Opinion
By Israel Umoh
In the sun-beaten later erosion-menaced streets of Uyo, where yellow tricycles hum past faded billboards lean like tired witnesses, the question hangs heavier than the humidity: What happened to the Nigeria we were promised and hoped for? What happened to Nigeria of the 50s and early 60s Nigeria that there was a bit normalcy?
Far from the bustling capitals and media glare, the capital of Akwa Ibom State is a microcosm of both the country’s quiet frustrations and its loud potential. Here, graduates sell airtime in roadside kiosks and pilot Kekes. Power supply flickers like a broken promise. And yet, there is laughter, hustle, resilience — and a demand for more.
Sixty-five years after independence, Africa’s most populous nation stands on the edge of itself — powerful, potential-laden, and yet perilously poised between regeneration and ruin.
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“We are tired,” says Etim, a 27-year-old phone repairer working remotely from a co-working hub at Oron Road close to Plaza in Uyo, who, like many young Nigerians, is quietly preparing for life abroad. “Not because we hate this country. But because it feels like it has refused to love us back.”
In the wake of yet another national electricity grid collapse — the fourth this year — and amid rising inflation that has made even basic foodstuffs like Garri feel like luxury items, a new wave of civic despair is brewing. But so is something else: a demand, not just for reform, but for reinvention.
In the weeks following the collapse of yet another national electricity grid — the fourth in a single year — and amid inflation that has pushed staple foods like rice and Garri out of reach for the average household, a new wave of civic despair is rising. But so is something else: a demand, not just for reform, but for reinvention.
Nigeria was supposed to be a giant. Rich in oil, culture, talent and terrain. Its youth — vibrant and inventive — have launched Afrobeats into global charts and turned Lagos into a tech hub rivaling Nairobi and Cape Town. Yet the chasm between potential and lived reality is vast.
More than 139 million Nigerians live in multidimensional poverty, according to the National Bureau of Statistics. Hospitals limp. Schools decay. Security forces battle insurgencies in the north, banditry in the middle belt, and silence in the face of mass abductions in the south. The state, it seems, is often absent where it matters — and omnipresent where it shouldn’t be.
“It’s a classic case of elite capture,” says Chika Unigwe, a political analyst based in Abuja. “There is no shortage of plans. What’s missing is political will — and accountability.”
Indeed, Nigeria’s successive governments have drawn up blueprints — Vision 2010, Vision 2020, and more recently the Nigeria Agenda 2050. Yet, critics argue, these visions remain ornamental — impressive in document form, impotent in practice.
Perhaps nowhere is the need for a new Nigeria more urgent than among its youth. Over 70% of the population is under 30. And they are not silent. Unfortunately, Nigeria values privilege over purpose.
In 2020, the #EndSARS protests began as a call to dismantle a brutal police unit but quickly morphed into a clarion cry for governance overhaul. The movement was leaderless, tech-savvy, and defiantly hopeful. Though it ended in the tragedy of the Lekki Toll Gate shootings, it also marked a turning point.
“The #EndSARS generation no longer believes in waiting for elders to save them,” says Damilola Odufuwa, a feminist and co-founder of the Feminist Coalition. “We are the leaders we’ve been waiting for.”
And yet, the establishment remains largely impervious to this awakening. Low voter turnout, widespread disillusionment, and allegations of rigged electoral processes have only deepened the divide between Nigeria’s young and its ruling class.
In the 2023 general elections, less than 30% of registered voters showed up. Among those who did, many say their votes felt stolen — not by ballot boxes, but by bureaucracy.
Nigeria is not alone in its struggle. Across the continent, countries that once stood on the brink have made bold, if imperfect, strides toward reinvention. Their lessons are clear: transformation is not an accident. It is a choice.
For example, after the horrors of the 1994 genocide, Rwanda committed to national healing, inclusive governance, and digital innovation. Today, it boasts one of the cleanest capitals in Africa and a parliament where women outnumber men. Governance is tight — critics call it authoritarian — but its achievements in healthcare, infrastructure and public trust are hard to ignore.
Once riven by coups, Ghana is now West Africa’s most consistent democracy. Peaceful power transitions and an independent electoral commission have allowed citizens to believe in their votes. In contrast to Nigeria’s fractured political landscape, Ghana shows that stability and civic engagement are not mutually exclusive.
Botswana turned diamond wealth into a national asset, not a private purse. Through sovereign wealth funds, anti-corruption reforms, and smart investment in education, it avoided the ‘resource curse’ that continues to haunt Nigeria’s oil economy.
Multi-ethnic, resource-scarce, yet remarkably prosperous, Mauritius built its success on inclusive politics, human capital, and service-based industries. It offers a model for Nigeria’s own fractured identity: a pluralistic society where diversity fuels, rather than fractures, development.
By giving rural communities control over local resources, Namibia fostered trust, conservation, and inclusive growth. In Nigeria, where resource conflicts persist — from the Niger Delta to Jos — Namibia offers a model of grassroots-led stability.
These nations are not perfect. But they remind us that change is not mythical. It is engineered — with courage, clarity, and competence.
A new Nigeria requires more than a change in political leadership. It calls for a new national consciousness.
“We need to renegotiate what it means to be Nigerian,” says Aisha Yesufu, human rights advocate and co-founder of the Bring Back Our Girls movement. “Right now, we are citizens only in name. We need to become stakeholders.”
Omoyele Sowore, an activist, journalist, and founder of the online news platform Sahara Reporters. He’s known for his advocacy for transparency, democracy, and his campaign RevolutionNow, which calls for radical change in Nigeria
The calls are for structural transformation: a reformed federal system that gives more autonomy to states; an education curriculum that teaches critical thinking rather than colonial compliance; a judiciary that’s not for sale; a police force that protects rather than preys; a civil service that serves rather than siphons.
But even more than institutions, the new Nigeria needs imagination — a shared story that all its peoples can believe in. From the oilfields of the Niger Delta to the farms of Benue, from the towers of Victoria Island to the dustbowls of Zamfara, citizens want to feel seen. And heard.
The phrase “New Nigeria” has become a rallying cry — on protest placards, social media hashtags, and political podiums. But slogans are not solutions. And a new Nigeria will not arrive by accident.
It must be built — brick by brick, voice by voice, vote by vote.
And it must be built now.
As the country stands at a generational crossroads, the question is no longer whether a new Nigeria is needed.
The question is: Will the old Nigeria let it be born? Will Gen Z reject moral turpitude and embrace New Nigeria with open arms? And will the ”old school” kick against the helpless norms and support New Nigeria that will upturn the applecart?
