officialkariq

24/07/2026

Stop 🛑 the public disrespect to avoid the private apology

22/03/2026

I’ve had this video for about five years now.

It sits quietly in my phone like a wound that never fully closed… just covered. Every time I scroll past it, I pause. Not because I want to watch it, but because I remember how it felt to be there.

That day wasn’t planned to change me.

I went out for a simple outreach to a community that the Fulani jihadist have repeatedly attacked on the outskirts, just a few bags of rice, some clothes, noodles, 🍜 biscuits, and the usual “i came to help” mindset. Cameras ready. Smiles prepared. I thought I was bringing hope.

But hope was already there… just in a form i didn’t understand.

The moment i arrived, the children ran out barefoot, mud splashing. No hesitation. No shyness. Just raw, unfiltered joy. They held my hands like they had known me forever.

Then I met her.

She couldn’t have been more than five. Thin. Quiet. Watching more than talking. While others rushed for biscuits, she stayed back, holding a broken toy 🧸 like it was gold.

I walked up to her, knelt down, and asked her name.

She didn’t answer.

Instead, she asked me a question I wasn’t ready for.

“Are you going back today?”

That question… it broke something in me.

I forced a smile and said yes. That is always the plan.

She nodded slowly, like she already knew. Like she had seen this story too many times, people come, people give, people leave.

Then she said softly,
“Please don’t forget me.” 😭

Not “us.”
Me.

I gave her one of the toys 🧸 i brought. Brand new. Bright. Perfect. She took it… but she didn’t smile. She just held it close, like she was trying to hold on to something deeper than the toy itself.

The video captured everything, the laughter, the singing, the group photos. It even caught me smiling.

But it didn’t capture the weight I carried when i drove away.

I looked back through the window and saw her standing there… not waving, not crying. Just watching. Like she was used to goodbye.

That night, I couldn’t sleep.

Because I realized something painful… i didn’t just visit them.

I reopened something in them.

And then i left.

For five years, I couldn’t post the video. It felt wrong to turn their reality into content. It felt like telling a story I hadn’t finished.

Because outreach isn’t one day.
Love isn’t one visit.
And care isn’t a camera moment.

The video isn’t about what i gave.

It’s about what i didn’t stay to become. 😭

KariQ™
2021 ©

20/01/2026

08/01/2026

I write this with a heavy heart, not as an outsider throwing stones, but as a son of the soil. As someone who understands Southern Kaduna, who has watched our people marry, celebrate, struggle, and sometimes lose their way. This is not an attack on culture. It is a lament for how culture is being twisted.

In today’s marriage seeking ecosystem, and very clearly in Southern Kaduna, marriage has quietly shifted from a union of families into a marketplace.

Love walks in with hope, but money is waiting at the door with a calculator. Young men no longer ask “are you ready to build a home?” They ask “how much will this cost me before I even start living?”

In Southern Kaduna, especially among people like the Kaninkon, marriage was never meant to crush a man before he becomes a husband.

The idea was balance. Responsibility shared. Support given. Marriage was a beginning, not a punishment for falling in having money at young age or love.

Dowry was symbolic. Respectful. Manageable. It was never extortion. (𝙰𝚔𝚠𝚊𝚒 𝚜𝚎𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚜𝚑 𝚊𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚔𝚒)

Today, many young men are being bled dry in the name of dowry, under conditions that are neither cultural, nor borrowed, nor adopted from any known neighboring tribe. These conditions are simply invented. Created in sitting rooms. Negotiated in whispers between mothers and daughters.

A young man shows interest. He is serious. He is working. He is not perfect, but he is responsible. Instead of encouragement, he is handed a list that looks like a contract for suffering.

Cash demands with no explanation. Multiple ceremonies, each with its own price tag.

𝚃𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚍𝚞𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗.
𝚃𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐.
𝚃𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚖𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛.
𝚃𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚒𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚎𝚕𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚜.

By the time he is done, he hasn’t even married the woman yet, but his savings are gone, his confidence is shaken, and his future plans are already delayed.

What makes it more painful is when mothers actively connive with their daughters. This must be said plainly. Some mothers no longer prepare their daughters for marriage, they prepare them for extraction.

The daughter knows the man is being stretched. The mother knows it too. Yet both keep quiet, hoping to squeeze just a little more before he escapes.

𝙻𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚜 𝚕𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚐𝚎.
𝙼𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚊𝚐𝚎 𝚋𝚎𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚜 𝚊 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚜𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗.

Then comes the deepest insult.

After all the payments, all the stress, all the borrowed money, some parents will send their daughter to her matrimonial home empty-handed, hiding under the excuse that “𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚋𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚎𝚜𝚗’𝚝 𝚍𝚘 𝙶𝚊𝚛𝚊.

This is where the hypocrisy becomes loud.

Gara, or Kayan Gara, is not a foreign concept. It is not a borrowed idea. It is deeply rooted across Southern Kaduna and the wider North, middle belt and some African countries. Among the Kaninkon, Kurama, Kuturmi, Ham, GWONG, Koro, Ruruma, Ninzo, Adara, Gbagyi, Numana people, Gara is a statement.

It said: 𝚆𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚝 𝚍𝚞𝚖𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚍𝚊𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞. 𝚆𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚙𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚗𝚎𝚠 𝚑𝚘𝚖𝚎.

Traditionally, Gara was food. Real food. Grains, pepper, oil, spices. Enough to last the couple for months, sometimes close to a year. It reduced pressure. It gave the young husband breathing space. It allowed the couple to focus on understanding each other, not on daily survival. It showed that the bride’s family had trained their daughter and were standing behind her marriage.

Some families went further, depending on strength. A bed. Basic furniture. Cooking utensils. Sometimes even small electronics. Not as competition. Not for display. But as practical help. (sɹǝʇsᴉs ʎɯ ǝʌᴉƃ ʎnq oƃ I ɹɐɔ ɐN).

Today, the same families that demand outrageous dowries suddenly claim poverty or “culture” when it is time to support the new home. They say, “We don’t do Gara,” yet they have just finished collecting things their ancestors never demanded.

So the young man pays heavily, and still starts marriage alone. Rent to pay. Food to buy. Furniture to improvise. Expectations to meet. Pressure to perform. And when things begin to shake, society blames him. “He is not responsible.” “He is not providing.” Nobody remembers how he was stripped before the marriage even began.

This distortion is one of the quiet reasons many young men in Southern Kaduna are avoiding marriage. Not because they are irresponsible, but because they are afraid. Afraid of being financially ambushed. Afraid of marrying into a family that sees them as an ATM, not as a son.

Marriage should test character, not destroy capacity. Dowry should honour culture, not weaponize it. Mothers should be custodians of wisdom, not partners in exploitation. Daughters should be prepared for partnership, not coached to endure injustice in silence.

Among the 99% southern kaduna people, marriage used to be a handshake between families, not a tug of war. We are losing that balance. And if we don’t speak honestly about it now, we will keep wondering why homes are breaking, why young people delay marriage, and why bitterness walks into unions that should have started with joy.

This is not nostalgia. This is a warning. Culture survives only when it serves the people. The moment it becomes a tool for greed, it begins to rot from the inside.

KariQ™
[email protected]
Zé Bawa, Ngahkyob.

04/01/2026

Dear Ladies, hear this without filters. No pun intended .

If you’re being toasted every single day by random men, pause. That’s not always admiration. Often, it’s access. Men chase what looks easy to reach, not what looks hard to earn. Constant toasting is not a badge of honor, many times it’s a red flag.

A woman of high caliber moves differently. Her standards are loud even when she’s silent. She doesn’t market herself cheaply with attention-seeking behavior, oversharing, or loose boundaries. Because of that, she’s not approached recklessly. She’s approached carefully. With respect. With intention.

Men value what they fear losing and respect what they have to rise to meet. When there’s no mystery, no discipline, no self-respect, the approach becomes casual, unserious, and disposable.

This is advice, not an order, my sisters.
Audit how you present yourself.
Audit your boundaries.
Audit the kind of attention you attract.

Attention is common. Respect is rare.
Choose which one you want to be known for.

KariQ™
[email protected]