What I Saw In Yobe: Buni’s Transformation Beyond Headlines, by Hussaini Ibrahim.

What I Saw in Yobe: Buni’s Transformation Beyond Headlines,by Hussaini Ibrahim.

On Saturday, June 21, 2025, I took a trip from Kano to Yobe State to attend the wedding of a close friend. I hadn’t visited the state in years, and truth be told, I wasn’t expecting much beyond the lingering echoes of insecurity often associated with the Northeast. But what I encountered was not only surprising—it was deeply moving.

After hours on the road, I arrived in Potiskum shortly after 10:30 a.m., dusty and travel-weary. The bustling town welcomed me with a wave of calm and unexpected vibrancy. I rested for a few minutes at a roadside café near the main junction, soaking in the sights and sounds of a place alive with quiet energy. Hawkers lined the pavements. Commercial motorcyclists zipped through smooth, paved roads. Shops were open, and people moved freely—doing business, socializing, and going about their day with confidence.

What struck me immediately was the orderliness. The roads were clean, coal tarred, and neatly marked. Streetlights—tall, modern, and functional—stood on both sides of the highway, glowing even under the daylight. It was clear that something significant had changed here. And it didn’t take long before I found my answer.

A few meters away, I met Malam Mai Ibrahim, a middle-aged fruit seller whose kiosk was neatly arranged beneath one of the new solar-powered streetlights. We struck up a conversation. When I asked about life under Governor Mai Mala Buni’s administration, his eyes lit up with genuine appreciation.

“Wallahi, this governor is different,” he told me with conviction. “Since Buni came in, things are changing. Security has improved, and that’s why people are coming back. Businesses are returning. Investors are coming too. We’re no longer afraid to stay open late.”

He then gestured toward his fruit table. “Even me, I got help from the government small—empowerment. It’s not big, but it helped me start again after I lost everything to Boko Haram.”

From Potiskum, I continued to Damaturu, the state capital—and that’s where the real transformation unfolded before my eyes.

As I entered the city, I was momentarily disoriented. Was this really Yobe? Or had I taken a wrong turn into Abuja?

Wide roads stretched into the distance, newly paved and lined with landscaped medians. Pedestrian bridges were under construction, and a massive flyover project stood in full force. Unlike the skeletal structures I expected, what I found were completed ultra-modern market complexes on both sides of the highway—functioning, well-organized, and buzzing with activity. The architectural design, signage, and planning could rival anything in Nigeria’s more developed cities.

In Damaturu, I walked through parts of one of the completed markets. I was told it contains shops, cold rooms, storage units, and even banking halls. Traders I met spoke of improved planning, reliable security, and increased earnings.

“We are seeing real governance,” said Halima Kyari, a young woman selling children’s clothing. “This is the first time in a long time that I feel proud to say I live in Yobe.”

As I drove around the city, I passed by several public schools—and what I saw warmed my heart. The school grounds were full of life. Pupils in neatly dressed uniforms were either walking home in groups, playing football in open fields, or seated under shades with their books. It was a clear mark of a relaxed, congenial atmosphere—evidence of a community reclaiming normalcy and childhood joy.

I was also pleasantly surprised by the type of security presence in the city. Contrary to the usual expectation of heavy military deployment in Northeast states, I saw no intimidating army patrols. Instead, there were courteous officials from YOROTA, the Federal Road Safety Corps, and the Nigeria Police Force—present at checkpoints but calm and professional.

One interaction particularly stood out. At a checkpoint, a police officer flagged us down and asked, politely, where we were headed. We told him we were going to a wedding. With a warm smile, and as a fellow Muslim, he prayed for us and offered his blessings. His gesture was so genuine that we felt compelled to offer him some food and a few notes as a token of appreciation—not out of obligation, but out of shared goodwill.

That simple moment spoke volumes. It reflected not only improved security but also a renewed relationship of mutual respect between residents and operatives. Such human interactions are rare in places once gripped by fear.

I couldn’t help but reflect on how far the state has come. Just a few years ago, Damaturu was synonymous with curfews, military checkpoints, and bomb scares. Today, it feels like a city in motion—developing, safe, and open for business.

Every corner of Yobe I saw that day bore a trace of Buni’s leadership. From improved infrastructure to revived commerce, from grassroots empowerment to the confidence returning to ordinary people, the signs were clear: Yobe is being reshaped not by promises, but by purposeful action.

As the sun began to dip over the skyline of Damaturu, bathing the streets in warm amber light, I paused to take in the view. I saw children crossing designated pedestrian paths. I saw solar-powered streetlights flicker on, ready for the night ahead. I saw hope.

In that moment, I understood what good governance truly looks like—not in press releases or political slogans, but in real places, real lives, and the voices of everyday people like Malam Ibrahim and a kind-hearted policeman.

Yobe is rising—and at the heart of it is a leader who listens, acts, and leads with vision: Governor Mai Mala Buni.