Nigeria is often described as a paradox: a nation blessed with abundant natural resources, a dynamic youth population, world-class talent, and a rich cultural mosaic, yet perpetually teetering on the brink of dysfunction. It is not uncommon to hear Nigerians declare, half in jest and half in despair, that “this country defies logic.” Every new administration seems more disconnected, every reform less effective, and every hope for change more elusive. But perhaps Nigeria isn’t the mystery we’ve made it out to be. Perhaps the problem lies not in our condition but in how we interpret it.
“The informal sector, where the majority of Nigerians hustle to survive, remains underappreciated and misunderstood.”
For too long, we have examined Nigeria through obsolete frameworks, tools fashioned during colonial rule and reinforced by decades of political expediency. We continue to rely on rigid ethnic classifications and outdated assumptions about identity, community, and governance. We speak of “tribes” and “majorities” as though Nigeria were frozen in time, ignoring the vibrant, evolving social dynamics that have reshaped our cities, our interactions, and even our languages.
This static view has distorted everything from policy planning to national discourse. We still depend on census figures that are widely contested, and we continue to classify people using ethnolinguistic categories that no longer capture the complexity of who Nigerians truly are. The lived realities of millions have outgrown the narrow boxes imposed on them. Yet, instead of updating our methods and mindsets, we cling to the same broken metrics and then act surprised when the results don’t add up.
Nowhere is this dissonance more evident than in the way we think about citizenship. In 2025, a Nigerian born and raised in a state other than their ancestral “home” is still officially regarded as a “settler”: a second-tier citizen. This is not just absurd; it is dangerous. It fuels resentment, undermines social cohesion, and incentivises exclusionary politics. Rather than building bridges, we have institutionalised barriers.
The result? A political culture where the goal is no longer collective progress but personal or group entitlement. Power is sought not to deliver development but to secure a share of the spoils. Elections have become fiercely polarising contests driven by regional and religious arithmetic, not ideas or accountability. In such an environment, trust erodes, both in institutions and in one another.
Our economy reflects this same fractured logic. The informal sector, where the majority of Nigerians hustle to survive, remains underappreciated and misunderstood. It is vibrant, resilient, and innovative. But without adequate infrastructure, credit systems, or legal protections, it often operates in chaos. Rather than being a launchpad for grassroots prosperity, the informal economy becomes a trap of subsistence living, plagued by insecurity, corruption, and unpredictability.
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Education, once the pride of the post-independence generation, has fallen into disgrace. Schools and universities, once factories for ideas and skills, now struggle under the weight of underfunding, politicisation, and malpractice. Examination fraud is no longer shocking; it is expected. The culture of merit has been displaced by shortcuts. In such a climate, the best and brightest often find themselves disillusioned or fleeing to more enabling environments abroad.
Yet despite all of these vices, Nigeria is not a lost cause. Far from it. There are reasons for cautious optimism. Linguistic and cultural overlaps across regions hint at deeper affinities than our political narratives allow. Most Nigerians can communicate in at least one of five major languages, including English and Pidgin: a testament to our adaptive unity. Our markets, even in the most remote corners, buzz with entrepreneurial energy. Our diaspora continues to break barriers globally. The problem is not with the people; it’s with the systems that fail them.
To move forward, Nigeria must undergo a cognitive and institutional reset. First, we need to retire the colonial-era models that still frame our political and developmental thinking. It is time to build analytical tools that reflect contemporary realities, tools that treat Nigerians as stakeholders, not subjects; as partners in progress, not data points in outdated maps.
Second, we must reimagine what it means to be Nigerian. This identity should no longer be anchored in bloodline or geography but in participation, contribution, and shared commitment to nationhood. Our legal frameworks, civic institutions, and educational curricula must reflect this inclusive vision.
Third, we must bridge the divide between formal and informal economies: not by imposing bureaucratic red tape but by enabling trust, access to finance, and scalable innovation. Policies must move from control to collaboration.
Lastly, and perhaps most urgently, we must rebuild faith in public institutions, by making them work, and by ensuring they are accountable to the people they serve.
Let us be clear: Nigeria is not some unsolvable mystery. Its urgent need is for a fresh perspective: one grounded in empathy, clear-sighted analysis, and the courage to confront entrenched realities. By abandoning the questions of yesterday, we open ourselves to the answers that speak to the Nigeria of this moment, not a nation trapped in history, but one actively forging its own destiny.