The Almajiri System: Reforming Islamic Education in Northern Africa

Every morning in Northern Nigeria, countless young boys wander the streets with small bowls in hand, begging for food instead of sitting in classrooms. These are the Almajirai—students of traditional Islamic schools known as Tsangaya. While the sight often evokes pity or criticism, I believe it represents a much deeper tension between faith, culture, and the modern state. What began as a noble pursuit of Islamic knowledge has, over time, become one of Nigeria’s most pressing social and educational dilemmas (Hoechner, 2018).

The Tsangaya system itself has deep historical and religious significance. Traditionally, it was structured around Quranic memorisation, Islamic scholarship, and moral discipline under the supervision of a mallam, who acted as both teacher and guardian. Many of these schools operated within close-knit rural communities where pupils contributed through household chores or agricultural labour, and in return received instruction, accommodation, and spiritual mentorship. At its core, the system was designed to produce devoted scholars, community leaders, and individuals grounded in Islamic ethics.

The Almajiri system was never meant to be synonymous with poverty or neglect. Historically, it was a structured, community-supported form of learning where students studied under scholars in exchange for modest sustenance (Umar, 2003). It was built on moral discipline and self-reliance—a model that once thrived in the moral economies of precolonial societies. But as population growth, urbanization, and economic decline took hold, this system was left behind by modernization. Today, an estimated 10 million children wander city streets, victims of a system that no longer aligns with contemporary realities (Awofeso et al., 2012).

Perhaps,what went wrong is not the Almajiri concept itself but Nigeria’s failure to adapt it. The same system that once produced respected Islamic jurists and scholars is now producing generations without literacy, numeracy, or employable skills. The underlying issue is rooted in structural and institutional failures rather than in the religious philosophy of the system. The communities that once sustained these boys can no longer meet their needs. Some Mallams still teaches with sincerity, but many lack resources, while others, sadly, exploit the system for survival (Aluaigba, 2009). Reform, therefore, must go beyond sympathy - it requires rethinking how traditional learning can coexist with modern education.

However, reforming the Almajiri system cannot be achieved through force or foreign models alone. Many parents still see sending their sons to Tsangaya schools as a moral and religious duty. Suggesting that they abandon this practice feels like attacking their faith. In my opinion, the challenge is to redesign the system so that parents can see that religious and formal education are not mutually exclusive but complementary. This means integrating Quranic studies with basic literacy, numeracy, and vocational training - allowing the Almajiri children to memorize the Quran and also learn the skills needed to thrive in modern Nigeria.

Some states have already experimented with integrated Almajiri schools, but inconsistent funding, poor monitoring, and lack of political ommitment have limited their success (Dukku, 2012). Sustainable reform will require collaboration among government, religious leaders, local communities, and development partners. Above all, it demands respect for the system’s cultural and spiritual value. Imposed solutions without dialogue are bound to fail.

Ultimately, the Almajiri question is not just about education - it is about Nigeria’s future. A society that leaves millions of children uneducated risks perpetuating cycles of poverty and insecurity. Reform must therefore be both compassionate and practical: a balance between faith and function, tradition and transformation. The goal should not be to erase the Almajiri system but to adapt it - ensuring that every child can study the Quran and still read a newspaper, recite hadith and understand mathematics, believe in God and also believe in their own potential.

That's the balance Northern Nigeria needs to find - and it's one worth fighting for.

FATIMAH A. ADEBOWALE