I first met Abubakar Sokoto Mohammed—then still answering to the perfectly ordinary name Garba Mamman—in January 1964 at Provincial Secondary School, Sokoto now Nagarta college. We were members of the pioneering first intake of 90 boys in Form one: wide-eyed boys divided into three streams- A, B, and C. Fate, placed Abubakar and me in Magajin Gari House, with our beds neatly positioned side by side. From that simple arrangement grew a lifelong friendship—proof that some of the most important relationships begin with nothing more than proximity.
Midway through secondary school, Garba Mamman quietly reinvented himself as Abubakar Mohammed Sokoto. The reason was entirely practical. There was another Garba Mamman in circulation whose notoriety was regrettably more visible, leading to frequent and unfair confusion between the two. My friend—mischievous in his own right, as they come—often found himself associated with and punished forincidents in which he had no part. With characteristic foresight, he chose early on to officially change his name toAbubakar Mohammed Sokoto—an act of clarity, dignity, and quiet self-assertion. It was an early indication of his instinct for integrity, reputation, and personal responsibility—qualities that defined the man he became and the life he lived.
Born in 1950, he was an only child who lost his father—an ex-serviceman from Rabah town in Sokoto who had served during the Second World War—while still in primary school. Raised by a remarkable mother, with the steady guidance of an uncle, Abubakar grew up with an independence of mind and quiet resilience that set him apart.
By our fourth year in Secondary, the great academic divide arrived: Science and Arts. I went to Science; Abubakar to Arts—where, frankly, he belonged. English Literature, History, and Arabic were his natural habitat. He loved words the way some people love football, and he treated books not as assignments but as companions.
One book, in particular, captured him completely: Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales. Night after night, as I wrestled with formulas and equations, Abubakar would recite passages with theatrical enthusiasm, animating Chaucer’s pilgrims as they skewered hypocrisy, debated morality, and exposed the contradictions of power and piety. Medieval England came alive in our dormitory—often well past lights-out. Even as a science student, resistance was futile; his performances pushed me to read far beyond my syllabus.
History fascinated him just as deeply, especially the adventures of Portuguese explorers in Africa. One morning, with the confidence only a teenage intellectual can muster, he announced that he had adopted yet another name: Vasco da Gama. It was half serious, half playful, but entirely Abubakar—curious, outward-looking, and eager to place Africa at the centre of global history, even if through borrowed Portuguese shoes.
Our friendship went beyond the school walls. On weekends, I would accompany him into town, where I was treated to what I still consider some of the finest home-cooked meals, lovingly prepared by his mother. During long vacations, I stayed with him for days in Sokoto; at other times, he visited me in Gusau. One of his home’s great advantages—never lost on us—was that it sat barely five minutes from NorthernCinema. Indian films and Westerns became part of our informal curriculum, exposing us to worlds that ranged from Bollywood melodrama to cowboy justice.
After our O’Levels, Abubakar remained in Sokoto—now Government Secondary School—for his A’Levels -1969–1970, while I proceeded to Barewa College, Zaria. These were intellectually and politically charged years. At Barewa, towering figures such as Bala Yusuf Usman, who taught us World Affairs as the A’Level General paper and served as Patron of the UN Club—of which I was President—shaped our thinking. Debates on Vietnam, imperialism, and global injustice were intense, and ideas truly mattered.
History itself intruded dramatically on our Barewa A’Level Arts set. Most memorably, the A’Level History syllabus on The Tudors was inexplicably replaced with African History—a change discovered only after the fact by the principal. The decision triggered a major crisis that nearly derailed our studies, but common sense eventually prevailed and the matter was resolved. That strange episode was emblematic of the times and foreshadowed the intellectual ferment of the era—one that would later shape Abubakar’s own political awakening, as he went on to join and blend seamlessly with many of my Barewa schoolmates and even of our teacher who also conveniently moved to Ahmadu Bello University.
We temporarily lost touch when I went abroad to study veterinary medicine, but we reunited in December 1977. On my way to Lagos to report for the NYSC, I stopped in Samaru Zaria. There he was—recognisable yet transformed: an afro, jeans, and Bob Marley, Fela, Hugh Masekela and Jimi Hendrix providing the soundtrack. Instinctively, I greeted him: “Long time no see, Vasco da Gama.”
He smiled and corrected me gently. He was no longer Vasco da Gama. He was now Vasco Cabral, after Amílcar Cabral—the African revolutionary and anti-colonial thinker. By then, Abubakar was deeply engaged with the ABU radical group, guided and inspired by intellectual giants such as his mentor and Head of Department, Professor Patrick Wilmot, and the late Dr. Bala Yusuf Usman. His journey—from Chaucer to Cabral—was not a contradiction but a continuum, weaving together literature, history, liberation, and principle. It was this deep engagement with ideas and justice that led him to produce an outstanding MSc thesis on the 1906 Satiru Revolt, a daring anti-colonial uprising by peasants and slaves against British rule in Northern Nigeria.
Abubakar’s passing came suddenly, leaving a profound sense of loss. We spoke regularly and often exchanged WhatsApp clips, sharing the small joys of everyday life. On 5th December, he mentioned pains in his ribs and numbness in his feet, and later told me that an orthopaedic consultant had recommended immediate surgery.
I was deeply moved when he said, “Junaidu, pray for me.” Those words struck me because they came from a man who had always embodied piety, dignity, and quiet strength. He endured the heartbreak of losing his wives—first Khadijah, and later Ige—yet he raised six children with unwavering courage, determination, and love. His life was a testament to resilience, faith, and devotion to family. Tragically, he left us on 11th December 2025. Truly, we belong to Allah, and to Him we shall return.
That was Abubakar Sokoto Mohammed: thoughtful, intellectually fearless, loyal in friendship, and always evolving. I was privileged to walk of that journey with him—from two beds side by side in Magajin Gari House in Government Secondary School, Sokoto to a lifetime of shared memories, ideas, and respect. May Allah (SAW) grant him eternal rest in Aljannah Firdausi.
