From Dawn to Dusk: A Day in the Life of an Almajiri Child in Runji, Zuba (Part 2)By Anthony EzeRUNJI, ZUBA, ABUJA —

This report is a follow-up to our earlier story on Almajiri children in Runji, Zuba, which examined community perspectives on the issue.

Read Part 1 here:

https://tfreshcivicvoice.blogspot.com/2026/04/left-to-streets-inside-struggles-of.html

The first light of dawn had barely touched the dusty roads of Gwagwalada when Musa stepped out, a small plastic bowl in his hand and uncertainty in his eyes.

At 16, his mornings do not begin with school bells or breakfast at home. They begin with movement, walking from street to street, hoping for kindness, hoping for food, hoping to make it through another day.

“I go out early so I can find something before the sun becomes too hot,” he said quietly.

For Musa, this is not occasional hardship. It is routine.

Around him, other boys begin to stir. Some whisper softly. Others remain curled up, holding onto sleep for a few more minutes before the day begins.

By sunrise, Musa is seated before his Mallam, reciting verses of the Qur’an in a low, rhythmic tone. His voice blends with those of other children, rising and falling in unison.

This is how his mornings begin.

But by mid-morning, his routine changes.

With a small plastic bowl in his hand, Musa steps into the streets of Runji. Barefoot, he walks from one compound to another, stopping at gates and doorways.

“Please, anything for food,” he says quietly.

Sometimes, a woman hands him leftover rice. Sometimes, a passerby drops a coin into his bowl. Often, no one responds.

On a good day, he eats before noon. On a bad day, he keeps walking.

“I feel hungry most times,” he says.

By afternoon, the sun grows harsh. Dust clings to his feet as he moves through the same streets again, hoping for a different outcome.

For Musa, this is not unusual. It is life.

Like many children within the traditional Almajiri system, he was sent from his home in another town to study the Qur’an under a Mallam in Zuba.

He does not see his parents often.

“I came here to learn,” he says. “But sometimes, I miss home.”

Back at the mosque, his teacher, Salisu Isah, says the system was never meant to leave children struggling.

“The purpose is for them to learn,” he explains. “But many parents cannot support them, and we too have families to care for.”

As a result, many of the children depend on what they can find during the day.

In the community, reactions remain mixed.

Some residents offer help when they can. Others are more cautious.

“They come regularly to beg,” says a trader, Mrs. Maryloveth. “But sometimes, some of them steal, and that makes people afraid.”

A local school teacher, Mrs. Otokpa, worries about the long-term impact on children like Musa.

“If they do not get formal education, it affects their future,” she says. “They may struggle to communicate or meet the standards expected in society.”

She believes both systems of education can work together.

“They need both Islamic and formal education to develop properly,” she adds.

As evening approaches, Musa returns to the mosque. His steps are slower now. The bowl in his hand feels light.

Today was not a good day.

He sits quietly among the other boys. Some have food. Others do not. There is no complaint — just a shared understanding of the day’s outcome.

When asked what he hopes for, Musa pauses.

“I want to learn,” he says. Then, after a moment, he adds softly, “and have a better life.”

In Runji, as the sun sets and the streets grow quiet, children like Musa prepare to sleep, uncertain of what the next day will bring, but knowing it will begin the same way.

Anthony Eze.