For over six decades, Nigerians have been prisoners of hope—chained not by a lack of vision, but by a surplus of lies. From the dusty campaign trails of the First Republic to the flashy rallies of today’s digital democracy, a pattern has become heartbreakingly familiar: messiahs rise with booming promises, only to fade into the shadows of failure, leaving behind a trail of broken dreams.
These “saviours” arrive with the swagger of revolutionaries. They speak the language of liberation, pledging to break the chains of poverty, insecurity, corruption, and backwardness. They assure citizens of a “new Nigeria”—a land where the poor would eat, the sick would be healed, the streets would be safe, the youth would thrive, and the old would rest in dignity. They swear they’ll rescue us from the clutches of past mistakes. They swear by God, Constitution, and conscience. But when the smoke clears, Nigerians are left worse than they were before.
The statistics are damning. According to the World Bank, over 63% of Nigerians—approximately 133 million people—are multidimensionally poor, lacking access to basic services such as clean water, education, and healthcare. Unemployment continues to rise, particularly among youth, who now constitute over 42.5% of Nigeria’s unemployed population. Inflation is eating deep into what’s left of people’s income, with food inflation recently hitting over 40%, the highest in decades. The naira has collapsed, fuel is unaffordable, electricity is unreliable, and security remains a nightmare, with thousands killed or displaced by bandits, insurgents, and criminal gangs every year.
All these, despite decades of lofty assurances. We were told to “hope again,” “believe again,” “endure just a little more,” and “tighten our belts.” Leaders with crisp agbadas and well-oiled rhetoric told us help was on the way. That the next administration would be the turning point. That patience would be rewarded.
But hope has become a weapon in Nigeria—a tool used to pacify a wounded population. And messiahs have become merchants—trading in promises, harvesting votes, and disappearing into opulence. From the man who vowed to fight corruption with an iron fist, yet presided over a regime plagued by scandal; to the one who claimed he had all the economic answers, yet plunged millions into deeper hardship, it’s been betrayal after betrayal.
Even now, a new crop of politicians parade themselves as redeemers. They promise “renewed hope,” “economic rebirth,” and “national rescue.” But beneath the slogans lie the same recycled faces, the same tired systems, and the same unwillingness to deliver meaningful change.
At some point, Nigerians must stop praying for saviours and start demanding accountability. The country doesn’t need another strongman, another populist prophet, or another sweet-talking technocrat. It needs systems that work, institutions that function, and a population that refuses to be fooled.
The problem is not just failed leadership. It is a nation trapped in a cycle of emotional blackmail, where suffering is normalized, and every election is a reset of the same tragic playbook. We’re not just ruled by people—we’re ruled by illusions. And until the people break free from this collective hypnosis, the suffering will continue.
Maybe the time has come to stop believing in “saviours”—and start believing in structures. In accountability. In civic power. In justice. In consequences for lies told, for lives lost, and for the national trauma we now carry as normal.
We do not need another redeemer. We need an uprising of reason and responsibility. A political reawakening. A national reckoning.
Because at this point, salvation is not a slogan. It is a survival imperative.
