Nigeria: Why are We Stuck as a Nation?

If Nigerians of the 1960s Returned Today

I want to believe that if Nigerians from the 1960s were suddenly brought into this present time, they would be utterly shocked—perhaps even broken—by what they would see.

They would arrive with hope in their eyes.

Hope shaped by independence.

Hope forged by dreams of self-rule.

Hope carried by men and women who believed they had handed the future a solid foundation.

They would be expecting a nation standing tall in excellence—a country overflowing with riches not just in resources, but in systems, values, and people. They would expect to see every state glowing in its unique identity, adorned with modern cities, efficient roads, towering institutions, and infrastructures so vast that the eyes would never grow tired of exploring them.

They would expect to see a Nigeria that had mastered time.

They would expect to see a country revered among nations—respected for its governance, admired for its innovation, and celebrated for the dignity of its citizens. A nation where education is prized, healthcare is accessible, and hard work is rewarded with opportunity. A Nigeria that fulfilled the promise whispered into its soil at independence.

Instead, they would be met with despair.

They would struggle to understand how a nation so richly blessed could look so exhausted. How decades passed, yet progress remained trapped in circles. How a country once filled with promise could appear almost stuck in time, moving forward only in years, not in systems or values.

They would ask painful questions.

What happened to equity?

What happened to fairness?

What happened to leadership rooted in service?

In place of good governance, they would find dysfunction.

Instead of unity, they would see division.

Instead of merit, classism.

Instead of hope, survival.

They would see citizens working endlessly yet remaining poor. Graduates roaming the streets with certificates but no opportunities. Families choosing between food and fuel. Dreams shrinking not because people lack ambition, but because the system punishes it.

They would be shocked to see that corruption has become normalized, that mediocrity is often rewarded, and that excellence sometimes feels like rebellion. They would grieve at how patriotism has been replaced with resignation—how love for the nation has been strained by repeated disappointments.

Yet perhaps the most heartbreaking thing they would witness is not the broken roads or failing institutions.

It would be the weariness in the eyes of Nigerians.

A people who still believe, but quietly.

A people who still hope, but cautiously.

A people who love their country, yet feel abandoned by it.

And still—Nigeria breathes.

In the laughter that survives hardship.

In the resilience of citizens who wake up every day and try again.

In the brilliance of young minds refusing to dim, even when the odds are unfair.

This is where patriotism must be reborn, not as blind loyalty, but as conscious responsibility. Patriotism that demands accountability. Patriotism that refuses silence. Patriotism that believes Nigeria can still become what those in the 1960s dreamed it would be.

Because if they returned today, their shock should not end in despair.

It should awaken us.

The question is no longer what Nigeria could have been but whether we are willing to fight for what Nigeria can still become.