A tulu in Hausa is a clay water pot. Simple. It stands by the doorway or under a neem tree. It cools water for the tired, the fasting, the traveller, and the neighbour. The rim greets the lips before the tongue finds relief. The pot is ordinary, public, and faithful to the people.
From that plain object, a larger meaning emerges. Our elders say, rayuwa sai da ruwa. Life exists only with water. He who keeps water keeps life within reach. A good tulu is washed at dawn, refilled before the heat of the day, and set where all can drink. It never draws attention to itself. It serves. Our elders say, mai ruwa ba ya hana baki sha. He who has water does not prevent others from drinking. These sayings are not mere ornaments. These are rules for living together.
Gwandu embodies this ethic in its very nature. It is an old citadel of authority and learning. When the Emir ties a turban, he does not issue compliments. He assigns duty. A title from that court is a pledge that can be inspected in the open. The bearer must live it in grain markets, courtyards, village squares, and on long roads where strangers turn into guests.
This is the frame for Tulun Gwandu. The image is domestic, yet the task is public. The title announces one who holds and protects life as a daily habit. It asks the community to test the claim with its own thirst.
Y. C. Maikyau, SAN, OON, has met that test in the simplest ways that matter most. He farms large tracts of land. He does not hoard. He does not sell. The harvest leaves his barns as cool water leaves a pot set at the threshold. Ward heads come with their lists. Widows receive sacks. Schools receive grain. Young men load and push the carts. Old women pray. The act looks quiet until you imagine the kitchens it saves at dusk, the children who sleep with full bellies, the homes that regain their calm when hunger loosens its grip.
He shelters those fleeing banditry from Kebbi and Niger State. The stories arrive with the dust of the roads. A father who lost his shop. A mother who crossed a river with two children and one wrapper. A boy whose school was silenced by gunfire. Through his acts of kindness, doors are opened, mats are spread, water is set out first, followed by food and a place to sleep.
Picture a compound at noon in the dry season, where the air is stagnant. The neem throws a small, exact shade. The tulu sits with its clay sides damp and cool. A cup rests beside it, a simple calabash. Hands reach. Conversation pauses. The water enters the body like counsel. It corrects heat. It quiets doubt. This is not sentiment. This is the logic of survival in the savannah.
Uncured clay cracks. A pot that is not rinsed will become sour. Service needs the same care. It costs the giver something to do so. The pot cools by losing a portion of its heat to the air surrounding it. A man who serves loses time, strength, and comfort, and he counts none of it as loss. He keeps his vessel in good condition, so the water remains sweet. He places it where strangers can reach it without asking for permission. He refills it before it runs dry.
The title Tulun Gwandu captures this standard and sets it in a name that the people own. It says that leadership is not measured only by office or speech. It is measured by how many thirsts you quench and how many weary bodies you shelter. It is calculated in the calm that returns to a compound when food arrives, in the way a corridor fills with laughter again after a hard night, and in the way a child falls asleep without fear.
I have a narrative here if you can spare me a minute. At daybreak, a farmer walks along his ridges and reads the season. He knows which corner of the field keeps moisture, which part burns, and which stand of millet will carry the hungry month. He directs the harvest as a water drawer guides a rope at the well. He creates a direct path from the soil to the kitchen, eliminating the middleman. He does not name any beneficiaries in the press. He lets the ward heads decide because they know who is in trouble. The story repeats after the call to prayer, after the market closes, and after a rumour of violence sends families onto the road. The house of the Tulu receives them, not as a favour but as a settled habit of hospitality. A boy wakes up on a mat that isn’t his and feels at ease. A girl sees a pot and knows that she will drink before the sun climbs.
This is why the turban is significant. In Gwandu, a title is not a throne. It is a chore witnessed by others. The Emirate places the vessel in a man’s hands and says, Keep it upright, keep it clean, keep it where all can reach. The public can verify this claim at any time.
Read the object. Read the deed. Then read the title. The sequence is precise. A tulu is a clay pot that keeps water cool for everyone to use. It represents the duty to preserve and protect life. Y. C. Maikyau, SAN, OON has taken the shape of fields that feed and rooms that heal. That is why the name fits. This is why the turban sits well.
Congratulations, Tulun Gwandu!
Sani Ammani writes from Kano, Nigeria.
