There is an African proverb that says, “The ruin of a nation begins in the homes of its people.” At 65, Nigeria embodies that warning. It is a country that dazzles abroad but stumbles at home. Nigerians shine in Ivy League classrooms, Silicon Valley start-ups, Nollywood studios, and global laboratories. Yet, within its own borders, the so-called giant of Africa often lies prostrate, a giant in name but a dwarf in practice.
“Governance treats Nigerians as obstacles to be managed, not citizens to be served. But governance rooted in care is not sentimentality; it is strategy. A government that guarantees education, health, and housing earns legitimacy.”
This contradiction encapsulates Nigeria’s narrative of independence: as a concept, the nation is significant; as an experiential reality, it falters. Every generation seems to know what must be done, but too many remain invested in doing what is wrong. Failure is inherited like family property, while decay is dressed up as progress. Each government leaves its citizens nostalgic for the very failures they once condemned. We idolise the past, mourn the present, and dread the future. What confronts us is not just a leadership crisis but a structural, cultural, and philosophical collapse.
Nigeria’s decline is no secret. It is etched in global rankings. In the 2024 UN Human Development Index, Nigeria sits at 161st of 193 countries, behind Ghana, Kenya, and even war-torn Syria. Poverty grips over 133 million people in a country blessed with oil and fertile land. The World Bank estimates youth unemployment at 33 percent, a ticking time bomb in a nation where 70 percent of the population is under 30.
Corruption remains the national operating system. Transparency International’s 2024 index ranks Nigeria 145th of 180 countries. Infrastructure is crumbling, and basic services, power, clean water, healthcare, have become luxuries. Instead of uniting citizens, the state institutionalises division by classifying them as “indigenes” and “settlers”. Identity, not merit, determines access.
Governance at every level reflects disorientation. We build institutions without blueprints, spend without investment, and generate outputs without meaningful outcomes. Elections change faces but rarely systems. Without a revolution in thinking, victories at the ballot will only recycle dysfunction in new costumes.
Politics is not foreign to culture; it is culture made visible. In Nigeria, governance reflects the culture of short-term survival, not long-term planning. From elites who loot budgets to ordinary citizens who sell votes, complicity is widespread. The obsession with public office as the only route to success chokes innovation in business, arts, and science. Activism too often mistakes noise for impact, while social media becomes a substitute for strategy.
Yet the dysfunction is not total. There are flickers of progress: Edo’s digital education reforms, Lagos’ improvements in tax collection, and Enugu’s expansion of health insurance. These show that change is possible when leadership aligns with vision. But such examples remain exceptions rather than norms.
At 65, Nigeria can no longer afford cosmetic reforms. The rebirth must be intentional, designed around systems that reward excellence, build trust, and channel human potential into collective progress.
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Institutional reform: Courts must be insulated from political capture; electoral financing must be transparent; civil service must prioritise merit over patronage.
Economic productivity: Oil dependency has trapped Nigeria in volatility. Investment must shift to manufacturing, digital innovation, and agriculture value chains to absorb its restless youth.
Decentralization: A country of 200 million cannot be micromanaged from Abuja. True federalism, where states control resources and citizens hold governors accountable, is a more pragmatic route than endless centralisation.
Citizen responsibility: Leaders emerge from the culture that produces them. Nigerians must refuse to sell votes, glorify stolen wealth, or excuse mediocrity. Change cannot be outsourced solely to the political class.
Rebuilding Nigeria requires more than policy; it requires trust. Today, citizens pay bribes for birth certificates, healthcare, passports, and jobs. Governance treats Nigerians as obstacles to be managed, not citizens to be served. But governance rooted in care is not sentimentality; it is strategy. A government that guarantees education, health, and housing earns legitimacy.
Public servants trained in empathy as much as administration can restore dignity in everyday encounters.
Trust cannot be manufactured by propaganda. Nigerians are exhausted by slogans. What they demand is meaning, not marketing; results, not rhetoric. Leadership must be judged by integrity and delivery, not by propaganda machinery or personality cults.
Nigeria at 65 is not a failed state, but a fighting one. The problems are real, but so is the potential for rebirth. The same nation that exports talent across the globe can channel that brilliance inward. But this will not happen by accident. It must be demanded, designed, and delivered.
South Korea, also 65 years past its Korean War devastation, is now a global economic power. Rwanda, despite its dark history, has rebuilt its institutions with discipline and vision. Nigeria has no excuse. Age must come with wisdom, not perpetual folly.
If independence anniversaries mean anything, Nigeria’s 65th should not be a ritual of empty speeches but a moment of reckoning. It must call leaders and citizens alike to rebuild a nation that reflects the greatness of its people. The choice is stark: remain trapped in dysfunction or design a future worthy of the name “giant of Africa”.
At 65, Nigeria is too old to be this broken.
