “Seek forgiveness from your Lord, surely He is Oft-Forgiving. He will send down rain for you in abundance, and increase you in wealth and children, and provide you gardens and rivers” (Qur’an 71:10–12). He immediately interjected and said, “Peace and prosperity.” He understood the divine formula for social harmony.
Our discussion continued. I recommended that land ownership was a hidden root of the crisis. Many nomadic Fulani had no permanent land. I suggested that the government should buy land, identify trustworthy Fulani leaders, and grant them ownership with certificates of occupancy in a public ceremony. That would attract the foot soldiers to align with the state. I proposed training for the herders in pasture production, artificial insemination for cattle, and establishing schools, clinics, and veterinary centers. He was deeply interested, and we agreed I would deliver a public lecture on the strategy. Unfortunately, I was called away for another assignment, and by the time I returned, he had taken ill, constantly in and out of Gusau. The lecture never happened. I regret this missed opportunity.
Those who truly knew Alhaji Ibrahim Bello will testify to the purity of his soul. He was a man without malice, without arrogance, and without prejudice. Whether you were rich or poor, educated or unlettered, a prince or a peasant, you could walk into the palace and be heard. His doors were open, and his heart was open wider. He loved people. He loved peace. And above all, he loved Allah and His Messenger.
The Emir was a champion of education. He encouraged schooling not just through rhetoric, but through example. He supported Islamic schools and western education alike. He hated injustice in all its forms. I witnessed first-hand how many disputes—between family members, friends, business associates—were brought before him and settled with remarkable fairness.
There was nothing pompous or pretentious about him. He was a king, but he carried no airs. He was a descendant of royalty, yet he lived with humility and grace. His throne was not a pedestal for pride, but a platform for service. He listened. He advised. He blessed. And he forgave. You would never find him speaking ill of others or raising his voice in vain arguments.
When I think of him now, I see not the flowing robes and turbans of royalty, but the gentle smile that greeted me every time I entered his presence. I hear not the drums of palace ceremonies, but the calm wisdom with which he settled disputes. I remember not his title, but his character. And that, in the end, is what matters.
I pray that Allah forgives his shortcomings, elevates his rank, and grants him a noble station among the righteous. I pray that He allows me, too, to be counted among those who will be neighbors of the Prophet Muhammad (SAW) in the eternal gardens of al-Firdaus. And I pray that Gusau, Zamfara, and Nigeria at large find another leader with his kind of honesty, diplomacy, religious commitment, and accessibility.
In a time when traditional leadership has become tainted with corruption and ego, Alhaji Ibrahim Bello stood apart—a model of moderation, justice, and simplicity. He has returned to his Lord, but he leaves behind memories that will not be erased, lessons that will not be forgotten, and relationships that will endure beyond the grave.
May his soul rest in eternal peace. Amin
By: Mallam Mande Faru
