Nigeria, in my humble—and increasingly weary—view, is a country trapped in a long-term relationship with bad leadership and suffering from chronic Stockholm syndrome. Since independence in 1960, we have been governed by retrogressive, corrupt, and creatively incompetent rulers who somehow keep failing upwards. And yes, before anyone reaches for the tribal drums, the citizens are not entirely blameless. We are not united against our real enemy. Instead, we quarrel over crumbs while applauding the bakers who stole the bakery.
Our common enemy has never been tribe, religion, or region. It is the impunity-infested ruling class that treats Nigeria as a private estate and the people as tenants without rights. I avoid calling them “leaders” because leadership implies direction. What we have had are rulers—men and women who have methodically dismantled the foundations of development while giving motivational speeches about “the future.”
God, it must be said, has been extraordinarily generous to Nigeria. We are rich in oil, gas, land, minerals—name it. From the early 1970s till today, Nigeria earned more oil money than the United Arab Emirates. The UAE used theirs to build airports, cities, and a future. Nigeria used ours to build excuses, white elephant projects, and a world-class corruption industry. Dubai became a global destination; Nigeria became a cautionary tale.
What have we successfully grown? Bandits, political thugs, and an impressive ecosystem of electoral violence. Democracy in Nigeria is not determined by votes but by mathematics conducted in private rooms after polling ends. Those of us who live here do not need policy papers to explain state failure—we experience it daily. Systems do not merely underperform; they have packed their bags and emigrated.
Take healthcare. In 1983, Buhari famously described Nigerian hospitals as “mere consulting clinics.” History, being a comedian, later returned him as president for eight years. The clinics remained consulting clinics—only now with bigger budgets, foreign medical trips, and press statements explaining why nothing changed.
In Nigeria, people who belong in prison are often the ones passing laws, interpreting laws, and breaking laws—sometimes all in one afternoon. Nothing happens to them, and nothing is expected to happen. Many who should never have been admitted into the legal profession are now senior players, proudly serving as consultants in the systematic pollution of justice. Justice itself has been diluted to homeopathic levels—present in theory, absent in effect.
Those who perfected injustice suddenly discover the rule of law when it knocks on their own door. We are told prosecutions are “selective” or “politically motivated.” My disagreement is simple: justice in Nigeria has always been selective. If justice were applied strictly and evenly, only a handful of saints—and possibly no politicians—would survive the first week.
As a people, we have normalised abnormality. We watch individuals with no visible means of income acquire obscene wealth through crude access to power, and we respond by spraying them at parties. Every time I travel outside Nigeria and observe how government actually works, I am reminded that what we practise at home is not democracy but feudalism with branding.
We celebrate thieves. We decorate them. We give them chieftaincy titles, front-row seats in churches and mosques, and microphones to preach morality. We are ruled by people who sermonise in public and sin professionally. Judges who dish out injustice know exactly what they are doing—but consequences are theoretical, and accountability is optional. Those meant to enforce discipline are often shareholders in the injustice themselves.
We loudly proclaim the supremacy of the constitution, then violate it at the slightest inconvenience—usually in the name of “saving democracy.” The contradictions of Nigerian constitutionalism would be funny if they were not so destructive.
At some point, excuses must expire. If Nigeria is to survive, we must stop confusing noise for patriotism and sentiment for solutions. We must choose reason over loyalty, justice over convenience, and courage over comfort.
As things stand, Nigeria is approaching a boiling point. The signs are everywhere—visible enough even to those who have spent years looking the other way.
Centre for Nigeria Progress 