It is with a heavy heart and an overwhelming sense of care that I pen this reflection on the state of our nation—Nigeria. This is not a political outburst, nor a partisan attack, but a sincere cry, drawn from the depths of concern for the land we call home and the people who are increasingly without hope.
Nigeria, once a beacon of potential and pride, now stands at the edge of a cliff—poised to implode. The road we are being led down is not only unsustainable, it is catastrophic. And the tragedy of it all is that the very drivers of this destruction—the political class—seem blind to their own looming downfall.
The Politicians Are Not Winning—They Are Merely Delaying Their Loss
The average Nigerian citizen has long lost. Their children have lost. Their unborn grandchildren have already been sentenced to lives without promise. But what many do not yet realize is that this loss will not end with the people. The politicians will soon lose too—and perhaps more devastatingly. Because when a nation collapses, no amount of wealth, stolen or inherited, offers insulation.
Let us not be fooled. This is not a slow decline—it is a deliberate sabotage. A betrayal by those entrusted to lead. If history has taught us anything, it is that the seeds of oppression and corruption always yield bitter fruit—even for those who plant them.
A Contrast with the Military Era: Painful, but Honest
Ironically, and perhaps regrettably, the military governments—often decried for their authoritarianism—gave Nigerians more than the democracy of today has managed to preserve.
During the military era, basic amenities such as education, healthcare, electricity, and housing were accessible to all classes. A child from a poor family could dream—and often, with hard work, reach the middle or even upper class. Schools were functional, hospitals offered real care, and public institutions, while imperfect, worked.
Fast forward to today, and we ask: Do these conditions still exist? From where most Nigerians stand, the painful truth is: No.
What was once a functioning society is now fractured beyond recognition. Citizens are leaving in droves—through perilous journeys and legal migrations—not for adventure, but for survival. People now voluntarily become slaves in former colonial empires just to escape the despair at home. This is not emigration. This is an exodus driven by hopelessness.
The Role of the Political Class in Nigeria’s Collapse
It is clear: the political elite is squarely responsible for this national tragedy. For decades, politicians have looted, lied, and legislated the future into oblivion. They have gutted institutions, ignored the poor, and fueled insecurity, hunger, and ethnic divisions.
Even the once-protected middle and upper classes have joined the migration wave. Their escape is no longer from poverty—but from uncertainty, crime, and a broken state. And in doing so, they become part of a new global underclass in foreign lands—working beneath their potential, their dignity, their dreams.
What a shame.
A Warning to the Political Class
This is not just a lament. This is a warning. To the politicians who think their stolen wealth is security: the system you’ve broken will eventually break you. The corruption you’ve cultivated will consume your circle.
The money you’ve siphoned can provide every Nigerian with healthcare, education, electricity, and housing. What one politician steals is often enough to develop an entire senatorial district. And yet, instead of using it to lift communities, you use it to build empires—empires made of sand.
During the military era, the people thrived in the little they had. Now, under “democracy,” we have everything except life, dignity, and hope.
The Legacy You’re Leaving Behind
It’s laughable—almost absurd—that today’s politicians believe their children will inherit power in the Nigeria they’ve destroyed. The same children who know their fathers are architects of failure are expected to lead a new, informed generation?
That is not succession. That is delusion.
If I were them, I’d run far away. Because their last names are no longer legacies—they are symbols of betrayal.
A Final Word
This is not a call for military rule. I am not a fan of the uniform over the ballot. I am a lover of the people—and of good governance. I believe in democracy, but not the one that parades itself today in Nigeria.
I write not out of bitterness, but out of love. Love for the mother who can no longer feed her children. Love for the graduate who drives a keke. Love for the child who still believes Nigeria can work.
But most of all, this is a call to those who can still change course. Because if we continue like this, it won’t just be the poor who suffer. The implosion will touch everyone.
Let this be the wake-up call. Before the house collapses—with all of us inside it.
Source: Xavi Lynette| Contributor
