For many girls in rural Madobi Local Government Area of Kano State, marriage often arrives before the completion of secondary school. Once married, the path back to the classroom becomes narrow, uncertain, and, for many, almost impossible.
But in villages around Kwankwaso town, some married adolescent girls and women are refusing to let that dream die.
Among them is Hafsat Ahmed, a young married woman who completed primary school and started secondary school before dropping out. Her reason was not lack of interest. It was lack of opportunity.
“I started secondary school but I didn’t finish,” she said. “Right now, I want to continue, but due to lack of support or means in the town, I have not been going. If the opportunity becomes available, I will definitely continue.”
For Hafsat, education is not just about personal ambition. It is about dignity, service, and the possibility of becoming useful to her family and community. When asked what she wanted to become, her answer came without hesitation: a doctor.
Her reason was deeply rooted in the realities of rural women.
“When it comes to medical care, especially women’s health and childbirth, people prefer to see women taking the lead in that field,” she said.
Across the communities visited, this dream was repeated in different voices. Many of the married girls and women said they wanted to continue their education, not to abandon their homes, but to strengthen them. They spoke about helping their children with homework, understanding health issues, supporting their husbands, and becoming more confident in society.
Yet, the road to education remains difficult.
In some communities, there is no proper school structure for married women. Classes are held in borrowed spaces, outside buildings, or under difficult conditions. Some women sit on plastic mats bought through small contributions of ₦10, ₦20, ₦30, or ₦50. When the rainy season comes, learning often stops completely because there is no suitable shelter.
Bilkisu Isah, from Sara Karama in Madobi LGA, described a school system surviving almost entirely on community sacrifice.
“We are in serious need of support,” she said. “This school is the only one we rely on. Women come from about three surrounding towns. Sometimes only two female teachers come to teach all of us.”
According to her, some women come to learn even when they cannot afford the little money contributed to support the volunteer teachers. The women are taught both Islamic and Modern education, but the lack of classrooms, books, writing boards, permanent teachers, and financial support has made progress slow.
Bilkisu’s testimony also revealed the generational cost of denying women education.
“You can hardly find a girl in this area who has completed secondary school,” she said. “If you look among ten married women, you will hardly find two who can confidently say they can read or write in Hausa. We were married off early.”
For her, the issue is not only about the women of today. It is about the children they are raising.
Many mothers, she explained, are unable to support their children’s learning because they themselves were never educated. Some children repeat classes or struggle in school because there is no one at home to guide them.
This is why the women see their return to school as more than a personal second chance. They see it as a way of breaking a cycle.
Transport is another major barrier. For some learners, the nearest school is far away, requiring long travel by foot or public transport. Suwaiba Musa, from Rinji, said the distance alone discourages many girls and women from attending regularly.
“When we prepare early and go to school, sometimes before we even get transport, school hours have already gone far,” she said. “If we decide to walk, by the time we arrive, we have wasted a lot of time and we are late.”
She said walking to school can take up to two hours. Public transport, though faster, is not always affordable. For families already struggling with food and basic needs, daily transport costs can become the difference between staying in school and dropping out.
Community leaders and husbands also acknowledged this burden.
Mas’udu AbdulKadir, the ward head of Rinji under the district head of Gora, said many men are not completely against women’s education, but poverty weakens their ability to support it.
“We want them to study more than anyone else because they are the foundation of our children’s upbringing,” he said. “Before our children spend ten minutes with us, their mothers are always with them.”
He explained that men often leave home in search of livelihood, while women spend more time with the children. If mothers are educated, he said, they can help children revise their lessons and build confidence at home.
But the cost is heavy.
Transport to schools in nearby towns such as Gora, Madobi, Kafi, or Kwankwaso can cost about ₦500 daily for some families, according to the community testimonies. For households already struggling, this becomes a serious obstacle.
Another community voice, Ahmad Shehi, also from Rinji, said the challenge is partly economic and partly cultural.
He estimated that about 75 percent of the problem is economic, while the remaining part is linked to awareness and changing men’s perceptions. Some men, he said, still believe that because their mothers or grandmothers did not attend Modern school, their wives should not either. But he added that sensitization is gradually changing attitudes.
“Times have changed,” Ahmad said. “If you educate a woman, you educate a community.”
The husbands’ reactions, therefore, are not uniform. Some remain hesitant, especially when transport, registration fees, and household pressure are involved. Others now support their wives and see education as a benefit to the entire family.
One student at the women’s center said her husband supports her “one hundred percent.” Her dream, like Hafsat’s, is to become a doctor. But she said the school lacks permanent teachers, especially in science subjects, even though many of the women want to pursue health-related careers.
“We need teachers for the Science department,” she said. “Most of us want to study health-related courses.”
At the Kwankwaso Model Women Center, the situation is similar. According to Lauwal Aminu, a representative of the school, the center has about 300 students, including married women and young girls. But it does not have its own WAEC or NECO examination center. Students must travel to Goron Dutse to sit for exams.
Out of about 80 women who may be eligible to sit for exams, only around 20 to 30 are usually able to continue because many husbands cannot afford the transport cost.
This means that even when married women struggle through years of learning, many still fall at the final stage not because they failed academically, but because the exam center is too far away and too expensive to reach.
Still, the women continue.
They sit in overcrowded spaces. They contribute small amounts to keep volunteer teachers coming. They walk long distances. They endure late arrivals, interrupted lessons, and seasonal disruptions. They negotiate with husbands, plead with community leaders, and hold on to dreams that poverty has not yet defeated.
Their struggle tells a larger story about rural education in northern Nigeria: that the desire to learn exists, even among those society often assumes have given up.
In Madobi’s villages, the problem is not simply that married adolescent girls do not want to return to school. Many do. Their husbands, in many cases, are beginning to understand why it matters. The deeper challenge is that the system around them has not made room for that second chance.
For Hafsat, Bilkisu, Suwaiba, and many others, education remains unfinished business.
And in the quiet corners of Kwankwaso town, where women gather on mats outside classrooms and speak of becoming doctors, teachers, and better mothers, one truth becomes clear: marriage may have interrupted their education, but it has not erased their ambition.
