There is a jingle that was part of my childhood. The tune lives in my head but the lyrics goes thus;

No water

No light

No food o, No work!

No Melecine for hospital, fake melecine nah ihn go dey

No *****(I have forgotten this part)

Poverty, e dey!

419, e dey!

Oil bunkering, e dey!

Yahoo yahoo, e dey!

The sad reality is that the events being lamented about with danceable music is still persisting till date.

If, years ago, I had been allowed to experience the different versions of what could become my reality as a Nigerian citizen, the moment I stepped into this current simulation I would have yanked off whatever I was plugged into and screamed, “LIES. LIES AND MORE LIES.”

My reaction would be the same or worse if some soothsayer had warned me of the chaos ahead. Ten points if they could have convinced me to buy Bitcoin though. Because truly, there is no universe where I could have imagined myself living through the most jarring moments of Nigerian history. What I am experiencing now are the kinds of events I expected to read about in history books, not endure in real time. This entire thing feels forced on me without my consent.

I mean, in a horror movie, you at least get the relief of walking out of the cinema and telling yourself it was only fiction. The madness is contained within the four corners of your TV. Even the fever dreams I used to have as a child, dreams of war tearing the country apart, still ended with me waking up and whispering a prayer of thanks that it wasn’t real.

If only pre-teen me could warn present-day me that the nightmare can turn real. And that it did. I still say during conversations that the only horrible thing left from the books I’ve read about Nigeria’s darkest moments, the one thing that hasn’t happened yet, is war. And I pray it never gets that far.
But everything else?

• Robbery that had once died down is back.
• Highway attacks.
• The frantic Japa wave.
• A desperation for money that feels unhinged.
• Citizens lamenting hunger and collapsing food systems. The same lamentations you’ll find in magazines from the 80s. Forty years ago.

It is madness. And not even the kind words can easily capture. How do you explain to a non-Nigerian that terrorists stroll into negotiations with governors holding giant rifles, while citizens who defend themselves against these same bloodthirsty men are arrested and sentenced to death? How do you explain terrorists who have maimed and murdered being welcomed, “rehabilitated,” and handed uniforms like they just graduated from a vocational school?

Before we as a collective get dragged deeper into the madness of this country, let me say this clearly. This is the time for Nigerian writers to write. Because chaos that is this loud demands documentation. Nonchalance in governance that is borderline tottering on wickedness demands us making STRONG statements with our pens! We can mask it in innuendos and other figures of speech but will it be enough?

What humour is adequate enough to mask the absurdity of doctors going on strike because they are overwhelmed, underpaid and underequipped? How do you explain the death of a young doctor just over a month ago, killed by exhaustion after working around the clock to save lives?

Where do you even begin when talking about the tearing apart of family and friendships because of the Japa wave? People forcing their way through cold, lonely foreign countries simply because their birth home refused to function. More than once, when I tell friends abroad that at least their systems work, I am met with a long hiss. Many complain about the nonstop grind, about missing small joys. A friend who recently had a baby longed for the free childcare that naturally comes from extended family in Nigeria. Our family ties have become fragmented and the nation is to blame. THIS IS WHY THIS COUNTRY MUST WORK!

This is why Nigerian writers must write! There is too much chaos, too much madness seeping into every corner of our society. There will never be a perfect time to write, but write we must in the middle of the heat. Capturing everything as it happens. As unbelievable and as painful as it is. Let our pens seal these moments in ink. Let people step through our pages and witness.

• There is so much to write about
• End SARS.
• The rise in femicide and violence against women.
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• Insidious tribalism that has been turned into a weapon.

Nigeria is going off the rails. The signs are everywhere, in the haunted look of parents calculating whether to choose school fees or food, in the Danfo driver clinging to hope just to make it through the day. Everyone walks around with a heavy lump in their chest, afraid to exhale too deeply.

Someone commented on my last post that it was too political and that I should avoid sensitive topics. I disagree. Choosing silence because something is sensitive is doing myself a disservice. I am here to echo my reflections from my own vantage point. If someone else enjoys Nigeria and writes about the beauty they experience, that is their reality. If another person chooses not to speak on injustice because they want to avoid sensitive discourse, that is on them and not me.

So again, I call on emerging Nigerian writers. Write. Do not stop. Write those disjointed drafts. Save them. This moment, as tragic and enraging as it is, forms the collective memory of a generation that watched the country nosedive before we could even find our footing. Your journals matter. It can be to yourself alone but write! There is no way one of the dysfunction of our society won’t pop up in there so write! Write away!

If violent history is happening in real time, it must be recorded. Engraved. Preserved. So that when the future comes, these mistakes will not be repeated.

But with Nigeria?
Honestly, I don’t know anymore.