Nigeria has endured enough contradictions. Our people have sacrificed enough, tolerated enough and hoped enough. The responsibility now is to transform that resilience into reform, that hope into action and our national aspirations into lived realities. It is time for Nigeria to stop being a country at war with its own facts.
By Shu’aibu Usman Leman
After many years in the Nigerian media, I have watched governments come and go, political parties rise and collapse, policies announced with great fanfare and forgotten almost as quickly, and promises of a better Nigeria repeated from one administration to another.
I have also come to a painful conclusion that Nigeria does not suffer from a shortage of ideas, resources or intelligent people. We suffer from contradictions — between what we say and what we do, between the Nigeria we describe and the Nigeria our people experience every day. I call these our factual contradictions.
As journalists, we are taught to respect facts. Facts are supposed to be stubborn, impartial and sacred. But in Nigeria, facts sometimes appear negotiable. We construct grand national narratives while our everyday reality tells an entirely different story. We celebrate what Nigeria ought to be while ignoring what Nigeria actually is, and over time the distance between the two has become so wide that we have almost normalised the contradiction itself.
There is a contradiction that is difficult to ignore, that is the gap between what government promises and what citizens actually experience. Every administration comes into office promising transformation, reform, security, prosperity and better living conditions. Policies are announced with impressive names, ambitious targets and carefully prepared speeches. Yet too often, the excitement of announcement is followed by the disappointment of implementation.
Projects are commissioned before they are completed, reforms are introduced without sufficient continuity, and programmes are abandoned or renamed when administrations change. Citizens are therefore left navigating a country where government appears highly visible in speeches and ceremonies but considerably less visible in the quality of services and opportunities available to ordinary people.
The problem is not that Nigeria lacks policies or plans. It is that we have repeatedly struggled to turn promises into durable results. In the end, citizens judge government not by the elegance of its policies but by whether those policies improve their lives.
There is another contradiction that pains me even more, which is that Nigeria is a country rich in resources but poor in outcomes. We have oil, gas, fertile land and enormous mineral deposits. We have one of the largest and most energetic youth populations in the world. We have entrepreneurs, professionals, academics, artisans, farmers and innovators capable of competing anywhere. Yet millions of Nigerians struggle to afford food, shelter, education and basic healthcare.
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Perhaps nowhere is this contradiction more visible than in the petroleum sector. Nigeria is one of Africa’s major oil-producing countries, yet Nigerians have repeatedly had to contend with high and volatile prices for petrol and other petroleum products. For decades, the country has also wrestled with the politically contentious question of fuel subsidy — whether it should be retained, reformed or removed, and who ultimately bears its cost.
The subsidy debate has produced passionate arguments on all sides, but beneath it lies a more fundamental contradiction of how a country endowed with enormous crude oil resources can remain so vulnerable to the price and supply of refined petroleum products?
We have spent decades extracting crude oil, exporting it and, for much of that period, depending heavily on imported refined products. The debate over subsidy should therefore not obscure the larger question of how Nigeria can turn its oil wealth into a reliable domestic energy system that supports production and makes life more affordable for its citizens.
The real measure of an oil-producing nation should not simply be how many barrels it extracts, but whether its people enjoy the benefits of those resources through affordable energy, productive industries, jobs and improved living standards.
The same contradiction extends beyond petroleum. We have enormous agricultural potential but continue to spend heavily on food imports. We possess valuable minerals, yet struggle to develop the industries that would transform those resources into finished products, jobs and wealth.
We have the human capital to build competitive industries, yet too often export our best-trained professionals and import expertise that could have been developed at home.
Whenever I reflect on this, I find it difficult to accept the familiar description of Nigeria as simply a “poor country”. We are not poor in resources. We are poor in management, accountability, productivity and political will.
Our tragedy is not that we lack what is required to prosper; it is that we have repeatedly failed to convert our enormous advantages into affordable energy, productive industries, decent jobs and sustainable prosperity for the majority of our citizens.
Since 1999, we have maintained uninterrupted civilian rule. That is an important achievement, particularly when viewed against our turbulent political history. But after all these years, I still ask whether we have become democrats, or have merely become accustomed to elections.
Democracy is more than voting every four years. It is about institutions, accountability, tolerance, transparency, the rule of law and respect for the citizen.
Our political parties have manifestos, but how many politicians actually live by them? They have ideologies, but how many remain committed to those ideologies when political interests change?
Political defection has become almost routine. A politician can wake up in one party, cross over to another before lunch and join a coalition by evening, and nobody appears particularly surprised. What happened to conviction?
We have reduced politics to the pursuit and preservation of power. Principles have become negotiable, while alliances are often determined by personal advantage rather than national interest.
The tragedy is that we have come to regard this behaviour as normal political strategy when, in a healthy democracy, it should raise serious questions about character, accountability and the meaning of public service. Perhaps even more disturbing is the increasingly blurred line between political power and criminality.
In Nigeria, the difference between some political actors and criminal networks can sometimes appear frighteningly thin — not because politicians as a class are criminals, and certainly not because every politician is involved in criminality, but because our political history contains too many instances in which violence, intimidation, criminal gangs and political patronage have become intertwined.
We condemn banditry, armed robbery, kidnapping and other forms of criminal violence, yet we have also witnessed situations in which political actors or their agents have relied on thugs, gangs and other violent elements to intimidate opponents, influence elections or enforce political interests.
The contradiction is difficult to ignore.
We condemn the criminal who uses fear and force to acquire power or wealth, but sometimes tolerate the politician who uses money, influence, patronage or sponsored violence to achieve political objectives.
The methods may differ and the public language may be different, but the underlying culture can be disturbingly similar — power without principle, influence without accountability and the use of fear to achieve private or political ends.
This should concern every Nigerian who believes in democracy and the rule of law.
A politician does not become morally superior to a criminal simply because he wears a babban riga, agbada or a suit, speaks from a podium, belongs to a political party or occupies public office. Neither does a criminal become respectable because he enjoys political protection or access to powerful people.
The real test is conduct.
If an individual uses violence, intimidation, criminal networks or public resources to acquire or retain power, then society must have the courage to examine that conduct honestly rather than hide behind political titles.
We cannot seriously fight insecurity while ignoring the political and economic ecosystems that sometimes make criminality useful, profitable or protected.
We cannot condemn violent groups in our forests and communities while looking away from the powerful interests that may recruit, finance, protect or politically exploit violent actors.
A democracy cannot survive indefinitely when violence is condemned in public but cultivated in private as an instrument of political competition.
If the state wants citizens to respect the law, it must first demonstrate that the law applies equally to the powerful and the powerless.
We want the freedoms that democracy provides, but too many of us — particularly within the political class — are uncomfortable with the accountability that democracy demands.
We want democratic benefits with an authoritarian mindset. We want elections, but we do not always want independent institutions. We want public office, but not always the scrutiny that comes with it. We want the authority of government without the discipline of accountability.
This is why elections alone cannot be the measure of democratic maturity.
A country does not become genuinely democratic simply because citizens periodically line up to vote. Democracy becomes meaningful when institutions are stronger than individuals, when political opponents are treated as legitimate participants rather than enemies, when citizens can challenge government without fear, when the judiciary can act independently, when the press can investigate power and when public officials understand that their authority is a responsibility rather than a personal entitlement.
I also struggle with another contradiction of how we are a nation that loudly celebrates unity while constantly negotiating our differences through tribe, region and religion.
Our motto speaks of unity, faith, peace and progress. Our national anthem calls on us to stand together despite our different tribes and tongues. Beautiful words.
But walk into many government offices and the first question may not be what you can do for Nigeria, but where you come from.
Federal Character was intended to promote inclusion and a sense of belonging. Yet, over time, it has sometimes been manipulated in ways that place identity above competence.
I believe strongly in inclusion. No Nigerian should be excluded because of where he or she comes from. But inclusion should never become an excuse for mediocrity.
A nation cannot build excellence by rewarding identity at the expense of competence, just as it cannot build unity by pretending that legitimate differences do not exist.
The objective should be to create a Nigeria in which every citizen has a fair opportunity to contribute and where competence, character and performance determine advancement without turning diversity into a weapon against national cohesion.
And then there is religion — perhaps our most uncomfortable contradiction of all.
I sometimes describe Nigeria as a nation of excessive religiosity without religion.
Few countries display religion as publicly and enthusiastically as we do. Churches and mosques are everywhere. Politicians invoke God in their speeches. Public officials attend religious ceremonies. We pray before meetings, during campaigns and after crises.
Yet I often wonder whether our religious devotion has sufficiently translated into our conduct.
We pray for prosperity while stealing public resources. We condemn corruption in our places of worship and then celebrate politicians accused of corruption because they distribute money to their communities.
We speak about morality while tolerating injustice. We invoke God while manipulating elections, exploiting the vulnerable and abusing public office.
I do not believe Nigeria needs more religious noise. We need more righteousness.
Religion should not merely be something we profess with our mouths; it should be reflected in how we treat one another, how we conduct our businesses, how we exercise public authority and how we respond to injustice.
We have become very good at displaying our faith. We need to become equally serious about living its values.
Perhaps our greatest problem is that we have separated religiosity from righteousness.
Then there is the law.
Nigeria has no shortage of laws. We have the Constitution, anti-corruption legislation and institutions established to uphold accountability. On paper, the principle is straightforward, that nobody is above the law.
But the Nigerian experience often tells another story.
The law can sometimes feel like a cobweb — strong enough to catch the small flies but too weak to hold the big birds.
The petty offender can be arrested, prosecuted and imprisoned with remarkable speed, while a powerful individual accused of stealing billions can spend years navigating the justice system, sometimes reaching a plea bargain and occasionally emerging from the entire process with his reputation, wealth or political influence largely intact.
When citizens begin to believe that justice depends on who you are, whom you know or how much you have, the law loses its moral authority.
And once the law loses its moral authority, society begins to lose its conscience.
This is particularly dangerous because the legitimacy of the state depends not only on its ability to enforce laws but on citizens believing that those laws are fair, predictable and applicable to everyone.
This is where my greatest concern lies.
The most dangerous consequence of Nigeria’s contradictions is not merely poor governance. It is cynicism.
I worry about the young Nigerian who works hard but sees someone less qualified succeed because of connections. I worry about the graduate who believes that honesty is a disadvantage. I worry about the entrepreneur who pays every legitimate fee while watching politically connected competitors bend the rules.
I worry about the young person who watches politicians accused of corruption retain influence while ordinary citizens struggle to survive, or who sees violent men denounced as criminals in one context and courted as political assets in another.
What happens to the patriotism of such a person?
At some point, the young Nigerian stops asking how to build the country and starts asking how to escape it.
That is the danger.
A country can survive bad roads. It can repair broken infrastructure. It can reform institutions. It can even recover from economic crises.
But when its young people lose faith in the idea of the country itself, recovery becomes much harder.
I do not believe Nigeria needs another collection of beautiful slogans. We have had enough slogans.
We need honesty.
We need to transform our economy from one that waits for revenue to be shared into one that produces wealth. We need to manufacture, process our raw materials, modernise agriculture, invest in human capital and create an environment in which enterprise is rewarded.
We need to make democracy more than elections. Political parties must stand for identifiable principles, and politicians should be judged by their records and convictions.
We need to break the relationship between political power and organised violence by ensuring that no politician, regardless of influence, can recruit, finance, protect or politically legitimise criminals for electoral or personal advantage.
We need to make national unity more than a ceremonial phrase.
Let competence, character and performance matter more than ethnicity, geography or political connection.
And perhaps most importantly, we need to reconnect our professions of faith and patriotism with our conduct.
After all my years in journalism, I have learnt that nations, like individuals, eventually have to confront the truth about themselves.
Nigeria cannot forever pretend that everything is fine.
We cannot celebrate our natural wealth while accepting mass poverty as normal. We cannot call ourselves a democracy while treating principles as disposable. We cannot preach unity while allowing ethnicity and regional calculations to dominate national life.
We cannot boast of our religiosity while ignoring the moral obligations of religion.
We cannot proclaim the supremacy of the law while allowing power and privilege to determine how justice is experienced.
And we cannot condemn banditry and criminality while tolerating the political use of violence or ignoring the powerful interests that may enable it.
These are not simply contradictions of government. They are contradictions of who we are becoming as a nation.
I remain hopeful about Nigeria.
I have seen too much talent, resilience, creativity and patriotism among ordinary Nigerians to surrender that hope.
But hope must not become an excuse for complacency.
Nigeria has survived because its people are remarkably resilient, but resilience should not be confused with acceptance. Our ability to endure hardship should not give our leaders permission to perpetuate it.
We owe the next generation more than survival.
We owe them a country whose institutions they can trust, whose laws they can respect, whose opportunities they can access and whose national identity they can embrace without apology.
For too long, we have lived between the Nigeria we proclaim and the Nigeria we practise.
The time has come to close that gap.
Facts are stubborn things. Sooner or later, every nation must confront them.
My fear is that if we refuse to confront our contradictions, our contradictions will eventually confront us. And when that happens, the cost may be far greater than any reform we are currently unwilling to undertake.
It is time for Nigeria to stop arguing with its own facts.
It is time to face ourselves — honestly, courageously and without excuses.
We must restore the distinction between public service and private enrichment, between political competition and criminal violence, between religiosity and righteousness, and between democracy and the mere ritual of elections.
We must build a country in which the law is not a weapon for the weak and a shield for the powerful, and in which political office is not a licence to command, intimidate or appropriate the commonwealth.
Nigeria has endured enough contradictions. Our people have sacrificed enough, tolerated enough and hoped enough. The responsibility now is to transform that resilience into reform, that hope into action and our national aspirations into lived realities. It is time for Nigeria to stop being a country at war with its own facts.
It is time to face ourselves — honestly, courageously and without excuses — before our contradictions resolve us.
