By Bagudu Mohammed
Critical thinking is the rarest treasure of the human mind the wealth, resource, and capital of every writer, artist, or thinker. It is the silent engine that powers creativity, imagination, and innovation. As John Dewey once wrote, “The essence of critical thinking is suspended judgment; and the essence of suspended judgment is inquiry.” In our age, where originality defines merit and imagination drives progress, critical thinking is no longer optional, it is the very currency of wisdom, knowledge, and independence. Every human achievement, from groundbreaking inventions to enduring philosophies, is nothing but thought crystallized into form.
Consider the foundations of mathematics, chemistry, and physics. Every formula, theorem, or law was once an unshaped idea in the mind of someone bold enough to think differently. Long before calculators or algorithms, there were restless minds inventing fractions, algebra, indices, and square roots. These were not gifts of chance but the outcomes of relentless critical inquiry. The invention of calculators, computers, aeroplanes, and now artificial intelligence all emerged from the alchemy of thought. Small wonder the advertising slogan once declared: “Good thinking, good product.”
Curiosity, then, is not merely a habit. it is a virtue. It pushes us beyond the comfort of received knowledge, exposing flaws in the norm, offering alternatives, and imagining better possibilities. Without it, societies stagnate; with it, they progress. Albert Einstein once confessed, “I have no special talent. I am only passionately curious.” The curious mind does not accept truth at face value but insists on testing, questioning, and validating. Such interrogation is the birth of knowledge and the mother of progress.
As a writer, I have often found myself intrigued by silence, tempted to reimagine it not as emptiness but as interrogation. Silence, for the critical mind, is not passive; it is a seedbed of questions. Writers, analysts, and public intellectuals are shaped not by conformity but by their gift for seeing what most people overlook. They interrogate social vices, notice the subtle cracks in society’s walls, and dare to speak when others are blinded by popular opinion. Their task is not just to narrate but to challenge, to expose contradictions, to provoke thought, and to weave these insights into essays, debates, and stories that stir reflection.
It was this same hunger for answers that drew me toward the fast-rising literary voice of Hadiza Bagudu, a woman whose consistency, energy, and vision have quickly earned her recognition in Nigeria and beyond. We share several WhatsApp platforms, and I remain constantly amazed by her relentless creativity. Where others allow silence to linger, she fills the void with new poems, stories, and reflections, ensuring her community never grows stale. Unlike many writers who wait passively for inspiration, Hadiza embodies what literary theorists call “flow” the ability to create seamlessly, as if ideas were a natural language she was born speaking. Her artistic hub is not just a treasure for her fans but a wealth for society, proving that creativity can liberate both the individual and the community.
One of her most striking interventions came in her widely discussed article, “We Protect Our Girls but Neglect the Boys.” With a boldness that echoes Simone de Beauvoir’s critique of gendered social norms, Hadiza argued that society’s obsession with shielding girls while neglecting boys creates a dangerous imbalance. By excusing male recklessness with phrases like “boys will be boys,” we set them adrift without moral guidance. Her thesis was clear: the root of evil is not poverty but moral decay, and freedom without responsibility is destructive. To restore balance, she called for modesty, dignity, restraint, and the moral protection of boys because today’s neglected boys become tomorrow’s troubled men. This perspective was provocative, refreshing, and deeply necessary in a culture reluctant to hold its sons accountable.
Of course, I have not always agreed with her. On some platforms, I have engaged her critically, particularly on her feminist leanings, which at times seemed partial or even biased. For instance, when she argued against a pastor’s controversial advice that unmarried women should not own houses or cars, I challenged the assumptions embedded in both the advice and her critique. The debates were lively, sometimes heated, but always illuminating. And while disagreement can be uncomfortable, it is also where growth happens. As the philosopher Karl Popper reminded us, “True knowledge begins with the recognition of error.”
What captivates me most about Hadiza is not just her intellect but her courage. To write consistently is to risk criticism. To publish, day after day, is to invite judgment. Yet, she thrives in this space. Her website, hadizab.com, is a showcase of poetry, novels, and reflections that cut across themes of love, faith, identity, and resilience. From The Thin Line to Fantah and the Astral Series, her works brim with emotional depth and cultural insight. Her style is evocative and transformative, often described by readers as both entertaining and instructive.
In our interview, she shared her journey: a childhood surrounded by books, a supportive mother, and the courage to publish her first works in 2008. She confessed there isn’t much money in writing, and her real incentive is to be understood, to connect with readers, and to inspire others. Her long-term dream is to write at least twenty books and leave behind a legacy that will light the path for younger writers.
But what fascinated me most was her openness to talk about balance. How does she juggle writing with being a wife and mother? Her answer was disarmingly simple: research, discipline, and empathy. She steps into her characters’ shoes, engages with fans daily, and draws strength from faith and family. Her advice to aspiring writers is both practical and profound: “Just write free form. Edit later.”
Reflecting on her responses, I realized that Hadiza embodies what psychologists call “deliberate practice”—the conscious, repeated effort to sharpen one’s skill until mastery is achieved. She is proof that great writing is not only about talent but also about consistency, resilience, and the courage to share imperfect drafts with the world. As Prof. Farooq Kperogi once noted, publishing publicly invites corrections, debate, and growth in ways silence never can. Silence preserves safety; engagement breeds excellence.
I am convinced that Hadiza’s literary energy springs not just from inspiration but from her willingness to subject her work to scrutiny and dialogue. This humility to be vulnerable, to seek validation, and to welcome correction is perhaps the secret behind her sharp imagination and prolific output. It is also what distinguishes great writers from silent dreamers. For it is only when ideas are tested in the marketplace of debate that they mature into wisdom.
Writers are often shaped by unusual disciplines students who write essays for their entire class just for fun, lovers who compose daily notes for years to woo a distant admirer, or restless minds who force themselves to craft one essay every day. These habits, though sometimes eccentric, sharpen creativity and train the brain to find beauty in the ordinary. I suspect Hadiza harbors countless such stories of persistence, of play, of resilience that fuel her art. And it is in these hidden stories that the real intrigue of her journey lies.
Hadiza Bagudu is not merely a writer. She is a reminder that creativity is both a gift and a responsibility, a personal joy and a public trust. Her hub is not just a space for entertainment but a laboratory of ideas, where fiction, reflection, and advocacy converge to shape thought and inspire action. To engage with her work is to be entertained, yes, but also to be challenged, provoked, and, ultimately, transformed.
