I wasn’t there in the late 1950s or 60s. I was born in the 70s—into a Nigeria already staggering under the weight of betrayed dreams and squandered potential. But every time I stumble across an old newspaper clipping, a fading photograph, or listen to the voices of those who lived through that golden age, something tears inside me.
Because they aren’t just describing a moment in time. They are describing a country that once held immense promise. A Nigeria that worked.
They speak of a nation where the public service was functional and respected, where regional governments competed to outdo one another in education, agriculture, and infrastructure. Where universities like Ibadan, Nsukka, and Ife stood as true centers of excellence—attracting foreign lecturers, producing graduates sought after across the globe. Where civil servants bought cars and built houses on a single income. Where the naira was strong—₦1 exchanged for $1.50 in the 70s.
They speak of a time when groundnut pyramids towered in Kano, cocoa revenue built schools and roads in the West, and palm oil exports fueled economic activity in the East. In 1965, Nigeria’s population stood at fewer than 60 million. The structure held. The dream felt possible.
But what happened to that Nigeria? Where did we lose the plot? This question haunts generations. Because the crisis we face today did not begin yesterday. It is not the consequence of one leader or one government. It is the product of systemic failure—a tragic, repetitive loop of visionless leadership, policy summersaults, elite greed, and missed opportunities.
Each administration—military or civilian—has come with big promises: ‘Hope,’ ‘Transformation,’ ‘Next Level,’ ‘Renewed Hope’—but little progress. Instead, we’ve watched a nation with vast oil wealth turn into the poverty capital of the world. We’ve seen hospitals become death traps, schools collapse, roads disappear, and public trust erode.
Today, Nigeria groans. More than 104 million Nigerians live in extreme poverty, surviving on less than $2.15 per day, according to the World Bank. Inflation stands at 33.69%, with food inflation at a staggering 40.53%, per the National Bureau of Statistics. The naira—once proud—has crashed to ₦1,600 per dollar, crippling imports and businesses. Fuel now sells for over ₦800 per litre, compared to just ₦185 a year ago. A 50kg bag of rice? Over ₦80,000.
Small businesses are dying. Young people are fleeing in droves—through airports and deserts. The ‘japa’ wave is not a phase; it’s a desperate search for oxygen.
Yes, President Bola Ahmed Tinubu’s administration made bold moves—removing fuel subsidy, floating the naira, launching economic reforms. But Nigerians are not just angry about the what—they’re angry about the how. Because these policies, while economically defensible, landed like hammer blows on a people already battered by years of neglect and deception.
But to single out Tinubu would be dishonest. He is not the architect of this rot—he is the latest tenant in a broken house built by decades of irresponsible governance.
From the military era that plundered our oil wealth…To the democratic dispensations that promised much but delivered little…From civilian presidents who looked away while corruption ate through our soul…To legislators more interested in luxury SUVs than in legislation that uplifts lives…To state governors who act like emperors, squandering allocations while their citizens drink from contaminated streams…
We are where we are today because Nigeria has been repeatedly betrayed by those entrusted with her future. And the betrayal continues—not just in corruption, but in silence. In the refusal to build strong institutions. In the celebration of mediocrity. In policies that protect the powerful and punish the poor.
What is the Nigerian dream in 2025? Is it to hustle, struggle, survive—and pray? Is it to become a statistic in a land rich in potential but poor in progress?
But even in this sea of despair, we remember the stories of what once was. That memory is not just nostalgia—it is grief. Grief for a country we never truly inherited. Grief for a promise that never matured. Grief for a future that was stolen long before we arrived.
And this grief should not lead us to resignation. It should lead us to reflection—and rebellion. Not rebellion in violence, but rebellion in thought. In demand. In action.
Because if we do not hold the powerful to account—if we do not demand truth, integrity, and vision—then our children, too, will grow up saying: “I wasn’t there… but I feel the loss deeply.”
Let that not be their fate. Let it end with us.
