If you could travel back in time to any day in the history of Nigeria, what day would you choose? For me, it’s an easy choice: October 1, 1960. I have imagined going to bed and waking up on that glorious Saturday when it must have seemed to every Nigerian alive then that their country was on the brink of greatness, that their descendants would inherit a country better in every way than they did. They probably felt like the Israelites did on sighting the promised land. I am sure some were moved to kiss the earth. I would have been. Imagine the excitement of witnessing the transition from colonial rule to autonomous rule.
To those who were lucky to be there, it must have appeared like being at the creation of a brand-new world. Everything was theirs and everything was possible. They were high on hope. Patriotism – if patriotism is reciprocal love of country- came easy to them. It would have been impossible for it not to. Of course, less than 10 years later, the war would break out, whatever dreams my parents and their generation had would be shattered, but on that Saturday in 1960, they were oblivious to all that.
The South African poet, Lebo Mashile, says in one of her poems that to love a country that does not love one back is to be an activist. Nigeria demands that we become activists because we love her. I often hear Nigerians, frustrated by Naija, declare that they cannot stand Nigeria. And yet beneath that frustration is a love (that drives them/us crazy) because there seems to be no logic to it. I have heard people compare their relationship with Naija to one of toxicity. The language used is the same as the one used to describe abusive partners. And yet, the love remains. And hence the frustration.
In Igbo, to love is to see the beloved with your eyes. A fum gi n’anya. I love you. I see you with (my) eyes. When one loves the other but is not loved back, it means then that the one who loves is not seen. Not to be seen is to be treated as inconsequential. To be told – in actions and words that you do not matter. In other word, to be treated like Nigeria does her citizens.
And it hurts. It hurts to love a country that forces you into activism because it is so dysfunctional it cannot/will not love you back. To love is to risk having your heart broken. To love a country like Nigeria is to risk having your heart broken in different ways, multiple times.
Where does one start? With the state of our government hospitals? When was it that the president’s wife said that Aso Rock Clinic did not even have band aids? The National Association of Resident Doctors (NARD) estimates that about N576 billion ($1.2 billion) is lost to medical tourism in Nigeria every year. Almost nobody who can afford to – from our presidents to our middle class – chooses to be treated in a Nigerian public hospital.
Where does one start? With the abysmal state of our public schools, many of which – even federal schools – are hugely dependent on alumnae associations for infrastructure and maintenance of infrastructure? All over the country, these associations are building toilets and classrooms, and carrying almost the full weight of their alma mater rather than complementing the government’s efforts. School principals go with their wish lists to presidents of old students’ associations rather than to the ministry of education.
Where does one start? With the scourge of insecurity that has made abductions and kidnappings a regular occurrence? Recently, a security advice, allegedly issued by NYSC, trended on social media. Apparently, in the Security Awareness and Education Handbook for Corps Members and Staff, corpers are advised that “When travelling in high-risk roads such as Abuja-Kaduna, Abuja-Lokoja-Okene or Aba-Port-Harcourt road, then alert your family members, friends and colleagues in order to have someone on hand to pay off the ransom that could be demanded.” NYSC has slammed this as a malicious lie (even as some corpers are swearing to its veracity) but that is neither here nor there. The fact that it could be true, that it seems true is enough indictment of a nation where abductions are rife.
Where does one start? With the hopelessness that is driving young Nigerians – of all classes – out of Nigeria? Those who cannot leave legally put their lives at risk to leave however they can. Our university graduates trade their degrees for menial jobs abroad. Young talents japaing are congratulated on social media because there is an acknowledgment that there is at least a chance for those young ones to achieve whatever dreams they have for themselves, dreams the Nigerian factor might choke like it’s done to others.
For the generation that witnessed that glorious day when the knife passed from the stealers of the yam to the owners of the yam, it must be distressing to see their children and grandchildren live in a Nigeria, 60 years on where the yam barn has been thoughtlessly squandered. Nigeria is nothing close to the vision of the country they’d imagined it would be. Perhaps, if we could feel a sliver of the hope that covered the country in 1960, we may be motivated to work – as leaders and as citizens- for a country that matches the image Nigerians saw before them on that first independence day.
