Let’s play a game. It’s called “What’s That Charge?”
We look at a national bank statement. Here’s a line item: $50 million. What was it for? Was it:
A) A nationwide initiative to repair leaking water pipes, saving millions of liters and eliminating cholera outbreaks in three cities?
B) A crucial shipment of textbooks and teacher training for 10,000 primary schools?
C) A gold-plated, marble-encrusted presidential pavilion at a new sports complex, complete with a private helipad and a moat (symbolic, but still)?
If you guessed C, you’ve clearly been reading the receipts. And that’s the punchline that stopped being funny around the time dial-up internet did.
Africa, it’s time we had a family meeting. We need to talk about the “Basic Needs Budget,” and why ours seems to be perpetually filed under “Miscellaneous/Will Get To It Later.”
The current system is this: A leader rides in a motorcade worth more than the local hospital’s annual budget, past neighborhoods that haven’t seen grid electricity since the last FIFA World Cup, to go cut a ribbon at a foreign-funded water plant. The foreign donors clap politely. The people get water. The leader gets a plaque. And the underlying message to the world is reinforced: We cannot possibly handle the basics ourselves.
This is not just embarrassing; it’s a spectacularly bad business model.
First, it makes us reliant on the most fickle suppliers on earth. Remember that one uncle who promised to send school fees, but then his favorite team lost, he got into a Twitter fight, and suddenly the money’s gone? That’s not an uncle, that’s modern foreign aid policy. Basing your people’s survival on the political mood swings of a parliament 6,000 miles away is like trying to power a country with a hamster wheel operated by a moody hamster. It’s unsustainable, undignified, and frankly, a bit ridiculous.
Second, it feeds a lazy, racist narrative. The constant imagery of “saving” a continent that is, in reality, resource-rich beyond belief, is old news that somehow keeps making headlines. It fosters the idea that chaos and helplessness are our default settings. It’s a narrative we subsidize every time we outsource our dignity. We become a charity case in the global imagination, rather than the dynamic, complex, and capable bloc we are.
The truth is sitting in the discretionary spending reports. The money for water pipes, for substations, for teacher salaries… it exists. It’s just currently moonlighting as a bloated security detail for a minister’s pet project, or as a first-class ticket quota for a delegation of 200 to a climate conference (irony not included).
The shift is simple, but revolutionary: Let charity be for luxuries, not fundamentals.
Need a new, ultra-modern, 60,000-seat national stadium to host the African Games? Fantastic! Knock on every philanthropic door you can find. Pitch it to celebrities. Crowdfund it. “Help us build this temple of sport!” That’s a discretionary want.
But keeping the lights on? Giving kids a textbook? Making sure water comes out of a tap? That’s not a charity case. That’s a receipt. That’s the bare-minimum return on investment that citizens should get for their taxes and their country’s vast resources.
It’s the ultimate sign of adulthood: buying your own groceries. You don’t wait for a possibly-racist, definitely-unstable neighbor to bring you bread and milk. You audit your own spending, you cut the nonsense (yes, even the ceremonial moat), and you go to the store yourself.
When we, as nations, finally decide to prioritize our people’s basic needs with the same fervor we prioritize our leaders’ comforts, everything changes. The begging bowl becomes a tool for extras, not essentials. The narrative shifts from “please help us” to “let’s do business.” And the respect—both from the world and, more importantly, from our own citizens—will follow.
The money is here. The decision is ours. Let’s cancel the subscription to being a global charity project and start building the 21st century on our own, fully-funded, foundation.
Centre for Nigeria Progress 