For as long as I can remember, Zuma Rock has loomed large in my imagination. I first encountered this colossal monolith in the late 1990s, passing by on trips from Abuja to Kaduna. It is an igneous intrusion made of gabbro and granodiorite—located in Madalla, Niger State, just west of Abuja along the Abuja–Kaduna road. Despite common belief, Zuma Rock lies outside the Federal Capital Territory.

Back then, the sight of it always struck me silent—an immense wall of stone erupting from the earth. Its sheer size with that ”face” bearing what looked like the features of a guardian watching over the land.

Depicted on Nigeria’s One-hundred-Naira note, Zuma Rock towers approximately 725 meters (2,379 feet) above its surroundings, earning its status as one of Nigeria’s most prominent geological formations—and even taller than both Aso Rock and Olumo Rock combined.

Zuma Rock predates most lives around it. Formed during the Precambrian period, meaning it could be over 500 million years old, which classifies it as a nature’s masterpiece. In recorded history, during  the 15th-century, the rock was named by the Zuba (Koro) settlers, who called it Zumwa, meaning “a place of guinea fowls,” due to the many birds in the area.

Throughout the decades, I had convinced myself that the huge ‘face’ on the rock was a result of human intervention or an aberration during rock blasting. Turns out I was wrong, as I discovered in the course of research that the famous ”face” is a result of natural weathering and erosion over millions of years.

My fascination deepened in 2004/2005 during my National Youth Service in Niger State. I passed by Zuma Rock more often, each time craning my neck in the same awe as before. The seasons changed around it—the green lushness of the rains, the dusty gold of the dry months—but Zuma Rock remained the same: steadfast and commanding in its stillness. Those were pre-Instagram years, when you experienced things without the filter of a screen. My memories from then are pure—dust on my boots, wind in my ears, and that stone giant holding court over the plains.

Yesterday, nearly two decades later, I returned. It took my mother in law, Ms Danielle Becu who was visiting, she’d read about the rock and seen it on the internet. On her insistence, wife, her mom and I headed to Zuma, under fifty kilometers from home.

This time, I came not just to pass by, but to linger, to see it as I never had before. And I brought with me a tool my younger self had not imagined: a drone. From above, Zuma Rock is even more extraordinary. It rises out of the green fields like an island in a calm sea, the lines on its surface like age-old stories written in a language only time can read.

Capturing this photograph felt like closing a circle. The young university undergraduate in the late ’90s, to the NYSC member who slowed his journey to steal a longer glance, and the man flying a drone in 2025—they all met in that moment.

Zuma Rock hasn’t changed. But I have. Maybe that’s why seeing it now, from above, feels like both a reunion and a revelation. Some wonders are worth waiting decades to truly capture.

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