Nigerians, let’s talk about ourselves

Nigeria demands a lot from its leaders. It may be time for Nigerians to demand more of themselves.

I recently stopped at a red light on my way to work. The road ahead was clear. A driver went through the traffic light. Then another. And another. I stayed.

As I watched them disappear down the road, a thought occurred to me: Some of those drivers would probably be complaining about Nigeria before the day was out. They may complain about corruption, lawlessness, and politicians who act as if the rules belong to others. Yet, a few minutes earlier, faced with a small law at an empty intersection, they had made exactly the same calculation: the rule doesn’t have to be enforced if I can get away with breaking it.

That red light stayed with me.

As Nigeria enters another season of political discussions, we will examine parties, candidates, tribes, religion and those who wish to rule us. We should. But maybe we should make room for a more uncomfortable conversation.

Let’s talk about us.

Nigerians often talk about “government” as if it were a separate species. The government is corrupt. Government is a waste. The government does not respect the law. Criticism is often deserved. Public officials exercise the power entrusted to them by citizens and must be held to higher standards. But the government didn’t care.

The people who govern us come from our homes, schools, businesses, churches, mosques, villages and professions. They were once our classmates, neighbors, colleagues and friends. Before a public official learns to manipulate billions, society may already have taught little lessons about rules, privileges, and consequences.

Consider ordinary life.

An employer agrees terms with an employee and later ignores them because the employee has little power. An employee receives a full salary while normally giving less than an honest day’s work. A trader tampers with a measurement. A contractor replaces inferior materials. A parent uses a connection to gain an advantage for a child. A motorist runs a red light because no policeman is looking at him. Then in the evening everyone complains about Nigeria. And the rhythm continues. None of these excuse bad conduct in public office. On the contrary. But this raises a more difficult question: What if Nigeria’s crisis is not just a governance crisis, but also a cultural crisis? Not culture in the sense of our languages, traditions, music or faiths. Culture in its quietest sense: the things a society rewards, excuses, admires, and ultimately considers normal.

Something happened to our definition of success.

There was a powerful social idea that a good name mattered. A teacher could be an important person. The same could be done by a nurse, a journalist, a doctor, an engineer, a farmer, a craftsman or a conscientious public official. Their position did not necessarily come from wealth, but from competence, service, learning, and integrity. It may increasingly seem that wealth itself has become the credential. A man becomes extraordinarily rich and too few people wonder how. The doors open. The titles follow. There are front row seats. Respect arrives. The provenance of the money may be unclear. His social authority is not. This should concern us because societies educate their youth not only through classrooms but through applause. Tell a child that honesty is important, but demonstrate repeatedly that unexplained wealth commands more respect than an honest life, and the child will eventually understand what a lesson society really means.

Children are excellent students of adult hypocrisy. This is why role models matter.

Recent reports from China have described major public displays celebrating accomplished scientists, placing scientific achievements in spaces commonly associated with commercial advertising and celebrities. The question is not whether Nigeria should imitate China. It is the question that the example forces us to ask ourselves: whose face do we want our children to look up and see? Art, sport and entertainment enrich society and their excellence deserves to be celebrated. But a serious country needs more than a definition of star.

Where are our famous teachers? Where is the applause for the nurse who has served patients with distinction for decades? The engineer whose work is still valid? The farmer who transformed a community? The scientist who solved a problem? The journalist who refused to sell the truth? The bricklayer whose reputation rests on properly rather than cheaply made buildings?

The question is not whether we will ever reward these people. We do it. The question is: what do we celebrate the loudest? A nation’s role models constitute a kind of national curriculum. Show children who society applauds and you will begin to tell them what kind of adults they will become. Perhaps our difficulty is not that Nigerians cannot distinguish right from wrong. We may have become extraordinarily skilled at deciding when to apply right and wrong. We condemn corruption when someone else benefits from it. When it benefits us, it becomes a “connection.”

We don’t like nepotism when another person’s relative has the opportunity. When ours does, we know someone who can “help” us. We demand strong institutions when they constrain powerful people. When they force us, we pick up the phone. We get angry at politicians who ignore the laws and then run red lights when no one is looking. This is it convenient morality. No nation can build strong institutions on it.

Election seasons make things worse because identity can become an excuse to suspend judgment. Nigeria’s diversity is not a flaw. There is nothing wrong with loving your language, faith, history or community. The trouble begins when loving mine means mistrusting yours.

A bad candidate doesn’t become good because he speaks my language. An incompetent politician does not become competent because he worships where I worship. A thief doesn’t become less of a thief because we share the same hometown. Corruption does not become moral because the beneficiary belongs to the right tribe. We tend to imagine national transformation in grandiose terms: a new government, a new constitution, a major reform program or a charismatic leader.

Everything can matter. But countries are also built in millions of small places where no one looks. At the traffic lights when there is no policeman present. In the office when the boss is away. On a construction site where lower quality materials could be replaced. In an exam room when the invigilator turns around. At home when children listen to who their parents admire. Perhaps character is simply what remains when enforcement disappears.

So, let’s make the excellent teacher important again. Celebrate the nurse. Respect the farmer. Admire the engineer who refuses to compromise a specification. Give social status to the honest entrepreneur, the researcher, the craftsman, the journalist and the public official.

Let the modest house of an honorable person command more respect than a villa that no one can explain. Let’s let a good name become a resource again. And, for goodness sake, let’s stop at the red light.

Nigeria needs competent leaders, strong institutions and consequences on corruption. But perhaps we have placed too much hope in the idea that a great election can save society from its accumulated habits. No president can legislate integrity into every house. No governor can put a policeman at every intersection. No anti-corruption agency can accompany every citizen until that quiet moment when self-interest and conscience separate. Some jobs belong to the government. And some belong to us. Let us therefore question those who seek to guide us. Ask about safety, jobs, schools, hospitals, electricity and the economy. Ask where the money went. Ask tough questions. But after questioning politicians, we reserve one final question for the mirror: What kind of Nigeria are we creating for ourselves?

Presidents will come and go. The campaign posters will be removed sooner or later. Nigeria will remain. And its character will be shaped not only in the corridors of power, but in homes, classrooms, businesses, markets, workshops, places of worship and on ordinary streets. Even at an empty intersection, where a Nigerian sees a red light and decides whether a rule still matters when no one is looking.

The light is red. Perhaps the reconstruction of Nigeria begins with an arrest.