Tag: Nigerian

By Prince Charles Dickson

In Nigeria, when life begins to fall apart, when businesses fail, marriages collapse, or promotions evaporate at the brink of confirmation, there’s always a ready culprit: village people. They are the unseen hands from ancestral compounds, experts in remote sabotage, supposedly sitting under mango trees in distant hamlets, drinking palm wine and plotting one’s downfall.

Missed a job interview? It wasn’t your lack of preparation; it was village people. Car engine knocked? Not poor maintenance; village people. Even when one forgets to add Maggi to stew, someone whispers: “Ah, your village people are after you.” The myth comforts us because it transfers blame. Instead of asking why I didn’t plan better, save more, or hold government accountable, we craft a scapegoat in the shadows of tradition.

Ironically, as Nigerians chant about village people, the real saboteurs of our collective destiny wear starched agbadas and Italian suits, signing away futures with pens dipped in foreign ink.

Consider Nigeria’s recent appetite for loans. Each government enters office, promising prudence, fiscal discipline, and a war against corruption, only to emerge as addicted borrowers on the international stage. External debts, domestic debts, overdrafts from the central bank; every hole is dug deeper with the spade of loans.

And what happens to the ordinary Nigerian? The naira slides faster than okra soup escaping a spoon. Inflation eats through salaries like termites devouring rafters. Yet the headlines declare: “Nigeria secures $7 billion loan to boost economy.” Boost economy? Which economy? The one where traders re-label bags of sachet water “pure tears”? Or the one where young people now invest in “japa” more than in land?

The bitter irony: the loans are taken in the name of the people but never spent on the people. By the time repayment season comes, the citizens pay with higher fuel prices, strangulating taxes, and skyrocketing food costs. Meanwhile, those who signed the loans have long changed their car plates and addresses.

When the loan treadmill becomes unsustainable, government remembers the one guaranteed ATM; the citizens. And so, taxes bloom like mushrooms after rainfall. Suddenly, there’s talk of taxing boreholes, taxing phone calls longer than three minutes, taxing bread, taxing road usage, even taxing your thoughts if they could be monetized.

The poor are already drowning, yet government insists on adding more buckets of water. A man who cannot afford garri is asked to contribute for digital services tax. A woman whose shop is raided by touts masquerading as revenue collectors must still renew a license for survival.

In saner climes, taxation is tied to visible services; roads, hospitals, schools, electricity. In Nigeria, taxation is tied to promises, never delivery. The Lagos-Ibadan Expressway has collected more tax than it has provided smooth passage. Electricity tariffs rise like balloons, but the light disappears faster than a politician after an election.

Yet, we are told: the government is trying. And truly, they are. They roll out economic policies with big English names; “Economic Recovery and Growth Plan,” “National Development Strategy,” “Agenda 2050.” PowerPoints are created, jingles aired, hashtags trended. But the ordinary Nigerian looks around and sees no alignment between the slogans and reality.

It is like serving burnt jollof rice and calling it smoky delicacy. Or like presenting watery beans porridge and insisting it is gourmet cuisine. The truth remains: we are undercooked where planning is needed and overcooked where suffering is felt.

We ban rice importation without securing local production. We float the naira without a lifeboat for citizens. We insist on subsidy removal without building a safety net. Every policy feels like a half-baked experiment; simultaneously raw and burnt.

What do Nigerians really want? This question is both simple and complex. On the surface, Nigerians want the basics: affordable food, reliable electricity, good roads, decent healthcare, quality education, and security – the foundation of a dignified life. But scratch deeper and you see the contradictions.

We want cheap fuel, but we also want government to stop borrowing. We want jobs, but we resist the discipline required in taxation when it is fair and transparent. We want change, but many still collect wrappers, rice, and ₦5,000 during elections. We decry corruption but happily “settle” traffic wardens or cut corners at work.

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So, what do Nigerians want? Perhaps clarity. Perhaps honesty. Perhaps leaders who say, “We cannot give you everything, but here is what we can do and here is how you will see it.” Not the constant chorus of “dividends of democracy” that never reach the masses.

And so, the myth of village people remains useful because it shields us from confronting uncomfortable truths. It is easier to believe one’s problems stem from unseen witches in the bush than from visible policies signed in Abuja. The irony bites: our real village people may not be in the village at all. They sit in air-conditioned offices, traveling abroad for medical check-ups, while citizens die in underfunded hospitals where doctors use their phone torchlight during surgeries.

Meanwhile, citizens are conditioned to laugh at their pain. Comedy skits trend on social media, mocking suffering as if laughter alone can refill empty pots. It is the tragicomedy of Nigeria: crying while laughing, cooking soup with no meat but calling it “vegetarian lifestyle.”

Nigeria today is a meal mismanaged.

Our democracy is undercooked; raw institutions, weak accountability, elections flavoured with fraud. Our suffering is overcooked; burnt beyond taste, seasoned with frustration and despair. Our potential is undercooked; raw talent, youth energy, and creativity left idle. Our excuses are overcooked; burnt-out narratives of colonialism, oil dependence, and “God will do it.”

We are a nation that prides itself on resilience; the ability to survive anything. Yet resilience has become another word for normalized hardship. Nigerians don’t just survive; they improvise survival. When electricity goes, they sing: “Up NEPA!” when it returns. When fuel prices jump, they queue with jokes. When salaries vanish into inflation, they chant, “E go better.” But when will it really be better?

I will end with this short story.

At a university, a professor asked his students: “If there are four birds on a tree and three of them decided to fly away, how many are left on the tree?”

Everyone answered, “One.”

They were surprised when one student disagreed and said, “Four birds remain.”

This caught everyone’s attention.

The professor asked him: “How so?”

He replied: “You said they decided to fly, but you didn’t say they actually flew. Making a decision doesn’t mean taking action.”

And indeed, that was the correct answer.

This story reflects Nigeria’s situation. For decades, leaders have decided to reform, industrialize, diversify, and eradicate corruption. Citizens have decided to demand better governance, to vote wisely, to hold leaders accountable. But decision is not action.

We have slogans, catchy words, and endless manifestos that shine during campaigns and international conferences. But in reality, our national life does not reflect those words.

Nigerian problems are not always about village people; they are about the gap between decision and action. And until the birds not only decide but actually fly, Nigeria will remain a tree full of promises, but empty of flight.

•Dickson Ph.D. is Team Lead, The Tattaaunawa Roundtable Initiative (TRICentre).

By Oladoja M.O

In an age where access to information is boundless and opinions flood our timelines like seasonal rains, one would expect public discourse, especially around issues of governance to be rich with nuance, clarity, and purpose. Instead, what we are confronted with in Nigeria is a noisy theatre of misdirected outrage and watery criticism, lacking both depth and direction.

One recent trigger came from the viral criticisms surrounding the national budget, particularly the eyebrow-raising figures allegedly earmarked for streetlight poles and similar line items. As is typical in the social media age, the noise began to swell. Twitter went into a frenzy. Threads upon threads emerged, each outdoing the other in outrage. The focus wasn’t just on the figures; it quickly spiraled into yet another populist takedown of the presidency, calling into question the entire moral fabric of governance. But just when the public’s fury had reached a crescendo, a jarring but necessary intervention came from an unlikely source: a senator who, contrary to the collective narrative, took time to explain that the criticism was misdirected. What was being paraded as evidence of executive recklessness was, in fact, the product of legislative insertions. Even the revered watchdog body, BudgIt, which had positioned itself as the conscience of fiscal scrutiny had peddled the wrong story, and done so confidently.

At that point, a deeper question emerged, one which goes beyond this specific incident: What exactly is the quality of criticism in Nigeria?

What we see across our social and political landscapes is not a culture of informed criticism but a culture of reactive condemnation. The ability to shout the loudest, to gather the most retweets or likes, has replaced the discipline of patient inquiry, structural understanding, and fact-based argument. We have mistaken noise for scrutiny, and in doing so, we have created an illusion: an illusion of outrage and criticism.

Here’s the tragic irony: many of these criticisms begin from a good place, the desire for accountability, for a better Nigeria. But because the foundation is faulty, the outcomes are futile. One cannot build a temple of truth on a foundation of ignorance. The budget saga is just one of many examples.

BudgIt, a civil society organization that has in the past done commendable work in simplifying the budget for the public, got it wrong this time, badly. Yet, even in the face of clarification, corrections, and new evidence, there was no public recant, no humility to say, “We were mistaken.” That act of refusal: the inability to admit error and recalibrate, is itself a glaring indicator of the intellectual poverty that plagues Nigerian criticism. In a land where saving face is prioritized over seeking truth, errors are not corrected; they are doubled down upon. And the implications are devastating. Public trust becomes confused and misdirected. The presidency gets blamed for what is in fact a legislative maneuver. Activists spend more time dragging the wrong institutions while the real culprits laugh quietly in shadows. The people remain stirred but unenlightened, angry, yes, but none the wiser.

This shallow approach to criticism bleeds into other national conversations. Take the fixation on the Lagos-Calabar Coastal Road. A project that, whether justifiable or not, deserves technical, economic, and legal analysis is instead reduced to a carnival of trendy hashtags. Populists slam it without understanding its scope, funding model, or long-term impact. No consideration is given to feasibility studies, displacement issues, or cost-benefit analyses. No proper questions asked about procurement processes or federal-state cooperation. Instead, the discourse becomes a jamboree, a performance of rage designed to court virality, not accountability.

This is not criticism. It is a parody of it.

And just when you think the poverty of insight couldn’t dig deeper, reality offers more proof. Consider Peter Obi’s recent Democracy Day speech. In his attempt to talk about democracy, he instead ended up distorting history misrepresenting the very fabric of the democratic struggle in Nigeria. A man who, during the dark days of military rule, was cozy with the system’s power brokers, now stands on podiums speaking as though he bore scars from that era. When real patriots were sacrificing their lives, fleeing their homes, and watching their properties burned for daring to speak truth to power, Obi stood closer to the oppressor than the oppressed. Yet today, he speaks with the authority of the afflicted. That, too, is born of ignorance not just his, but the ignorance of the audience clapping in affirmation, unaware of the truth.

Even more revealing was the reaction to President Tinubu’s Democracy Day awards. Nigerians, young and old, in all corners of the internet, questioned why certain figures were honoured some even asking, “Who are the Ogoni 9?” Others criticized the president for not awarding campaign allies, as though national honours were a reward system for electoral foot soldiers. It was laughable, yet tragic. Because how can you even begin to criticise a government when you don’t understand the very history of the democracy you claim to defend? How do you talk about national direction when your knowledge of national evolution is trapped in recent memory, as if Nigeria started in 2023?

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It’s not just young people, either. Some of the loudest voices in the room middle-aged, supposedly experienced display a kind of ignorance so raw, you’d think the only political event they’ve lived through was a Twitter space. This is why we are where we are: a nation speaking loud but saying little, reacting fast but knowing nothing.

True criticism demands hard work. It requires research, attention to context, historical awareness, and, above all, intellectual honesty. You cannot meaningfully critique governance structures when you don’t understand the separation of powers. You cannot hold public office holders accountable when you confuse federal responsibilities with local ones. You cannot demand transparency when your tools of inquiry are faulty. And in this desert of rigorous public engagement, one cannot help but mourn the absence of voices like that of Gani Fawehinmi: voices forged in the fire of truth, unseduced by populism, unshaken by power. Gani didn’t criticize for clout; he criticized with clarity. He did not shout merely to be heard; he roared because he understood. He was, above all, consistent, a virtue alien to many of today’s keyboard crusaders.

What Nigeria faces is not a lack of criticism; it’s an excess of uninformed, performative, and ultimately useless criticism. And therein lies the danger. Because when the noise becomes the norm, it drowns out the voices that actually matter. When every outrage is manufactured, real outrage loses its power. When critique becomes theatre, accountability becomes a joke.

To move forward as a nation, we must re-engineer our culture of criticism. We must build a new generation of thinkers, activists, and ordinary citizens who understand that to question power effectively, one must first understand it deeply. That it is not enough to be angry; one must be accurately angry. That social media fame is not the same as civic literacy. Until then, we will continue to shout: loudly, passionately, endlessly, but in circles.

Like a dog chasing its own tail, we will perform outrage while the real issues remain untouched, and the real culprits continue to operate in silence.

The illusion will continue. The theatre will go on. And the nation, tragically, will remain where it is starved, not of voices, but of thought.

•Oladoja writes from Abuja via mayokunmark@gmail.com

By M.O. Oladoja

There’s a peculiar tragedy that defines the Nigerian state. A tragedy of complete surrender of responsibility by those elected to bear it. A full-blown case of irresponsibility institutionalised at the highest levels. It is as if we are not being led at all. It is as if we are simply being watched, pitied, narrated to. Our so-called leaders behave like helpless spectators, not as those with the authority to fix the very problems they moan about.

Shamefully, what we have in Nigeria is far from leadership. What we have are men and women who love the microphone more than the mandate. We are not governed. We are ruled by commentators.

Just days ago, a state governor resurfaced with yet another alarming statement: that Boko Haram has infiltrated the government. Again. This is not the first time he is saying something like this. Several times, he has come out to decry the killings, to point fingers, to lament the destruction. And every single time, one question keeps hanging in the air. What exactly has he, as the Chief Security Officer of the state, done about it? What has he changed? What systems has he challenged? What heads have rolled on his watch? Beyond the endless news appearances and emotional speeches, where is the real action? It is not enough to wear a bulletproof vest and take a stroll in a burned village. That is not leadership. That is performance.

I mean, this individual is not a social media activist. He is not a political analyst. Not a powerless citizen. He is not a sympathiser. He is a sitting governor for goodness’ sake! He has the resources, influence, and intelligence at his disposal. If all he can do is complain, then he has failed. And that is the bitter truth. Or how did the weight of office shrink to the mere performance of sympathy and public outrage? Because for all I know, leaders do not just point to problems. They solve them. They don’t weep when the house burns. They command the water. But what we see here is the opposite.

It is as if holding public office in Nigeria has been reduced to a speaking exercise. The governor speaks. The senators speak. The representatives hold press conferences. Everybody speaks. But nobody leads. They describe problems they were empowered to solve, like detached observers, rather than active agents of change. It is nauseating. It is tragic. It is dangerous. Because this governor is just one symptom of a far deeper rot.

Nigeria’s leadership structure is littered with voices that echo sorrow and rage without ever lifting a finger to stop the bleeding. The National Assembly, for instance, has become a festival of talkers. Lawmakers who go to the chambers not to legislate, but to lament. Some of them even act as if their job is to criticise the government when in fact, they are the government. You hear them talk on TV and wonder if they were mistakenly sworn into opposition. These are people elected to craft laws, drive policies, and oversee the executive. Instead, they pick microphones and begin to “express worry,” “condemn in strong terms,” and “call on the federal government,” as though they are not the federal government themselves. It is embarrassing. It is pathetic. It is a national disgrace that in a country so battered, the loudest voices in power are often the most passive.

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And the tragedy is even louder when we look at the so-called new breed. Peter Obi, for instance, who has earned the admiration of some Nigerians because they see in him a departure from the past. But in reality, he’s just the same recycled blaming and deflecting game-player. Recently, when asked about the internal crisis tearing through the Labour Party, a party he is seen as the head of, his response was a flat finger-pointing exercise. He explained who caused what and who did what. Zero sense of responsibility. No ownership, nor plan to fix it. Is it hard to understand that leadership is not explaining the problem but solving it? If someone aspiring to govern 200 million people cannot manage internal party squabbles, then what exactly are we banking on?

Being soft-spoken is not leadership. Throwing statistics around is not leadership. What Nigerians need now are people who carry the weight of responsibility and act with urgency, not people who are always ready with talking points.

This country is bleeding. Virtually every region, every sector, every institution is either hoping to set into recovery or picking on survival. From poverty to insecurity, from joblessness to healthcare collapse, from fuel inflation to decaying infrastructure, we are a nation gasping for air. And what do our leaders do? They gather at events and in press briefings to express sympathy. They talk. They hold conferences. They issue long tweets. And then they disappear. It is now a full-blown epidemic. Everyone in power wants to talk about the problem. No one wants to be responsible for the solution. They love the headlines. They love the interviews. But when it is time for hard decisions, for bold reforms, for deep accountability, they vanish.

This is not leadership. Leadership means bearing the burden of others. It means thinking, planning, executing, sweating, failing, trying again and never passing the buck. But Nigerian leaders today see power as a shield from responsibility. To them, power is for glory, not for duty. It is for title, not for toil. And we, the people, must also take some blame. Because time after time, we bring these same people back. We vote them in. We defend them. We hail them. We wash them, rinse them, and repackage them for another round of useless governance. It is insane.

A time must come, and it should be now, when Nigerians wake up to the bitter reality that what we call democracy today is mostly a circus. A time when we say it clearly and loudly: enough of all the empty noise. We do not want more commentators. We do not want glorified orators. We do not need prophets of doom in positions of power. We want leadership. Real, practical, accountable leadership.

If you are in office, your job is not to narrate the problem. Your job is to change it. If you are governor and your people are being killed, we expect action, not pity. If you are a senator and the economy is crashing, we expect reform, not press conferences. If you are a party leader and your house is on fire, don’t blame others. Fix it. Nigeria can no longer afford leaders who vanish when it matters most. We cannot survive another decade of commentators posing as commanders. The country is on the brink, and what we need now are not voices of complaint, but minds of action and hearts of steel.

Until that happens, let the records reflect it plainly. We are not being led. And that is the greatest insult of all.

•Oladoja writes from Abuja