Forty-nine years ago, as a little kid, my heart was not big enough to dream about the year 2009, nearly half a century away. But I could handle 1970, about 10 years ahead.
The years 1970 and 1980 seemed close enough to heaven, and within reach. That was because, in the 1960s, my relatives were so optimistic about what “independence” meant.
They talked about Nigeria being developed by Nigerians, with schools and roads as expansive as the Nigerian character. They spoke about airports that would be available everywhere for successful people to travel quickly.
My brother, Patrick Olumhense, who taught my class for a while as he prepared for the university, inspired us with big dreams and expectations of the Nigeria giant arising from the manure of colonial experience.
Among his tools were famous poems by such writers as Sir Cecil Spring-Rice: “I vow to thee, my country—all earthly things above—Entire and whole and perfect, the service of my love; The love that asks no question, the love that stands the test, That lays upon the altar the dearest and the best; The love that never falters, the love that pays the price, The love that makes undaunted the final sacrifice…”
Yes, in the 1960s, we had a brand “new” country to love and cherish and nurture. Last Thursday, our 49th independence anniversary, the question seemed to be, “Wait, what happened?”
Another First of October, and as other countries pulled into the future, we realized that rather than love and cherish and nurture our country, we loved, cherished and nurtured ourselves at her expense.
At 49, Nigeria is a beached whale being feasted on by passers-by. We are a dying elephant, receiving platitudes, not treatment.
Umaru Yar’Adua, Nigeria’s so-called president, said at his inauguration two years ago that the children of independence had arrived to lead. But although he described himself as a Servant-Leader, he has neither served nor led. From now on, I will refer to him as Nigeria’s Spectator-Leader.
But he is not the only one who ought to be ashamed as Nigeria enters its 50th year. Every former Nigerian leader should be ashamed, either for the terrible things they did, the things they failed to do, or the courage they lack to speak up today.
Leading the pack are Ibrahim Babangida and Olusegun Obasanjo, champions of Nigerian misrule. They represent terrible policies doggedly implemented; good policies sabotaged; and corruption and self-enrichment nourished.
Along with them are such other former leaders as Shehu Shagari and Muhammadu Buhari who, in addition to damage that they have themselves been a part of, have failed to cry our daily about the danger of our current depravity.
It is hardly any surprise—as I have pointed out in the past—that we now find ourselves in the hands of such people as Yar’Adua, who considers Nigeria little more than a theatre for his medical treatment. His best use of federal authority is for the protection of some of the worst villains in our history.
Every nation knows it can only move forward by using and encouraging its brightest and strongest. In Nigeria, on the contrary, we enthrone the warped and the rotten, and imprison or sideline the qualified. That is why Yar’Adua, when he is not in the hands of doctors, or abroad in foreign hospitals, is in the arms of such people as Attorney-General Michael Aondoakaa and the iconic James Ibori.
In other countries where patriotism is a currency, they would both be in jails with neither doors nor keys. In Nigeria, however, they are the faces of Yar’Adua. And while Nigerians—including Mr. Aondoakaa’s own professional body, the Nigeria Bar Association—are calling for his removal from the government in view of the malfeasance after malfeasance in which he has been named, the man insults Nigerians, calling them “illiterates.”
In other countries, David Mark would be in jail or in several courts on his way there. In Nigeria, he is the President of the Senate.
In other countries, Goodluck Jonathan would be married to a woman whose name is anything other than Patience. That is because Patience, his current wife, would be in jail on account of her world-famous money-laundering charges. In Nigeria, she remains the wife of the Vice-President.
In Nigeria, the former Central Bank Governor, Chukwuma Soludo, would be answering questions about his sudden wealth; but it is Nigeria, so he is haggling the price of Anambra State with Andy Uba.
In Nigeria, a leader who makes such a grievous political error as choosing to visit the launch of a foreign university over the United Nations General Assembly, particularly while his country’s own universities are closed, would be tendering an apology, or his resignation.
Not Yar’Adua. In his National Day speech, he focused on his “the nation’s dream of becoming one of the world’s twenty largest economies by the year 2020.”
We do not have such a dream. Even if we did, his leadership could not lead a group of Boy Scouts to a flagpole, let alone a nation to membership of the G20.
Still, leadership is not the only reason that Nigeria is being laughed at; followership is also reprehensible. For 49 years, the quality of our followership has fallen dramatically because of apathy, cowardice and self-centredness.
The average Nigerian talks a lot about what is wrong with our country, particularly when he assumes no risk in making his pronouncements. Ask him to append his name to his “radical” views and he often slinks away.
Nigerians also have a sad habit of seeking only their private satisfaction. We want ours in government positions and contracts and connections. Granted access to public funds, we help ourselves to giant homes we will never live in and buy the latest fancy cars. And then we discover we cannot enjoy those things because we obtained them through selling out the rest of society, which now poses a danger to us.
Next year, at 50, and perhaps 50 years after that in 2060, Nigeria may very well be 100 times worse than it is today if we maintain our tendency to see our nation only in terms of what we can snatch from it.
But we are not helpless, and we can begin from refusing to wait for the government and its villains to do us a favor. Ordinary Nigerians must recognize there is no salvation inside the cowardice and security of their homes, but outside it.
It is only outside our doors, in unity with others, that we can determine who exercises power over us and our children. It is only out there, in unity with others, that we can ensure we vote right and that our votes are not manipulated.
It is only out there, in unity with others, that we can ensure that our budgets are not looted by common criminals who turn around to use our own public funds against us. It is out there, in unity with others, that we can determine the shape of public policy.
It is out there, in unity with others, that we can let the villains, their associates and friends, know that we are not afraid, and not afraid to say the words “NO!” or “NEVER!” and stand by them.
Indeed, it is only out there, in the open—not in bars or behind our closed doors or behind convenient Internet handles—that we can lay claim to our country, and truly prospect for greatness. As it may have become clear already, greatness often needs to be snatched from the strong claws and sharp jaws of demons—foreign or domestic.
For 49 years, we have deluded ourselves that our demons were gone, while we nurtured them domestically. Now, it is clear: our demons are here, among us. Sometimes, we are the demons because we flee when we should fight, and preach when we should punch.
In 1960, we thought in terms of independence, when what we needed was an exorcism. Now that we know, are we man—or coward?
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