“Now let’s face the hard truth: Nigerian leaders are not aliens—they are our brothers, sisters, uncles, and cousins. They were born here, raised here, and taught by the same society that raised us. What does that say about the kind of citizens Nigeria produces?”
I keep asking myself a haunting question: Why do Nigerians hate successful people? Why do we despise those who dare to rise above mediocrity, especially when they emerge from among us? It’s as though the moment you stand tall, your own people grab the dagger— not to protect you, but to stab your back.
Why can’t we ignore the circus show of our politicians and focus on rebuilding our broken lives? The energy we invest daily in dragging them on social media—if redirected inward—could transform our homes, our values, and our future. But alas, we are trapped in a vicious cycle, always expecting messiahs from men who can’t save themselves.
The tragedy is generational. The same illusions our fathers lived under are the very delusions guiding our steps today. They believed they could change Nigeria by shouting themselves hoarse in protest. We have inherited that same belief, yet we ignore the scars they bore.
I still remember, 23rd of June 1981, when I was among the crowd yelling “No Balarabe, no Nigeria!” after the impeachment of Mallam Balarabe Musa, then governor of Kaduna State. What did we know?
Some of my classmates died under the crushing wheels of a Mobile Police truck at Agodi Gate, Ibadan. Young lives, wasted in a protest for a man I never met, from a state I’d never even been to.
Today, I look back and ask: What was the purpose? Why did we abandon classrooms for politics we barely understood? We were tools in the hands of unseen puppet masters. That, my friends, is what I now know as misplaced priority.
But fate had mercy on me. My time in the Republic of Ireland changed me. The Irish people opened my eyes to the true essence of life: dignity, compassion, integrity, and self-respect. I owe them an eternal debt. They showed me that governance is not rocket science—it’s a product of values.
Now let’s face the hard truth: Nigerian leaders are not aliens—they are our brothers, sisters, uncles, and cousins. They were born here, raised here, and taught by the same society that raised us. What does that say about the kind of citizens Nigeria produces?
We are a mirror of our nation. Whether Hausa, Yoruba, Igbo, or any other ethnic group—we all bear the same DNA of dysfunction. The moral erosion is not exclusive to Aso Rock; it starts from our homes, our streets, our marketplaces.
You think politicians are corrupt? What about the ordinary citizens? Check our TikTok pages—scammers everywhere. Impersonators pretending to sell clothes, foodstuffs, or electronics. Once you pay, they vanish into thin air. Isn’t that wickedness against your fellow Nigerian?
A man buys a 50kg bag of rice. The seller cheats him by removing 6kg but still seals it as 50kg. An artisan collects inflated charges, then steals your materials. Is that not institutional wickedness at the grassroots?
Let’s talk about politicians. Remember Abdulrasheed Maina, the pension reform thief? He stole from retirees—men and women who had served Nigeria and were waiting for their due reward. He danced on their suffering until he was caught. Yet, many still defend him because he’s “our own.”
What about Stella Oduah, who bought bulletproof cars with public funds? Or Diezani Alison-Madueke, who allegedly looted billions from the oil sector while ordinary Nigerians couldn’t afford kerosene? These are not spirits—they’re citizens. We raised them.
We mock our leaders, but how many of us can pass the morality test in our own little spaces?
We must stop pretending like corruption lives in Aso Rock alone. It lives in the carpenter who steals wood, the tailor who takes money and disappears, and the landlord who hikes rent every six months.
Even abroad, the difference is clear. Nigerians born and raised overseas often carry themselves differently—disciplined, courteous, honest. But those of us raised in Nigeria? We often struggle with basic decency. Why? Because we were raised in chaos.
Let’s stop fooling ourselves. A corrupt citizen will breed a corrupt leader. You can’t plant cassava and expect to harvest mango. It is a spiritual and moral law: you reap what you sow.
Until we fix the Nigerian mindset, we are only recycling monsters in agbada. You can change faces every four years, but if the soul of the nation remains rotten, nothing will change.
It’s time for self-examination. How do we treat our fellow men and women? Are we honest in business? Are we raising our children with the right values? Are we building a country or bleeding it?
We must teach our children that success is not a crime, that honesty is not foolishness, and that integrity still pays.
To those who think they are smart by stealing, cheating, and lying—remember this: the evil you plant today will visit your children tomorrow.
Let’s restore conscience, dignity, and responsibility—one home, one business, one person at a time.
Ire o.
•Mogaji Arisekola writes from Ibadan.
