Alhaji Gidado Idris, GCON: A personal tribute

Even in death, he got what he wished: to be buried where he died. In getting his way, he breached a strong tradition, one that preferred particularly outstanding citizens to be buried at ancestral origins where forebears laid. This departure from tradition capped a life that was a fascinating study in tensions between undiluted commitment […]

Even in death, he got what he wished: to be buried where he died. In getting his way, he breached a strong tradition, one that preferred particularly outstanding citizens to be buried at ancestral origins where forebears laid. This departure from tradition capped a life that was a fascinating study in tensions between undiluted commitment to the establishment, and an unrepentant pursuit of the personal. His grave in Abuja will be listed among the few graves of people from Zaria, in a city whose name was snatched by the military from the former Abuja (now Suleja), a town founded by Alhaji Gidado’s forebears from Zaria more than 200 years ago.

For a man with intimate links with Zazzau royalty and privilege, Alhaji Gidado was buried without the almost mandatory traditional title worn by Nigerians who lived with distinction. He had won many battles to stay without a title, deflecting unceasing pressure to wear the turban towards uncles, cousins and offspring. It was neither arrogance nor conceit: he had deep respect for traditional institutions, and the uncle that brought him up, Turaki Ali had moulded his attitude to a system that had provided the foundations for controlled change in the context of preserving the status-quo, which was the substance of northern Nigerian political framework from early colonial times to the late 1960s.

Alhaji Gidado died without a single trace of the temptation to harvest the political terrain, another of the many traditional channels into which people of his privilege, status and experience veered, with mixed results. He was organically linked by history, shared values and experiences with members of the northern elite who provided the myth of the Kaduna Mafia, and the half dozen clusters of influence such as Arewa Consultative Forum, Northern Elders Forum, Northern Union, Jamaatu Nasril Islam etc, but the only membership register you found him on was the IBB Golf Club, Abuja, that exclusive resort it took a lot of effort to get him to join, but once he joined, it became his second skin. He kept his children and relations on a short, disciplined leash, insisting that everyone earned his stripes the hard and proper way. He was a one-wife Hausa man through his life, leaving behind a record of devotion to a woman he married from the distant community of Samaru Kataf, a pillar whose commitment to him was only surpassed by her devotion to the Islamic faith she embraced on marrying him. He was fiercely loyal to friendships and relationships, and he was possibly the only person of substance I knew who did not tolerate or encourage the unending retinue of seekers and courtiers that followed power and wealth everywhere. His incredible generosity with his personal time and resources was defined strictly by his personal perceptions over what was important: a major standard-setting gesture at his old school, Alhudahuda College, Zaria, or a hefty push in a marriage of a relation who had not expected it.

Alhaji Gidado Idris himself would not contest being described as different. He would treat that characterization as neither a slight nor a compliment. Over four decades of public service may have reinforced a character trait to resist unwarranted visibility, but it was a trait he cultivated and jealously guarded. It allowed him the luxury to choose his manner of engagement, and at his most comfortable moments, you saw a man endowed with a towering intellect and a gifted sense of humour. He had strong opinions about politics and society. His life had spanned a huge chunk of the nation’s history, and bits of it combined to make him a walking history. His incredible recollection of events was helped by his being either a small, yet intimate part, or a major player in them. In fact he was never entirely outside public service, which explained why he would insist on joining dotted lines between events and phenomena that occurred forty years apart. He was not a witness to history. He was every inch a part of the history of a nation that saw the brightest glimpses of greatness, even when it plunges into the deepest valleys of despair and infamy on occasions.

His rise from a humble clerk to the pinnacle of Secretary to Government of the Federation (SGF) was fueled by a combination of hardwork, an uncanny ability to learn quickly and adapt, and some luck at working under superiors who tolerated competence from officers that defied conventions. Early in his career, he learnt the imperatives of meeting meet challenges and difficulties when he and a handful of clerical and admin officers had to retrieve files from outside the bedroom doors of the Sardauna in the very early hours of the morning, or pay the price with the telling displeasure of the Premier if he finds them there at 5.30 am. The Sardauna was a hardworking task-master, yet tolerant and compassionate towards youth and impetousness. The young Gidado’s awe at the massive powers of political leaders was tempered by privileged proximity to their weaknesses, humanness and the frailty of their hold on power. He had tremendous respect for leadership, but had many scars to show for his insistence that rules are capable of being enforced even at the highest levels. He would remove shoes and kneel while engaging Presidents and Heads of State, but in the same position he would successfully argue for an option different from that of the leader. He earned respect by being humble, and at trying moments, his ability to remain calm, his