Waking up to the Nigeria of our Dreams

Am I the only Nigerian finding sleep elusive these days? Surely not. My heart and mind are twisting and turning every which way; wrestling with questions and searching for answers that aren’t forthcoming.

Nigeria, how did we get here? And more importantly, how do we go from here to where we want to be?

I was born almost 45 years ago, in Lagos, Nigeria. I grew up in a solidly middle-class home, raised by hard-working, highly principled parents and was fortunate to enjoy a stable and loving family life. I have fond memories of playing all sorts of games with my classmates, my neighbours, my siblings, and my cousins. I came of age during a time when children ran the streets freely, riding our Chopper bicycles, cruising on skateboards or rollerskates, trooping in and out of each other’s homes…only retreating into your own house when the sun went down for the day. At the time fences were low, and gates, if you had them, were merely ornamental.

Sounds like an idyllic existence, doesn’t it? And in many ways, it was. And yet, my earliest memories are also woven around NEPA — Oh no, they have taken light! Hallelujah, they have brought light! Quick, time to iron your clothes! Plug the kettle! You children, go and take a bath now! Put on the AC! The entire household, running around in a frenzy, trying to take advantage of the few minutes or hours of power we got, because the supply was epileptic, unstable, unpredictable. I can still remember when my father bought our first generating set. I must have been about 8 years old at the time, and I recall that several of our neighbours also bought generators around the same time — an unspoken, yet clear signal that the power issue was not going to be fixed anytime soon.

My other childhood memories involve military rule. Coup d’etat after coup d’etat. By the age of 7, I knew the implication of the dirge-like sound of martial music flowing over the radio waves, and I understood the terror of martial law. “My fellow Nigerians, the military can no longer sit idly by…” Decree 2! Decree 4! Decree this! Decree that! Firing squads! Assassinations! Letter bombs! “Who killed Dele Giwa???” To this day, I cannot forget the gory, bloodied images of the slain journalist splashed across the front covers of the national dailies that black day in October 1986. I was only 10 years old at the time, and yet I remember so clearly. 35 odd years later, we are yet to close the file on that case, and on so many other unsolved murders, all somehow connected to those who are supposed to serve and protect us.

I remember strikes, protests, demonstrations, and riots; citizens taking to the streets time and time again to demand justice, equity, reformation. On some days our parents would arrive at school, faces ashen with fear and panic, as they collected us early because there was mayhem on the streets and the government had imposed a curfew to curtail the activities of those clamouring for change. We would drive with conspicuous green branches tucked into our windshield wipers to signify solidarity with the protesters. Aluta continua! Victoria ascerta!

Another prominent memory from my childhood years was the seemingly pervasive scepter of economic uncertainty and insecurity. I must have been about 7 years old when I first heard the word, “austerity.” I came to associate it with other words and phrases that entered my lexicon around the same time — Inflation. Black market (which my overactive imagination pictured as a mysterious, exotic marketplace that operated only in the dark of night!) Rising foreign exchange rates… I vividly remember my mother exclaiming, “Pound is now N8 to 1! N’ibo la n lo n’ilu yii??!!”

SAP (Structural Adjustment Program); FEM (Foreign Exchange Market); SFEM (Second-tier Foreign Exchange Market). As a child, I was familiar with all those acronyms. I didn’t understand all the details, but I gathered that they spelled hard times for the common man, and portended a tightening of our collective belt, although our so-called leaders seemed to be feeding fatter by the day.

I remember the crumbling of our infrastructure and our institutions seemed to take place before my very eyes — our roads, our hospitals, our schools, even our Super Eagles… one by one, they all fell victim to plunder, pillage and a criminal lack of investment. Our parents told us of the glory years when Nigeria was the pride of Africa, and indeed, my generation caught glimpses of the fading light of that glory in edifices like The National Theatre, where we went to watch live productions like Ipi Tombi and Kool & The Gang in concert. We saw vestiges of it in the Unity Schools we attended, which still managed to deliver a level of quality education, even as we knew even then, that at the rate things were going, we would probably be the last generation to enjoy a semblance of anything good from these schools, indeed from Nigeria as a whole.

When I finished my secondary school education at Queens College, Yaba in 1993, I waited more than a year to start university. Not because I didn’t pass my exams, but because universities nationwide were shut as a result of widespread protests and civil unrest in the wake of the gap-toothed General’s ominous announcement: “The presidential election is hereby annulled… this administration will step aside… an Interim Civilian Government will be put in place…” A few months later, the dark-spectacled General took power from the “interim government” in a so-called bloodless coup. And yet, the blood of innocents continued to flow throughout the land, raising unseen altars that cried out for justice day and night.

“Things fall apart, and the centre cannot hold. Mere anarchy is loosed upon the land!”

And so, I sat at home for several months, until my parents finally gave up and sent me to America to continue my education. I was barely 19 at the time. My older brother, who had spent three years at the University of Lagos, also left Nigeria to start afresh in the United Kingdom. This turn of events grieved my father’s heart. A proud nationalist and a diehard believer in the Nigerian dream, he had always insisted that all his children would attend university in Nigeria. “You will all finish your first degrees here! You can go abroad for your Masters if you wish, but you can’t beat the education and the lifelong connections you will acquire from a Nigerian university education…”

…And yet, Nigeria “fell his hand” to the point that he was forced to abandon his nationalist philosophy because ultimately, he wanted better for his children. Mine is what I have come to think of as the “sandwich generation” — in between our parents, who saw and enjoyed the glory that was Nigeria, and our children who only know a Nigeria that is defunct, derelict and decaying. My father’s heart broke at having to send his children to foreign universities, today mine breaks because I know that my son will leave Nigeria even earlier than I did. I want better for him, just as my parents wanted better for me.

In January 2012, when I joined the Occupy Nigeria protests, both in Ojota and in Falomo, my son was just 3 years old. Not a few people asked me why I was going out on the streets daily to march, especially as I had a small child at home. My response was that I grew up in a Nigeria where protests and riots were the order of the day, and where the citizens had to wage a never-ending struggle just to get a sliver of the commonwealth that was rightfully theirs. I want a different Nigeria for my son. I want a country where he won’t have to take to the streets to demand what is rightfully his. I went out to protest so he won’t have to do so when he is older.

Eight years later, here we are. #EndSars! #EndPoliceBrutality #SoroSoke! #ReformNigeria! The refrain may be new, but the song has been playing for the better part of 60 years. And Nigerians are still on the streets, marching, protesting, and in some cases, still paying the ultimate price for having the temerity to ask for better. The year is 2020, and we are still grappling with unanswered questions: Who killed Dele Giwa? Who killed Alfred Rewane? Who killed Kudirat Abiola? Who killed Bola Ige? Who killed the lights? Who turned off the cameras? Who opened fire on peaceful protesters at the Lekki Toll Gate?

Like sleep to an insomniac, the answers to these questions remain elusive. My son is 11 years old now. He will come of age soon. What sort of country will we bequeath to his generation? Still, I do not despair. You cannot despair. We must not despair. Today’s youths have demonstrated that they have what it takes to deliver the promise and the potential that have remained latent in this land for far too long. Those of us who have long lain awake with visions of a new Nigeria dancing before our eyes, must now support their forward march with everything we have so that perhaps one day soon, we might be able to close our eyes and sleep, knowing that in the morning, we will arise to the sound of a national anthem that has at last transcended rhetoric to reality:

Arise, O compatriots,
Nigeria’s call obey
To serve our Fatherland
With love and strength and faith.
The labour of our heroes past
Shall never be in vain,
To serve with heart and might
One nation bound in freedom, peace and unity.

O God of creation
Direct our noble cause
Guide our leaders right
Help our youth the truth to know
In love and honesty to grow
And living just and true
Great lofty heights attain
To build a nation where peace
And justice shall reign.