In September 2017, the British High Commissioner to Nigeria, Paul Arkwright, granted an interview to the BBC Pidgin Service. With a wide smile, he introduced himself: “My name na Paul Arkwright. Na me be the British High Commissioner to Nigeria.” He went on to share his Nigerian favorites “My favorite Nigerian beer na Star, my favorite Nigerian actress na Omotola, and my best footballer ever na Jay-Jay Okocha.”
Nigerians were thrilled. The sight of a Western diplomat speaking Pidgin on a global platform sparked excitement. What should have been lighthearted entertainment became something deeper a testament, many believed, to Nigeria’s global cultural relevance.
This scenario has played out repeatedly. Foreigners adopt surface-level elements of Nigerian culture, donning Ankara outfits, joining the jollof rice debate, or quoting Afrobeat lyrics. These gestures often earn them accolades, warmth, and open access to Nigerian spaces. But beyond the charm offensive lies a calculated strategy leveraging cultural familiarity to advance diplomatic, business, or intelligence goals.
It is not that these foreigners mean harm. They are merely wielding soft power, a tool that allows them to gain influence and access without overt force. The problem lies in Nigeria’s overzealous embrace of these gestures as acts of validation.
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For instance, when Barack Obama’s playlists included Afrobeat tracks, Nigerian media celebrated. When Premier League football clubs tweet in Pidgin, the excitement is palpable. When Western diplomats wear traditional Nigerian attire or sing local songs, they are met with admiration. Yet, a closer look reveals a sobering truth. These acts, though seemingly benign, often serve as subtle means of advancing foreign interests while deepening our psychological dependency on external approval.
The strategies are neither new nor unique. During colonial times, European powers used trinkets like mirrors and bottles to curry favour with local chiefs, ultimately exploiting them. While the overt violence of colonialism has faded, the appetite for Africa’s resources persists. Today, the tools are subtler media, music, fashion, and language designed to create access and influence.
Consider the education problem in Nigeria. At first glance, it appears to be about underfunding or mismanagement. But beneath the surface is a lingering legacy of empire. In the 1960s and 70s, intellectuals who challenged global power structures were not just silenced; they were eliminated. This was not merely about suppressing individuals; it was about erasing ideas, cutting off avenues for critical thinking, and ensuring that Africa remained dependent on external systems.
That strategy has been devastatingly effective. Today, many Nigerians struggle to connect the dots between their local struggles and global dynamics. Foreign interests continue to disrupt systems, extract resources, and leave with little accountability, while many Nigerians debate surface issues, blind to the deeper forces at play.
Take the recent viral video of President Tinubu’s visit to France, where a French military band played an Afrobeat song. Nigerians flooded social media with praise, thrilled at what they perceived as global recognition of their culture. Yet, this moment raises a crucial question: why does French validation of Afrobeat feel more significant than the countless times Nigerians have celebrated it themselves?
This hunger for Western approval is deeply rooted in colonial conditioning. When foreigners sing our songs or embrace our culture, it becomes a headline. But when Nigerians do the same, it is deemed unremarkable. This asymmetry speaks to a broader issue a colonial superiority complex that many of us have internalised.
This is not about blaming the West. It is about recognizing the systems that keep Africa dependent and reclaiming our agency. Education must go beyond rote memorization of dates and events. It must connect history to geopolitics, imperialism, and capitalism, revealing how global forces shape our policies and realities.
For too long, Nigerians have been conditioned to devalue their indigenous knowledge systems. Colonial powers dismissed these systems as primitive, replacing them with structures that suited their interests. But those systems, rooted in local realities, sustained African societies for centuries. Rather than building on them, we allowed outsiders to dictate their irrelevance.
We cannot afford to continue this way. It is time for a cultural and intellectual awakening. Nigerians must stop measuring their worth by Western standards and start valuing their heritage, ideas, and innovations.
When I criticised the movie Black Panther, I faced backlash. People saw it as a celebration of African identity, but to me, it was an insult wrapped in applause. A black society imagined entirely through a Western lens felt like yet another appropriation. The accents, costumes, and aesthetics could not mask the underlying reality it was not our story. It was theirs, told in the way they wanted us to see ourselves.
This is the crux of the issue. Until Nigerians begin to define themselves on their own terms, the cycle of dependency and exploitation will persist. Our history, education, and culture must be tools for empowerment, not instruments of validation.
The path forward is not easy. When I teach, my students often ask, “What are we supposed to do?” as though understanding the problem is not the first step toward solving it. This defeatist mindset is perhaps colonialism’s most insidious legacy. It has programmed generations to defend systems that subjugate them and avoid the critical thinking necessary for change.
We need to start asking the right questions. Why does the world celebrate Afrobeat now, decades after Fela Kuti faced brutal repression for using the same music to challenge power? Why do we applaud foreign diplomats for speaking Pidgin while neglecting the systemic issues they overlook? Why are we more excited by Western recognition than by our own potential?
The answers will not come easily, but the journey toward them begins with rejecting the colonial mindset. We must reclaim our narratives, value our contributions, and redefine our place in the world. Only then can we break free from the colonialism we have learned to love.
Shaakaa lectures at the University of Agriculture, Makurdi
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