The Battle for Nigeria’s Soul: Why This Is Our Last Chance

By Nnaoke Ufere, PhD

I write these words from the heavy heart of someone who still believes in what this country could be. I have watched, year after year, as the promise of Nigeria has not only been squandered, but deeply betrayed. Betrayed by leaders who chose greed and corruption over service, by institutions that failed us when we needed them most, and by those who saw power as a personal reward instead of a responsibility to serve our people.

We are now ruled by men who lack vision, courage, integrity, and the competence to lead. They divide us to conquer us. They exploit our pain to retain power. And they thrive on the suffering of the very people they swore to serve.

Today’s leaders no longer lift us. They drain us. They don’t inspire; they manipulate. They don’t serve; they loot. They promise change but deliver decay. And as they enrich themselves behind walls of power, we, the people, are left in the dust, waiting for a return to the kind of leadership that puts the nation above self interest.

Yet the betrayal isn’t theirs alone. We, the people, have played our part too. We’ve sold our votes for scraps, stayed silent in the face of injustice, and allowed frustration to harden into apathy. We’ve watched the house burn and called it fate. But it doesn’t have to be this way. It must not be this way.

We had it all. Everything a great nation needs was already in our hands: vast natural resources, fertile lands, stable geology, brilliant minds, and a tapestry of rich, diverse cultures. We have always had a fierce, resilient spirit and an unmatched entrepreneurial drive. Nigeria wasn’t just blessed; it was destined for greatness.

That promise was unmistakable at independence, when our founding fathers pledged to restore the dignity of man. They sought to lift our people from the shadows of colonialism into the light of self-determination. We stood tall among nations, bursting with hope and positioned not just to lead Africa, but to earn global respect.

In those early years, we were ahead of countries like South Korea and Malaysia in terms of potential. Our writers, thinkers, and artists shaped global conversations. Our vast oil wealth and growing population held the promise of shared prosperity. The world believed in us. More importantly, we believed in ourselves.

But somewhere along the way, something went wrong. We lost the plot, drifted off course, and ultimately, we lost ourselves.

What makes it even more painful is this: our collapse wasn’t caused by war, foreign invasion, or the lasting grip of colonialism. It was entirely self-inflicted. Yes, we endured a bloody civil war, a brutal conflict that scarred the soul of our nation. But that was more than five decades ago.

We cannot continue to cling to that war as an excuse for our stagnation. Other nations have faced far worse and still found a way to rise. Vietnam and Cambodia were ravaged by war, yet they rebuilt. Rwanda experienced genocide but rose from the ashes. Germany and Japan were devastated by World War II, yet they transformed into global economic powers. These countries faced their painful histories, restructured their societies, and made progress not just possible, but inevitable.

Too often, we point to tribal and religious divisions as the reason for our national failures, as though our diversity were a curse rather than a gift. But history shows us otherwise. Multi-ethnic and multireligious countries like the United States, India, Switzerland, South Africa, and Singapore have also grappled with internal differences. Yet they chose a different path. They turned their diversity into a foundation for strength, creativity, and unity—not a weapon for destruction.

In those nations, ethnic and religious diversity is not erased or suppressed. It is embraced, celebrated, and woven into a broader national fabric. They have built systems that promote representation, encourage dialogue, and foster cooperation. Suspicion and silence are replaced by conversation and compromise.

We, on the other hand, chose revenge over reconciliation, corruption over reform, and division over unity. Our failure is not the fault of the past, it is the result of choices made in the present, over and over again, by those who placed personal gain above national destiny.

Betrayed From Within

We were betrayed from within. The power wrested from the colonialists was quickly seized by a post-independence elite who proved even more ruthless and insatiable in their greed. We didn’t dismantle the machinery of oppression, we simply swapped colonial rulers for local elites, changing the white faces at the top while preserving the same exploitative system, now wielded against us by our own.

Instead of building on our blessings, our elites looted and plundered them. Instead of investing in our people, they enriched themselves. They turned our rich multi-ethnic and multi-religious diversity, one of the greatest gifts any nation could have, into a weapon, fueling tribal divisions and religious hatred.

Governance became a private business, a tool for personal gain rather than public service. And corruption? It didn’t just infiltrate our entire system; it became the system. It shaped our politics, our economy, and even our culture. It hollowed out the soul of our nation.

What about our judiciary? Once envisioned as the last hope of the common person, it now bends to the will of power. Justice is no longer blind; it is bought, delayed, or denied outright. Verdicts are traded like commodities, and those who can afford the price walk free, while the poor rot in cells without trial. The rule of law has become a mockery—twisted to protect the powerful and punish the powerless.

And what about our electoral process? In Nigeria, democracy exists in name only. Elections are routinely rigged, votes are bought, and results are manipulated behind closed doors. The judiciary, instead of ensuring justice, often enables electoral fraud. As a result, the system rewards violence and corruption, elevating unfit leaders while silencing the true will of the people.

Our economy? It is one of contradictions. In a land of oil, gas, and minerals, poverty runs rampant. While billions of dollars vanish into private pockets, the people survive on crumbs. Inflation and unemployment soar, wages stagnate, and opportunities are scarce. Small businesses are strangled by high costs and no support. Young people, full of potential, find doors closed at every turn. We are rich in resources, yet bankrupt in opportunity.

What about our fiscal health? It is in crisis. Nigeria’s debt-to-GDP ratio jumped to 55% by mid-2024, up sharply from 42.4% just months earlier. Debt servicing is now consuming 47% of government spending and a staggering 147% of its actual revenue. We are borrowing not only to fund the budget but also just to pay off existing debts—a deeply unsustainable path.

What about infrastructure? Our roads are death traps, our railways forgotten relics, our airports symbols of missed potential. Electricity—so basic, so essential—is still a luxury for millions. Generators hum louder than any national grid, and businesses bleed money just to keep the lights on. Our cities are clogged with traffic and chaos, while rural areas are left in darkness, cut off from the rest of the country.

Our educational system? Education was once a sacred pillar. It was respected, revered, and rigorously upheld. Primary and secondary schools stood as hallmarks of excellence. Teachers were well-trained, motivated by purpose, and carried out their duties with passion and integrity. Students were eager to learn, and parents placed education above all else, seeing it as the true inheritance for the next generation. Not anymore.

Our universities? They were centers of intellectual fire, where brilliance was nurtured and excellence earned. A first-class degree was rare, a mark of true distinction, awarded only to the most exceptional minds. It meant something, commanded respect, opened doors. But today? Standards have crumbled. Degrees are bought, not earned. Professors no longer teach, and students no longer learn, they negotiate, they hustle, they survive.

Facilities are derelict, libraries empty, labs outdated, hostels in ruins. Innovation has given way to memorization, and curiosity has been replaced by resignation. The system no longer uplifts; it breaks the soul. It no longer inspires; it dulls the mind. Education, once our ladder out of poverty and ignorance, now chains us to mediocrity.

Healthcare? A national disgrace. Hospitals are neglected, poorly equipped, and dangerously understaffed. Life-saving care is unreliable, and medical professionals are leaving the country in search of better conditions. The poor are left to suffer while the wealthy seek treatment abroad. In Nigeria, healthcare is a privilege, not a right.

And housing? Our cities are overrun with slums, where millions live without clean water, sanitation, or safety. Rent is unaffordable, and owning a home is out of reach for most. Government housing promises rarely materialize, drowned in corruption and empty rhetoric.

And what about security? Most Nigerians live in constant fear, while the privileged few remain protected. Across the country, terrorists, bandits, and kidnappers operate freely. From burned villages to abducted students and deadly highways, the violence is unrelenting. The recent massacre of 51 people in Plateau State is yet another reminder that nowhere is safe. The federal government has utterly failed in its most basic duty—to protect its citizens.

What about leadership? How did we fall so far from the era of Sir Ahmadu Bello, Sir Abubakar Tafawa Balewa, Mallam Aminu Kano, Kingsley Ozumba Mbadiwe, Dr. Michael Iheonukara Okpara, Dr. Nnamdi Azikiwe, Chief Samuel Ladoke Akintola, Chief Obafemi Awolowo, Chief Margaret Ekpo, and Chief Anthony Eromosele Enahoro—giants who, despite their human faults, led with vision, courage, and principle—to the long, unbroken chain of failed leadership that has followed us since the end of the civil war?

In that golden era, leadership meant sacrifice. It meant clarity of vision and courage in action. These men and women led not for power, but for people. They spoke truth, even when it hurt. They built institutions, not empires. They carried the nation’s dreams in their hearts and its burdens on their backs.

And now? Leadership is no longer a calling, it’s a hustle. A game of thrones without honor. Positions are acquired through deals, not distinction. Offices are seized, not bestowed by trust. The president is not genuinely elected by the people; the process is hijacked through vote manipulation and judicial misconduct. Our nation has been plagued by elections tainted with fraud and violence, where ballot box theft, voter intimidation, and tampered results have undermined the integrity of our democracy.

I have anguished, like millions of other patriots, as elections turned into auctions markets where votes are sold to the highest bidder, where ballot boxes are hijacked and the will of the people is mocked in broad daylight. Democracy exists in name only, reduced to hollow rituals stripped of meaning, dignity, and legitimacy.

The consequence? A corrupt electoral system that routinely elevates criminals, thugs, miscreants, misfits, and mediocrities into the highest offices in the land; rewarding violence, rigging, and manipulation, while silencing merit, integrity, and the genuine will of the people. 

Succession of Failure

Since the dawn of the Second Republic, Nigeria has been trapped in a vicious cycle of failed leadership. Each man, in his turn, has left deeper scars on our nation’s soul. These leaders, every single one of them male, have not governed with compassion or competence, nor with vision or integrity. Instead, they have ruled with arrogance, greed, and impunity, dismantling our hopes and dignity piece by piece.

It began with Olusegun Obasanjo, who handed power to a civilian government in 1979, but whose military legacy shaped the authoritarian undercurrent that still haunts our politics. 

Shehu Shagari followed, presiding over an administration riddled with corruption and economic mismanagement until it crumbled under its own failures.

Then came Muhammadu Buhari, the self-proclaimed disciplinarian, who took power through a coup in 1983 and unleashed a regime defined by repression, censorship, and economic hardship. 

He was overthrown by Ibrahim Babangida, a shrewd political tactician whose administration entrenched corruption, manipulated the political landscape to serve narrow interests, and ultimately annulled what is widely regarded as the freest and fairest election in Nigerian history in 1993.

In the chaos that followed, Ernest Shonekan was installed as a powerless interim figurehead—his government was as brief as it was ineffective. 

He was swiftly swept aside by Sani Abacha, a brutal dictator who ruled with an iron fist, silencing dissent with violence, enriching himself with billions of stolen dollars, and plunging our country into international disgrace.

After Abacha’s sudden death, Abdulsalami Abubakar led a short transitional regime that made no effort to hold anyone accountable. 

In 1999, Obasanjo returned, this time as an elected president. But his civilian presidency was no redemption arc. His government was authoritarian in style, riddled with backroom deals, political witch hunts, and a failed attempt to rewrite the constitution for a third term.

Umaru Musa Yar’Adua came next, soft-spoken but gravely ill, and his presidency became a ghost administration, defined more by absence than action.

Goodluck Jonathan followed, a man whose unexpected rise stirred hope, only to become a symbol of weak leadership. His presidency was marked by puppetry, chronic indecision, endless appeasement, shameless cronyism, and a passive, almost indifferent stance toward rampant corruption.

Then came Muhammadu Buhari again, rebranded as a democratic savior and corruption warrior, yet ultimately presiding over a nation collapsing under inflation, insecurity, pervasive corruption, and institutional decay. His second tenure revealed a disturbing indifference to the suffering of ordinary Nigerians.

Now, Bola Ahmed Tinubu occupies the seat of power, emerging from an election tainted by irregularities and controversy. His leadership, so far, offers little promise of change. Instead, it feels like the continuation of a political elite that feeds on the people’s silence, extracting wealth while offering nothing but slogans in return. His policy failures have unleashed chaos, plunging the nation into a nightmare of hunger, hardship, and mounting death. Incredibly, he has managed to make Buhari’s tenure look merciful by comparison.

These men have not simply failed Nigeria. They have deliberately sabotaged its progress. They have built a system that rewards mediocrity, punishes honesty, and thrives on despair. The damage they have done is not just political or economic. It is spiritual. They have robbed us of hope, of dignity, of the belief that things can be different.

Had these leaders stood at the gates of independence, they might have traded our freedom for a handful of British shillings, exchanging liberty for luxury and sacrificing the future for fleeting gain. They would have sold the soul of the nation before the ink of history had even dried.

In all this, we have become a society where winners lose and losers win. Injustice wears the robe of justice. Merit has been cast aside, replaced by mediocrity. National diversity and identity, once a source of pride, have been sacrificed on the altar of tribal loyalty, religious bigotry, and shameless political expediency. Every new administration arrives with promises of change, and every single one has deepened our despair.

We Must Rise

The first time in school when I truly understood the lyrics of our original national anthem—

I was moved beyond words. This verse became etched in my memory, not just as a patriotic melody, but as a sacred prayer, a moral compass for what our nation was meant to be.

It spoke to the deepest longing of every Nigerian heart: the hope for justice, for unity, for peace, for dignity. A nation where no one is crushed by the weight of poverty, silenced by injustice, or excluded because of tribe, religion, or status. A nation where peace is not the absence of war, but the presence of fairness, freedom, and opportunity.

But that dream has been betrayed. That prayer still hangs in the air, unanswered. The oppression we asked to be spared from now lives among us, entrenched in our systems, normalized in our politics, and tolerated in our silence. Yet, even in the face of all this, I still carry those words in my heart. Because I know that anthem was not just a song. It was a promise. And I refuse to give up on it.

We were once a brand that stood for excellence, brilliance, and pride. Now, too often, the name “Nigeria” is met with suspicion, derision, or pity. That is not just a personal wound. It is a global tragedy. When Nigeria fails, Africa stumbles. When we fall short, the continent bleeds opportunity.

And yet, I still believe.

I believe in the incredible potential of our people. I believe in our capacity for reinvention. But belief alone is not enough. We must stop rewarding failure with power. We must reject recycled leadership and demand vision, competence, character, and courage. We must build institutions that serve, not suffocate. We must reclaim our narrative.

If we don’t act, if we continue on this path of ignorance, apathy, tribalism, and blind loyalty, we will not only lose our future, we will lose the soul of our nation.

Nigeria should have been a global leader. A beacon. A benchmark. Instead, we became a cautionary tale, a laughing stock. The world expected greatness from us and we let them down.

But more tragically, we let ourselves down.

As a patriotic Nigerian, it pains me to say this, but truth demands it: we have destroyed the greatest brand we ever had. Piece by piece, we stripped it of pride, purpose, and promise. But the question now is not what was lost. It is what we are willing to fight for.

2027 is not just another election. It is a final crossroads, a moment that will either mark our rebirth or seal our collapse. It is our last chance to choose redemption over ruin, courage over complacency, and nationhood over narrow interest.

Nigeria is calling all of us. And how we answer, how we vote, who we vote for, and what we stand for will not simply determine a winner. It will determine whether this nation rises from its knees or slips into irreversible decline. This moment is bigger than politics. It is about survival. About legacy. About reclaiming a future worth living for us, and for generations yet unborn.

And in this moment, no one is exempt. Every citizen has a role to play. But the burden is even heavier for those entrusted with the integrity of the process.

Every voter, every election official, every vote collation officer, every member of INEC, and every judge in the judiciary will be faced with a moral decision: to either betray the nation by taking bribes and manipulating the will of the people, or to rise to the occasion and defend truth, justice, and democracy.

The choice is clear. You can sell your soul for temporary gain, or stand up and help save a nation on the brink.

History will not forget. And neither will the people.

Now is the time to rise. Nigeria must stand. And we, the people, must stand with her. This is our land, the only one we call home. We will fight for it. And we will win.