The first time I tasted that sliver of bitter adulthood was during the early days of my university years. Prior to that period, I was living in my little bubble, of a little world, confined to a tiny peephole in viewing the world or how it works. Now in my early twenties, I can't claim to have figured things out yet — and maybe I never will. In hindsight, I can attest that the most rewarding part of attending a federal university was meeting its people.
I had only been to a few Nigerian states, but Bayero University offered me the opportunity to be an emphatic human in more expansive ways I had no idea would influence my worldview, extending to how I relate with others beyond Nigeria. Whether by design or accident and despite its numerous limitations, our public education system had managed to achieve this feat well.
With each headline, however, the Nigeria I seem to know from those early days of college eludes me. The more I unearth how bizarre many of the things I held to be normal are, the more I see how Nigeria is wasting the potential I spot in my comrades. The more I see how human rights are upheld in other parts of the world, the more I recognize how archaic our ways are. The more I learn about Nigeria, the harder it gets to love her.
There are so many things to talk about when it comes to the cinematic universe that is Nigeria. Alone, I would sit to write about one issue or the other, but as I dipped my pail, I would get overwhelmed and discard the metaphorical paper into the bin.
Every time I sit with my colleagues, as soon as we ease off on the distractions that are discussing movies and tv shows or books or football or cryptocurrency (yeah I have those friends too… sue me), etc., the conversation naturally lands on one of the many issues crippling the country. What makes the discussions so frustrating is that, in theory, the country should be prospering. And almost every time we brainstorm on ways we can help make it better in the littlest ways we can, we find mountains of evolved limitations ready to dwarf our contributions.
My anxiety about the absurdity that we're all here — the entire human race on a wet spaceship hurtling through a void — is magnified by the strangeness of being a Nigerian. I try my best to always acknowledge the ridiculousness that is existence, but I still couldn't articulate how I got so attached to an imaginary border drawn by some oppressive Sapiens hundreds of years ago. My unyielding patriotism is unbecoming for someone that has since given up on the immense weight of everyday life.
"Explaining what it means to be Nigerian often feels like a private but difficult thing to do, an innate, instinctive knowledge reserved for Nigerians alone," wrote the Nigerian author Abi Daré. "I sometimes imagine the country as a toddler who was given this burden, this gift of extreme wealth and opportunities and who, without understanding the gravity and potential in such a gift, invited a bunch of insane teenagers to help manage it."
Daré's analogy was apt. Nigeria is a source of horror and fascination for anyone who cares about the country. We're confronted with dual sides of the country that do not reconcile with each other, yet violently coexist. Tobi Amusan might melt our hearts as she waves that green-white-green flag, but for any of us that's ever partaken in any daring challenge in the name of the country, we need not look closely to see that Nigerian excellence is pioneered by people like Amusan not because they are Nigerians but despite their Nigerianism.
A few of such issues eventually implode after years of brewing, sure: #EndSARS was one such example. In that courageous outcry, still, our divisiveness remains apparent. Many in the north, which I would know, blame the victims of this inhumane police brutality for their fate. Whatever happens to injustice anywhere being injustice everywhere?
"The organisation Feminist Coalition raised funds for legal aid and medical care during the 2020 EndSARS protests with the funds allocated in full transparency," wrote the journalist Bolu Babalola, "and yet they [the organization] are penalised by those they attempt to assist, with feminism being called an 'agenda', as if seeking equality is a nefarious masterplan."
Of course, the stereotype that every young lad with a MacBook and a flagship phone is a "Nigerian prince" is comical, to begin with — I can't believe that needs to be said. If anything, implementing realistic and practical ways to curb the "Yahoo boy" situation benefits Nigeria more than it does its citizens. Regardless, how we all move on from the horrific response of the state to such defining moments in our history, with bright-colored divisiveness and that nonchalance we're known to brush off our tragedies, is as strange as it ever was. It lies central to what it means to be a Nigerian.
In "The Animals of Aso Rock," the Nigerian literary provocateur Abubakar Adam captured this nonchalance so succinctly: "Who has forgotten the giant snake that mysteriously snaked its way into a JAMB office, slithered into its locked vault and swallowed, of all things in the world, N36 million an official had kept there? Or the adventurous monkeys that monkeyed their way into a farmhouse and stole N70 Million a senator had kept there. To the best of my knowledge, these monies have not been recovered. It makes you wonder what sort of extravagant tree mansion or luxury burrow these snakes and monkeys are constructing in the wild. What opulent 'snake in the monkey shadow' lifestyles do they live?"
Everyone seems to be okay with them just two years later — keep up goddammit, Al'ameen! We laughed at the ridiculousness of these stories and trended them on Twitter with memes and witty comedy sketches, only to never properly bring them up ever. The recent N100 billion fraud charges involving Nigeria's former Accountant General are already losing heat and god knows how many of these cases are buried in paperwork.
The theft of public funds is nothing compared to how the country handles its current ever-escalating domestic terrorism. "Yesterday was six months since the abduction of the Abuja train passengers, and at least 23 of the victims are still in the custody of the repugnant terrorists," tweeted the human rights lawyer Bulama Bukarti earlier this week. "That this happened in a country with a govt & security + intelligence is still unfathomable to me. Do they care at all?"
Nigeria's education system, too, like so many other sectors, has been in a terrible slump for decades now — higher education, most concerningly, but the basic levels still take a serious toll despite receiving less attention. Corruption extends to more than mere bribes on the road between able adults, undermining the very frail process of vetting our youth for productive participation in society: WAEC and NECO, anyone? Industrial actions were the norm when our professors were students and little has changed. At the time of writing, students need no reminder of the ongoing seven-month nationwide strike by the academic staff union across all public universities.
Every nook and cranny of this country, dubbed the Giant of Africa, suffers from the same tragic affliction — from healthcare, finance, to agriculture. We're a giant, alright. A giant joke! Our problems are compounded by terrible leaders, sure — old people who lack a vision for what a prosperous nation should look like even if they care — but to say they are solely to blame for our misfortunes is unfair.
Insecurity, a poor healthcare system, excessive reliance on crude oil, deterioration of the Naira, nepotism, etc., are all horrible issues and the common folks might lack much direct influence to change things for the better. But still exists religious extremism, blatant sexism with all its "complications", and countless other things I wouldn't dare speak of as a Northerner, a Muslim, and a Nigerian — lest I would be set on fire. For those used to my dark sarcasm, that was no joke. Thinking about these unspeakable things alone, of which the public has much more power to change than the state, enrages me.
The tech ecosystem in Nigeria looks promising. With companies like Flutterwave getting valued at $3 billion, one can't help but feel hopeful that a tech revolution would likely steer the country in the direction every Nigerian would be truly proud to have called this fascinating shore of Africa their motherland. But that, too, turned sour earlier in April with Hundeyin's "Flutterwave: The African Unicorn Built On Quicksand."
Not everything is necessarily an agenda by the state or the Western countries to divide us to their advantage. We credit these old people with more brain power than the low voltage they run on. Oftentimes, we are terrible just by ourselves. We vote people into positions of power with no blueprint of their vision for our fate, and then wonder how they are so clueless. Certainly, some of these repercussions stem from the horrendousness of the colonial era. "Lugard and his wife have long gone but our problems are still here," wrote Zulfikar Aliyu Adamu, "and some of them (like corruption and under-development) have taken up the rooms vacated by Agriculture and Peace." No matter how we got into these misfortunes, Nigeria's mess remains our mess to clean up.
Perhaps, I am attached to Nigeria because I seek a sense of communal support only its natives can provide. I can binge every foreign TV show and romanticize what it would be like to live elsewhere, but in the end, I am bound by blood and forever cursed to love this country wherever I might find myself. Or maybe my patriotism for Nigeria feels out of place because it has never been reciprocated. There are times when I feel fed up with so much of its bullshit that I resolve to break up with this strange patriotism, albeit in my mind, but then from the chaos often emerges hope — the World Cup matches of 2014 come to mind.
Some days, I imagine what the future of Nigeria would shape out to be. I imagine whether we're currently missing something, that crucial piece of the puzzle necessary to make everything alright. I imagine my version of that piece, but then ponder on how different and odd it would come across to the diverse community that is Nigeria. I read about other countries with similar inherent diversity as Nigeria, and I begin to wonder just at which point this diversity ceases to become a curse and morphs into a blessing.
Most days though, I envy and empathize with those who never leave that tiny peephole of looking at the world. In their shell — whether or not they've had the opportunity to attend public universities and dance on the canvas of that fascinating world — I wonder if they've reconciled their identity with the confusion and the oddities of what it takes to be proud of Nigeria.
We are still far from replicating the Nigerian excellence we see championed by Nigerians far from home. How do we move forward in the right direction? Pttf. Don't look at me. I'm merely a kid struggling to make sense of how we found ourselves where we are. To give some perspective, I read about the civil war only recently — I am referring to the horrifying accounts of the atrocities that took place during the war. We can still say we're proud to be Nigerians on days like today, but more than anything, it is as close to the delusional pride one convinces themselves to feel when in a toxic relationship.