In Loving Memory of a Principal, Historian, Mentor, Guardian and Father Figure29 October 2006 – 29 October 2026Some men pass through our lives and leave memories. Others pass through our lives and become part of the very architecture of who we are. Mallam Mohammed Kudu Tsadu belonged, unmistakably, to the latter.
Twenty years ago today, on 29 October 2006, the ill-fated ADC Airlines plane crash brought to a tragic and abrupt end the earthly journey of a man whose influence extended far beyond the classrooms, assembly grounds and administrative corridors of the Federal Government Colleges he served. Among the precious lives lost that day was Mallam Mohammed Kudu Tsadu, known to me simply as Mallam, and to generations of his students as “Princi”, an affectionate abbreviation of his title as Principal. Two decades have passed, yet neither time nor the distance imposed by death has diminished my affection, admiration and gratitude for this extraordinary gentleman.
For me, Mallam was never merely a school principal. He was my late father’s schoolmate and friend, my guardian, my mentor, my benefactor and, in so many respects, another father. The story of my educational journey cannot be faithfully told without acknowledging his place in it.
A Friendship That Preceded Me
Our relationship had its foundations in a friendship that preceded my birth. Mallam and my late father had been schoolmates, and the bond formed in their youth endured into adulthood. It became a bridge between generations, extending its affection and its benefits to me as my father’s son. There was a family connection too: Mallam’s late eldest wife, Hajiya Yanana, was related to my mother, so that what began as friendship assumed the character of kinship.
Against this background, Mallam facilitated my admission into Federal Government College, Maiduguri, where he was then Principal. That admission began a remarkable educational journey under his watchful, fatherly guidance. When he moved to Federal Government College, Minna, providence made our paths converge again: after my Junior Secondary School examinations in Maiduguri, I transferred to FGC Minna for my Senior Secondary education, once again under his principalship.
Thus, across six formative years in two distinguished Federal Unity Colleges, Mallam was a constant presence in my educational and personal development. He was a principal to hundreds of students, but to me he was also a guardian whose concern extended well beyond the school gates.
And what a principal he was!
Princi
Charismatic, impeccably dressed, eloquent, jovial, humorous, kind-hearted and possessed of an infectious love for education, Mallam commanded respect without surrendering his humanity. He had a presence that filled an assembly ground, a voice that carried authority without unnecessary harshness, and a warmth that made even the most intimidating office seem accessible.
To us, he was Princi. The nickname was at once a recognition of his position and an expression of the affection his students held for him: a man who could be revered from a distance, yet remembered with fondness and familiarity.
A historian by training, he was also a consummate storyteller. He had the rare gift of bringing history to life, turning personalities, places and events into captivating narratives rich in humour, perspective and lesson. His stories were seldom mere excursions into the past. They were instruments of education, ways of explaining human behaviour, interrogating choices, illuminating consequences and imparting wisdom without the stiffness of formal instruction. He understood that the best teachers do not simply convey information; they awaken curiosity and make knowledge memorable.
His command of the English language was impeccable. Whether recounting an episode from history, offering counsel or addressing a school assembly, he spoke with a fluency and authority that made listening a pleasure, and his speeches were masterclasses in articulation and public communication. We looked forward to his end-of-term assemblies, not merely because the holidays were approaching, but because Princi had a signature announcement that became part of our collective schoolboy memory:
“And as such, all the Federal Government Colleges are going on holidays from……”
Even as I write, I can almost hear it, in its familiar cadence and characteristic authority. For generations of students, those words were more than an announcement. They were the sound of anticipation, the promise of homecoming and the unmistakable signature of a principal who knew how to make even the ordinary memorable.
The Firm Hand Beneath the Smile
It would be an incomplete portrait, however, to dwell on his humour, eloquence and warmth without recalling the formidable disciplinarian beneath the genial exterior.
For all his joviality, Princi did not take kindly to indiscipline or academic indifference. Nothing seemed to upset him more than a student who treated education casually or flouted school rules. When provoked by serious misconduct or persistent negligence, his anger could be quite formidable. The same man who could hold us spellbound with an amusing historical anecdote could, moments later, become stern and uncompromising in defence of the standards of his institution.
Yet even in those moments there was a philosophy at work: he expected much of his students because he believed them capable of much. He held that education was a privilege that carried responsibility, and that intellect without discipline and character was an unfinished undertaking. He could laugh with his students without becoming indifferent to their shortcomings; he could be accessible without compromising the authority of his office; he could be affectionate and demanding in equal measure. It was leadership exercised with both humanity and conviction.
The Principal Who Listened
But perhaps Mallam’s greatest distinction lay not in how he presided over students, but in how he related to people.
He could command an entire school assembly and, moments later, sit among young people, listen to their arguments, laugh at their jokes and engage their opinions with remarkable respect. He did not believe that wisdom was diminished by listening to younger voices. He understood, instinctively, that education is not merely the transmission of knowledge but the cultivation of confidence, character and independent thought.
That quality became even more evident during my undergraduate years at the University of Abuja. By then Mallam had moved to Federal Government College, Kwali, and his home in Gwagwalada became another sanctuary for me. I was socially active, deeply involved in student leadership and given to the predictable exuberance of university life. My circle of friends was wide, my visitors frequent and my engagements numerous. I was hardly the quietest young man to accommodate.
Yet Mallam tolerated it all with extraordinary patience and generosity. He welcomed us, engaged us and often sat with us in conversations that ranged from the serious to the humorous. Remarkably, he sometimes sought our opinions and consulted us on matters, treating us not as troublesome young men in need of perpetual correction but as emerging adults whose views deserved consideration.
Looking back, I appreciate the profundity of that gesture. He was not merely preparing young people to pass examinations; he was preparing them to occupy their places in society with confidence and dignity.
Within his household, my sense of belonging was strengthened by the family ties between us. It was a home in which I found affection, familiarity and acceptance. In a sense, Mallam had inherited me from his friendship with my father, and had graciously taken upon himself the responsibility of helping to guide my passage into adulthood.
A Bond That Outlived Him
And that bond has outlived Mallam himself.
I remain particularly close to his younger brother, Mohammed Tsadu, who was my guide during my FGC Maiduguri years and later became my colleague at the University of Abuja. Equally dear to me is Mallam’s son, Yanda, who also passed through the University of Abuja and remains my beloved younger brother to this day. These are not connections retained out of courtesy to the departed. They are living expressions of a relationship founded on genuine affection, strengthened across generations and sustained by shared memories. Death may have taken Mallam from our physical presence, but it never severed the bonds he so generously helped to establish.
There is another memory I treasure. While hundreds of students knew me by the nickname “M-Square”, Mallam himself adopted it in addressing me. Coming from him, it carried a peculiar warmth, an affectionate acknowledgement that dissolved the formal distance between principal and student. In my mind I can still hear him calling out, “M-Square!”, in that unmistakable mixture of humour, familiarity and fatherly affection.
Twenty years later, how I wish I could hear that voice once again.
Gratitude on the Record
My appreciation of Mallam’s influence has never been confined to private recollection. At each of the three defining stages of my university education, my Bachelor of Science, Master of Science and Doctor of Philosophy degrees, I considered it both a privilege and a personal obligation to acknowledge his contribution to my intellectual and personal development. His name found a place in the acknowledgements of my B.Sc. and M.Sc. dissertations, and again in my doctoral thesis, where I paid tribute to the late Mallam Mohammed Kudu Tsadu, who served as my principal in the two Federal Government Colleges I attended and later became my guardian during my undergraduate studies in Gwagwalada.
This was never a matter of academic formality. It was an enduring expression of gratitude to a man whose commitment to my education began long before I understood the meaning of scholarship, mentorship or attainment.
There is something profoundly symbolic in the continuity. The schoolmate of my father became the principal of his son; the principal became a guardian; the guardian became a mentor; and the mentor’s influence accompanied that son through three university degrees, even beyond his own lifetime. If education is the transmission of knowledge across generations, then Mallam’s life was itself an extraordinary lesson in the transmission of goodwill across generations.
I have always believed that no one’s success is entirely self-authored. Behind every achievement stand the sacrifices, encouragement and goodwill of others whose contributions may never appear on a certificate or in an official biography. Mallam was one such indispensable contributor to my own journey.
Even after his passing, I have found occasions to defend his memory whenever conversations threatened to diminish the dignity of the departed. Not because I considered him beyond human imperfection, but because I knew, from personal experience, the enormous good he represented. A man who has departed this world deserves to be remembered with fairness, and those whose lives he helped shape bear a particular responsibility to bear witness to his humanity. For that reason I have never hesitated to say that Mallam Mohammed Kudu Tsadu was a father figure to me, and that his memory deserves the respect owed to a man who invested so much of himself in the education and development of others.
The Assembly Still Remembers
Today, reflecting on twenty years without him, I return to a simple but profound truth: the true measure of an educator is not how many students passed through his school, but how much of his influence continues to live in those students long after the school years have ended.
By that measure, Mallam’s legacy remains enormous. His eloquence lives in our memories. His humour still brings a smile. His sartorial elegance remains unforgettable. His historical narratives continue to echo in the minds of those who listened. His insistence on discipline and academic seriousness remains a reminder that good education demands both effort and character. His kindness continues to inspire gratitude, and his extraordinary capacity to relate to young people remains a lesson in leadership that I appreciate more with every passing year.
The classrooms have changed. The assembly grounds have welcomed new generations. The familiar faces of our school years have scattered across professions, countries and continents. Some of our teachers have themselves answered the final call. Yet somewhere in the recesses of memory, a charismatic principal still stands before an expectant assembly, impeccably dressed, perhaps with another captivating historical anecdote just concluded, his voice rising with characteristic clarity:
“And as such, all the Federal Government Colleges are going on holidays from……”
Only this time, Princi, the holiday has lasted twenty years, and the assembly you left behind still remembers.
May Almighty Allah, in His infinite mercy, forgive your shortcomings, reward your good deeds, illuminate your grave, expand your resting place and grant you the highest station in Aljannatul Firdaus. Ameen.
May He continue to strengthen the family you left behind, bless the generations that bear your name and preserve the beautiful legacy of kindness, service and educational leadership that you bequeathed to us.
Twenty years have passed, Mallam. But some voices never fade, some kindnesses never expire, and some fathers never truly leave their children.
Rest peacefully, Mallam Mohammed Kudu Tsadu.
Your M-Square still remembers.
Mohammed Mohammed Haruna, PhD
Former Student, FGC Maiduguri and FGC Minna
29 October 2026
