Have you ever tuned in to a national broadcast, heard a powerful figure utter a sentence, and been struck by the profound feeling that you have just been gently patted on the head by a giant, condescending hand? If so, congratulations! You have just experienced the unique art of the Nigerian political address, a linguistic ballet where our leaders soar to rhetorical heights far, far above the heads of the common man.
After extensive research (i.e., watching countless hours of campaign rallies and press conferences instead of working), we’ve decoded the secret language. Here’s how it’s done.
- The “My Lovely Little Children” Tone
This is the foundational technique. The politician must always approach the microphone as if addressing a classroom of particularly slow-witted kindergarteners who have just discovered glue is not for eating.
Example in Action: “My good people of Nigeria,”he begins, a benevolent, weary smile playing on his lips. “I know things are… challenging. The price of garri is high. Light no dey. Water no dey. But you see, my children, these are growing pains. We are building a resilient economic framework and diversifying our fiscal infrastructure. So, be patient. Continue to tighten your belts. Think of it as a national diet!”
The subtext, of course, is: “Your suffering is a vague, abstract concept to me, best explained with jargon I don’t understand either.”
- The “Blame the People’s Poor Life Choices” Gambit
Why take responsibility for a crumbling power grid when you can blame the citizens for… using electricity wrong?
Classic Quote (Paraphrased from a Legend): “The problem is not that we don’t generate enough power.The problem is that Nigerians are wasteful. Why does a man who is alone in his house need to power two refrigerators and a giant plasma TV? He should sit in the dark and reflect on his life. This is the problem.”
This brilliant strategy reframes national infrastructure failure as a personal moral failing of the average Nigerian who had the audacity to want to keep his sachet water cold.
- The “Let Them Eat Cake” Moment (But Make It Nigerian)
Every great political class needs its Marie Antoinette. Ours have perfected the local variant.
Scenario: A reporter bravely asks what Nigerians should do amid soaring fuel prices making transportation impossible.
The Response: “Why are they complaining about transport? Don’t they have legs? Or better yet, have they not considered investing in helicopters? We must encourage a spirit of entrepreneurship and innovation, not dependency!”
The advice is always staggeringly out of touch. It’s like suggesting a man whose house is on fire should just relax and toast some marshmallows.
- The “I Am Your Suffering Messiah” Complex
This is a favourite. The politician paints themselves not as a well-fed public servant, but as the one truly bearing the cross for the nation.
You’ll hear phrases like: “You think you have it bad?Do you know the burden I carry? The weight of 200 million souls on my shoulders? I haven’t had a proper lunch in three days! Just last week, I had to fly to Switzerland for a brief medical check-up. The turbulence was horrific. You don’t know what suffering is.”
The goal is to create a false equivalence between their stress-induced indigestion from eating imported lobster and a mechanic in Agege who can’t afford beans.
- The “Vague, Grandiose Promise” That Explains Nothing
This is used to answer any direct question about policy. The answer must sound impressive but mean absolutely nothing.
Question: “Your Excellency, what is your concrete plan to fix the bad roads?”
Answer: “We are embarking on a holistic, integrated, multi-stakeholder, forward-thinking, paradigm-shifting, transformative roadmap that will leverage synergies and create a best-in-class arterial network for the 21st century. It is a legacy project.”
Translation: “We will form a committee to discuss forming a committee. Now, admire the big words and stop asking questions.”
In the end, the great Nigerian political communication strategy is a masterpiece of deflection, condescension, and spectacular obliviousness. It’s a dance where they lead, and we, the people, are expected to follow—blindfolded, with no idea where we’re going, but constantly being told the view is magnificent from where they’re standing.
So next time you hear a speech, don’t listen for solutions. Just sit back and appreciate the art. It’s the only thing they’re consistently delivering.
Centre for Nigeria Progress 