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Prince Charles Dickson Ph.D.
Nor does the donkey knows what is dragging, nor the camel understands where it is heading. This, my Nigerian companions, is the state of our nation today. A country in motion without direction, burdened without clarity, its citizens have left to wander for confusion while those entrusted to its reins of power are prepared for their next political conquest party.
We are in 2025 and although the general elections are still two years later, the politicians have already drew their agbadas and have entered the complete campaign mode.
Governance has been abandoned as a forgotten child in the market square. Attention has shifted entirely from serving people in power. What is worse, never in the history of Nigeria has moved so much money from the federal center to the States, yet so little has descended to the life of the Nigerian normal.
It is the era of the war coffers, coalitions and realms. Of blocks of power that consolidate strength, not to build roads, educate children or enhance small businesses, but to maintain the grip on a broken system. A system that rewards mediocrity, encourages impunity and wears poverty.
“When the goat follows the sheep at the slaughterhouse, it does not mean that the goat is invited to the party.” And so, it is with us, people. We drive, dance, vote and then suffer. Our joy for the Rice campaign is followed by years of hunger. Our reward for launch is silence in front of tyranny. We are pawns on a checkerboard.
Throughout the ground, billions are missing without responsibility. Trilioni are planned, but nobody is seen. States receive assignments that could build new cities, yet their citizens drink dirty water and sit on the hospital floors awaiting paracetamol. Governors fly in private jets while their people sleep under the roofs they lose.
“If the mouth says it is full, but the eyes are dry, then the food has never been eaten.” Development has become a myth in many parts of Nigeria. A mirage painted on poster of the countryside, sold as a slogan and buried after the elections. Every four years, politicians promise paradise. But after the elections, they provide Purgatory. They promise bridges where there are no rivers and roads that disappear before the arrival of the rains.
There is no ideology, no vision, no nationalities that binds us. The country is drifting, held together only by the elastic of the collective suffering and the ethnic tensions produced. The same tired narratives of the north against South, Muslim against Cristiana, old guard against young blood. It is the same scarfa, dressed in several agbadas.
“A man who beats you with one hand and offers peanuts with the other expects you to thank you.” Our leaders are ready to celebrate the token projects: leaves that do not fly anywhere, wells that stop working after three weeks and digital economies based on analog thought. Arm the gratitude, expecting applause to make the bare minimum, if nothing else.
We are in a nation where young people no longer dream of. Emigrate. The word “Japa” has become both a strategy and a survival mechanism. Our best minds are leaving. Our craftsmen leave. Even our doctors and nurses, those who take care of our sick, are going. What remains behind is a people blocked between the horror of what it is and the crack of what could have been.
“When the fish starts to rot, it starts from the head.” Leadership has failed to us at all levels. The local councilor is guilty as the senator. The governor of the state shares the same greed as the minister. The president is located on top of a mountain of guilt. Still, nobody resigns. Nobody is held responsible. Nobody does not even pretend to feel shame. The social contract was not simply broken: it was burned and urinated.
However, the Nigerians remain some of the most confident people on the planet. We endure. We survive. We hurry. But how long should we bother a boat that lost naked hands while those steering are the cheapest drill?
“The chicken standing on one leg still hopes that it is not chosen for the pepper soup.” We are confident, but our hope has become a dangerous type of patience. The type that tolerates injustice. Which normalizes dysfunction. This teaches children that corruption is not a crime but a career path. We grew too much to difficulties. Now let’s call “resilience” suffering.
Look at our streets: traps for death. Look at our hospitals: dead with fans. Look at our schools: buildings of the colonial era full of children without future. Look at our markets: Inflation away on each tomato, every grain of rice. Still, we applaud when a politician shares the noodles.
“The man who transports an empty Calabash into the stream and returns with it cannot blame the river.” We have to ask ourselves: how did we arrive here? Why do we allow this theater of misfit to continue? Why do we vote for those who deride us? Why do we rejoice the same people who lock us blind? Have we so internalized the oppression that we now romanticize it?
But perhaps the most painful part is the betrayal of those who know better: our intellectuals, our religious leaders, our traditional sovereigns. Too many of them have become praise in the rotting palace. Too many exchanged the truth for contracts, consciousness for convenience.
We must be honest with ourselves. This is not a country in crisis. This is a country in a coma. And without an urgent intervention, we may not survive the next prognosis.
“When the breeze blows, the bird behind is exposed.” While 2027 approaches, the breeze blows again. The masked are returning to the square. They are refining their mouths, polishing their lies and oiling their campaign machines. But this time, we must not dance with the same flute.
We have to ask difficult questions. Who has a record track, not just a mouth full of promises? Who is ready to guide with integrity, not just charisma? Whoever sees Nigeria, not as a prize to be looted, but as a people to be raised.
We do not be fooled by new poster or strong slogans. A snake, even when the skin is lost, remains poisonous. We do not sell our votes for Garri envelope and salt sachets. The price of your vote is the cost of your future.
“If the child does not cry, the mother will not know that it brings pain.” Now it’s time to shout. Now it’s time to ask for better. Organize, mobilize and vote wisely. Not only during the elections, but every day later. Governance is not a seasonal event. It is a daily question.
We have to stop celebrating mediocrity. We have to challenge our leaders at every level. From the Councilor of Rione to the President. Let them feel the weight of our expectations. Let them know that we are looking at, that we are awake and that we will remember.
Because to tell the truth, our leaders do not evaluate us. They don’t really care about us. But perhaps, only perhaps, if we start to evaluate ourselves – if we start believing that we deserve better, we ask better and organize better – so they will have no choice than worrying.
We care. Not in anger, but in resolution. Not with stones, but with sense. Not violently, but with vigilance. Nigeria is ours. The future is ours. But only if we claim it. May Nigeria win!
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