By Kachi Okezie, Esq.

When Muhammadu Buhari descended the steps of the inaugural podium in 2015, he did so draped in the borrowed robes of a secular saint. To a nation weary of the brazen decadence of the previous administration, he was “Mai Gaskiya,” the truthful one, an ascetic general whose very presence was expected to act as a disinfectant against the virus of corruption. He promised a “change” that was not merely political but existential, a fundamental reordering of the Nigerian moral compass.

Yet, as the gavel falls on the conviction of former Power Minister Saleh Mamman and the staggering details of the Buhari era’s rapacity continue to leak out of the courtrooms, it has become painfully clear that the man who came to cleanse the rot was, in fact, the overseer of its most sophisticated expansion. The “darkest period” in Nigeria’s history was not just defined by economic contraction and the bloody spread of insecurity, but by a level of hypocrisy so profound it bordered on the pathological.

The conviction of Saleh Mamman for a ₦33.8 billion fraud linked to hydroelectric projects is merely a single, late-arriving thread in a tapestry of systemic plunder. To understand the depth of the betrayal, one must look at the gatekeepers who were handpicked by Buhari to safeguard the nation’s soul and its treasury. There is no greater irony than the case of Ahmed Idris, the former Accountant General of the Federation, who is alleged to have presided over the theft of over ₦100 billion.

Under a president who famously asked “What is it that they are stealing?”, the man responsible for every kobo of the public purse was allegedly treating the national treasury like a private inheritance. This was not a failure of oversight; it was the inevitable result of a “Mr. Integrity” persona that shielded subordinates from scrutiny. Buhari’s integrity was used as a cloak, a moral pass that allowed his inner circle to operate with a level of impunity that would have made the previous “profligate” regimes blush.

The rot extended into every crevice of the administration. In the aviation sector, Hadi Sirika’s “Nigeria Air” project stands as one of the most expensive pieces of performance art in African history—a charade involving a repainted Ethiopian Airlines plane that served only to humiliate a nation while billions of naira vanished into the ether. Even more grotesque was the conduct within the Ministry of Humanitarian Affairs, Disaster Management, and Social Development.

Sadiya Umar Farouq, the woman tasked with cushioning the blow for Nigeria’s most vulnerable, now finds herself on the EFCC’s wanted list, accused of diverting funds meant for the poor. It is a peculiar brand of evil to posture as a reformer while the very mechanisms intended to alleviate poverty are weaponized to deepen it. These were not outliers; they were the core of the Buhari machine.

Perhaps the most damaging legacy lies with the duo of Abubakar Malami and Godwin Emefiele. As Attorney General, Malami presided over a justice ministry where the rule of law appeared to be a selective tool for political consolidation, while the allegations of massive money laundering and even terrorism financing now swirling around him suggest a total collapse of institutional ethics. Simultaneously, Emefiele’s Central Bank became a laboratory for disastrous monetary experiments and “Ways and Means” financing that fueled inflation and crippled the middle class, all while allegedly facilitating the enrichment of a select few through a convoluted multiple exchange rate system. Buhari’s silence during these years was not the quietude of a disciplined leader; it was the complicity of a man who cared more for the loyalty of his acolytes than the survival of the republic.

History will likely record the Buhari years as a period of profound national regression. Beyond the empty slogans of “Change” and “Next Level,” the reality was a country plunging into the abyss of debt, a terrorized landscape where bandits and insurgents operated with terrifying freedom, and a citizenry increasingly disillusioned by a leadership that preached austerity from the comfort of a refurbished presidential wing. The hypocrisy was the most bitter pill to swallow. While the president’s media handlers lectured Nigerians on patriotism and sacrifice, his ministers were reportedly building empires of graft. The “integrity” of the president became a hollow shield, protecting a cabinet of predators from the consequences of their actions. He did not kill corruption; he gave it a new, more sanctimonious lease on life.

The lessons for future generations of Nigerians are stark and uncompromising. We must learn, once and for all, that the “cult of personality” is a trap. Character is not a substitute for competence, and a reputation for personal austerity is meaningless if it is not accompanied by the courage to hold one’s own house to account. Nigeria does not need “saints” or “messiahs” who demand blind faith; it needs robust institutions, transparent systems, and a citizenry that prioritizes the rule of law over the charisma of the individual. The Buhari era proved that a leader who cloaks himself in the language of morality while allowing his subordinates to feast on the commonwealth is more dangerous than an honest thief. The former provides the moral cover that allows the latter to thrive undetected until the damage is irreversible.

As the trials of these ministers and appointees proceed, Nigerians must look beyond the spectacle of the courtroom. We must recognize that the “rot” was never just about a few bad actors; it was about a leadership style that valued personal loyalty over national interest and optics over reality. The darkness of the last decade should serve as a permanent warning. Future leaders must be judged not by what they say about themselves, but by the company they keep and the accountability they enforce. “Mr. Integrity” turned out to be a mirage that led a nation into a desert of debt and despair. The task of the next generation is to ensure that never again is the destiny of millions handed over to a man whose only qualification is a carefully curated myth of honesty that collapses at the first touch of the truth.

By Mabel Adinya Ade

Today, as Nigeria marks Children’s Day, my heart travels back over four decades back to a time when being a child in Nigeria was something to celebrate without fear. I remember the anticipation that filled the air in our primary and secondary schools: the excitement of match pasts, the rhythm of cultural dances, the pride of representing our schools, and the joy of being seen, heard, and celebrated. Children’s Day was not just an event; it was a symbol of hope, innocence, and the promise of a brighter tomorrow.

We were children, free to dream, to laugh, to learn, and to grow. Today, that memory feels like a distant echo. I write with a heavy heart, burdened by the reality that many Nigerian children no longer have the safety, freedom, or environment to simply be children. In recent times and even within this past week our nation has been confronted with deeply troubling reports of children taken from their schools and communities. These are not isolated incidents. They are part of a growing pattern of insecurity that has turned places of learning into spaces of fear.

School abduction since 14 April 2014, when the world awoke to the shocking abduction of 276 schoolgirls from Government Girls Secondary School in Chibok, Borno State, by Boko Haram terrorists have become sadly frequent.  On 19 February 2018, 110 schoolgirls were abducted from Government Girls Science and Technical College in Dapchi, Yobe State. Although many were later released, Leah Sharibu remains in captivity.

In December 2020, more than 300 schoolboys were kidnapped from Government Science Secondary School in Kankara, Katsina State. In February 2021, 27 students were abducted from Government Science College, Kagara, Niger State. And days later, 279 girls were kidnapped from Government Girls Secondary School, Jangebe, Zamfara State.

In March 2024, armed bandits abducted over 280 pupils and teachers from Kuriga in Kaduna State, once again reminding the nation that our schools remain dangerously vulnerable. To date over 70 attacks have been made on Nigerian schools, the latest occurring in Oriire in Oyo on 15 May 2026 where 39 school children and seven teachers were brutally abducted.

Sadly, behind every number is a child with a name, a future, and a family. Behind every incident is a parent whose world has been shattered, whose pain is beyond words. The anguish of not knowing, the trauma of loss, the silence of unanswered questions these are burdens no family should ever have to carry.

The key questions we must grapple with are: What brought about this has change? How did we move from a nation where children marched in celebration to one where they are counted in statistics of insecurity?  Why have we allowed systems meant to protect the most vulnerable among us to weaken, to fail, or in some cases, to disappear altogether?  Why does it seem easier to explain away these tragedies than to prevent them?

The persistent insecurity and violence targeting children and communities across Nigeria is intolerable. It is unacceptable. And it must stop. This is not the time for silence or shifting responsibility. It is a time for accountability.

Government at all levels Local, State, and Federal must rise to its primary duty: the protection of lives, especially those of children. Security agencies must be strengthened, coordinated, and held to the highest standards of responsibility. The judiciary must stand firm in ensuring that justice is not delayed or denied that perpetrators are held accountable and that victims and their families receive the justice they deserve.

But this responsibility does not rest with government alone. Parents, teachers, and school administrators must remain vigilant and proactive. Religious leaders and traditional institutions must lend their moral voice and influence to the protection of children. Communities must rebuild trust and collective responsibility, refusing to normalize what should never be accepted.

This is because protecting children is not a privilege. It is a duty. A sacred one.

We must also confront a difficult truth: it does not require extraordinary resources to begin to change this trajectory. The cost of securing our schools and communities is far less than the cost of inaction and certainly far less than the staggering sums lost to mismanagement and corruption. The question, therefore, is not whether we can act. It is whether we will. Enough is enough. The state must respond appropriately and curtail these sad incidences.

Our children deserve to go to school without fear.  They deserve to learn in environments that nurture, not threaten, their potential.  They deserve a nation that protects them not one that leaves them vulnerable.

This is therefore a call to conscience. It is a call to every Nigerian that we must reclaim our values. We must restore our sense of collective responsibility. We must demand transparency, accountability, and action from those entrusted with leadership. And we must be willing, each in our own sphere of influence, to stand up for the rights, dignity, and safety of every Nigerian child. Nigeria cannot afford to fail its children.

On this Children’s Day, let us move beyond celebration to reflection and from reflection to action. Let this not be another year where we speak fine words and return to silence. Let it be the turning point where we decide, collectively and unequivocally, that the lives of our children matter more than excuses, more than indifference, and more than broken systems.

Our children are not statistics. They are the future we cannot afford to lose.

Let us rise together to protect them, to defend them, and to ensure that once again, in every corner of this nation, children can laugh, learn, and live without fear. Let children be children again.

Mabel Adinya Ade is the founder and Executive Director Adinya Arise Foundation AAF 8 Eket Close Area 8 Garki Abuja.

By Olufunke Baruwa

In the 2008 Hollywood thriller, Taken, Liam Neeson played Bryan Mills, a retired CIA operative whose teenage daughter was abducted by traffickers while on vacation in Europe. The film became globally famous not only because of its suspense, but also because of one unforgettable scene. Speaking calmly but coldly over the phone to the kidnappers, Mills uttered words that have since entered popular culture:

“I don’t know who you are. I don’t know what you want… But what I do have are a very particular set of skills… I will look for you; I will find you, and I will kill you.”

The line became iconic because it captured something primal: the refusal of a parent to accept helplessness in the face of violence. Today, across Nigeria, that same fear has become a lived reality for thousands of families. Only this time, there are no movie scripts, no guaranteed rescues, and no clean resolutions from those entrusted with protecting our children.

Countless Nigerian parents are now living through their own version of Taken. They are forced into impossible situations—selling property, borrowing heavily, or begging publicly to raise ransom money. Some never see their children again. Yet perhaps the most painful aspect is the growing public desensitisation. Kidnappings occur so frequently that headlines disappear within days, replaced by the next tragedy. This growing public desensitisation is perhaps the most painful aspect. Public outrage burns briefly before fading away.

But this should never become normal. A society that cannot protect its children stands on dangerous moral ground.

From Chibok to Today: A Pattern That Refuses to End

Across Nigeria, children are increasingly becoming targets of organised criminal networks, insurgents, traffickers and kidnappers. From schools to farms, highways to communities, childhood itself has become endangered.

Read Also: Echoes of Trauma: The children we are failing and the monsters we may be creating

The recent abductions in Borno and Oyo states are the latest reminders of a national crisis that is steadily expanding. In Borno, communities already traumatised by years of insurgency continue to experience attacks involving the targeting of children. In Oyo, the kidnapping of children reinforced a painful truth: what was once perceived as a regional problem has become a national emergency.

Every incident deepens public anxiety. Parents now weigh risks before allowing children attend school, travel long distances, or even participate in routine activities. Beyond the headlines lie broken families, disrupted education, psychological trauma and communities living in constant fear. Decades of gains in child literacy are being slowly eroded.

But Nigeria has seen this tragedy before. The Chibok schoolgirls kidnapping remains one of the darkest moments in the country’s recent history. It should have transformed national security thinking permanently. Instead, similar incidents have continued across Kaduna, Niger, Zamfara and other states, exposing persistent weaknesses in school protection, intelligence coordination and rural security infrastructure.

Despite repeated promises of reform and safe school initiatives, many schools—especially in rural areas—remain dangerously exposed. Security presence is limited, response systems are weak, and prevention mechanisms remain inadequate.

Even more troubling is the sophistication of these criminal networks. Kidnapping has evolved into an organised and profitable enterprise. Like every criminal economy, it flourishes where risks are low and enforcement is weak.

The State Response Question: Where Is the Certainty?

The enduring power of Taken lies not in violence, but in certainty. Bryan Mills projected absolute determination. He pursued every lead and treated the abduction of his daughter as an emergency demanding relentless action.

That raises an uncomfortable question: Does the Nigerian state project the same certainty when children are abducted?

Too often, the response appears reactive rather than preventive. Security agencies mobilise after incidents occur, while intelligence gathering, surveillance and early warning systems remain underdeveloped. Coordination gaps persist between federal, state and local authorities.

Communities frequently feel abandoned during the critical early hours after abductions—precisely when swift action matters most. Criminal networks, meanwhile, understand timing. They exploit delays, weak surveillance and limited accountability.

The result is a dangerous imbalance: organised criminals operating with speed and coordination while response systems struggle with fragmentation and delay. Nigeria must move beyond rhetorical condemnation toward sustained structural action.

First, intelligence-led policing must become central to anti-kidnapping efforts. These criminal operations are rarely random. They depend on informants, logistics, communication systems and established routes. Breaking such networks requires coordinated intelligence, financial tracking and stronger inter-agency collaboration.

Second, schools must be fortified as protected spaces. Education cannot flourish under fear, and parents should never have to choose between literacy and survival. The repeated targeting of educational institutions demands a complete rethink of school security architecture, especially in rural and high-risk communities.

Third, technology must play a greater role in child protection. Many countries deploy rapid alert systems immediately when children go missing. Surveillance infrastructure, digital identification systems, forensic databases and integrated emergency response mechanisms significantly improve recovery efforts. Nigeria cannot continue relying primarily on manual processes while criminal networks become increasingly sophisticated.

Fourth, community engagement must be strengthened. Residents are often the first to notice suspicious activity. Building trust between communities and security agencies is essential for early detection and prevention.

Finally, the broader drivers of insecurity—poverty, unemployment and weak governance—must also be addressed. Kidnapping is not merely a criminal issue; it is tied to economic desperation, state fragility and the collapse of local authority structures in many areas. Young people without opportunities become vulnerable recruits for criminal enterprises.

None of these excuses criminality. But lasting solutions require confronting root causes alongside enforcement.

There is also an urgent need for psychological and social support systems for victims and their families. Children who return from captivity often carry invisible wounds—trauma, anxiety and emotional scars that can last a lifetime. Families too suffer severe psychological distress. Nigeria’s response framework must therefore include counselling, rehabilitation and reintegration support.

The media also has a responsibility. Coverage should sustain pressure for accountability without glorifying kidnappers or sensationalising violence. Society must resist becoming numb to the suffering of victims.

Religious leaders, traditional rulers and civil society organisations also have crucial roles to play. Child protection cannot remain solely a government conversation; it must become a national moral priority.

A Warning Nigeria Must Not Ignore

The famous speech from Taken remains memorable because it symbolises certainty in the face of evil. But Nigeria’s challenge today is not cinematic revenge—it is institutional responsibility.

Every abducted child represents more than a statistic. They represent interrupted futures, traumatised families and a society failing in one of its most basic obligations: protecting its youngest citizens.

The recent incidents in Borno and Oyo are not isolated events. They are warnings that insecurity is becoming deeper, more adaptive and more emboldened. They are warnings that criminality is expanding geographically and psychologically. They are warnings that public trust in safety and governance is steadily eroding.

Nigeria cannot afford resignation. Every abducted child should provoke national outrage. Every kidnapping should trigger coordinated emergency action. Every criminal network should know that the state will relentlessly pursue, dismantle and prosecute them.

A nation’s character is ultimately revealed in how it treats its most vulnerable citizens. Children should represent hope, possibility and the future. When they become commodities for ransom, something fundamental has broken within the social contract.

The true measure of any country is whether its children can sleep safely at night, travel safely to school and dream safely about tomorrow.

At this moment, too many Nigerian children cannot.

The views expressed by contributors are strictly personal and not of Law & Society Magazine.

 

Kaka: Koko, this country is under attack.

Koko: By who? America? China? Russia? Or it Burkina Faso?

Kaka: Worse.

Koko: Jesus! Worse than Russia?

Kaka: Yes. It is what Yorubas call Ogun Abele. Nigerians are working against Nigeria.

Koko: (nearly choking on the hot akara in his mouth) Are you kidding me? That’s worse than Ogun Abele, that’s a blend of efun and eedi. Has everyone gone bunkers?

(He coughed like a faulty generator before continuing). Are you talking about terrorists and kidnappers?

Kaka: No.

Koko: Corrupt politicians?

Kaka: They are part of it.

Koko: Out with it, guy. The suspense is giving me ulcer pain. Who exactly?

Kaka: (leaning forward like a village elder about to reveal the hiding place of a stolen goat) All of us. Rich and poor. Old and young. Leaders and followers. We are all members of one dangerous secret cult.

Koko: Which cult?

Kaka: The Grand Conspiracy Against Nigeria.

Koko: (blinking like a dozen times) You have started again.

Kaka: Koko, tell me I am lying. Is everyone not digging at the foundation of this country like hungry rats under a mud house?

Koko: Quit the parable and speak clearly jare.

Kaka: Look around you. Nobody wants to build anything anymore. Everybody wants to collect. Everybody wants to eat. Everybody wants to hammer overnight. Nobody wants to plant. Everybody wants to harvest. Everybody wants easy or free money or both.

Koko: (sighed) That one is true.

Nigeria today is like a village where nobody wants to farm but everybody wants to attend harvest festival.

Kaka: The poor are waiting for crumbs. Politicians are waiting for contracts. Young boys are waiting for betting odds. Some pretend- pastors are waiting for seed offerings. Some women are waiting for one rich chief to marry them. Yahoo boys are waiting for one mugu abroad. Even voters are waiting for election rice and two thousand naira.

Koko: You forgot those waiting for giveaway on social media.

Yes! A whole generation refreshing Instagram like farmers waiting for rainfall. How did we even become like this?

Kaka: It did not happen in one day. A nation dies gradually. First, people stop believing in hard work. Then they stop respecting integrity. Then they start worshipping sudden wealth. Before you know it, thieves become role models.

Koko: True.

See our elections now. Voters no longer ask candidates: What is your plan for agriculture? Education? Technology? Skills? Industrialisation?

Kaka: What do they ask? How much for one vote?

Koko: One woman in my area said any politician who does not ‘drop something’ does not love the people.

Kaka: Exactly! We have turned democracy into a marketplace. Vote-and-buy.

Kaka: A politician will arrive with five trailers of rice, wrappers, umbrellas and cheap motorcycles and everybody will start dancing and shouting ‘our son! our son!’

Nobody will ask where he got the money.

Koko (slapped his thigh):

In fact, if he looks too clean and speaks too much English, people become suspicious.

That is the tragedy.

Kaka: In sane countries, citizens suspect politicians who suddenly become rich. In Nigeria, people suspect politicians who are not rich enough.

A man will sell his house, borrow money, mortgage his future just to contest election to serve his people.

Koko: Serve his people, my foot!

And people will clap for him. Instead of asking the obvious question: if you are losing billions to get power, how exactly will you recover your money?

Koko (whistled)

True, o. My brother, politics here has become investment banking. Some people contest election the way gamblers stake money on virtual football.

Kaka: And once they enter office… They recover capital with wicked interest.

Koko: And the voters who collected five thousand naira will still complain four years later.

Kaka: After selling their future at roadside price.

Koko: You know the saddest part?

The poor are becoming comfortable with poverty.

Kaka:

You think that is another dangerous conspiracy?

Koko: In the past, poor people struggled to escape poverty. Today, many people have settled inside poverty like tenants who just renewed rent.

Kaka: Exactly. Everybody wants palliative. Few people want skill.

Koko: Apprenticeship is dying. Craftsmanship is dying. Young people don’t want to learn work that soils the hand. They want work that shines on TikTok.

Sharp sharp wealth now now.

Kaka: A young boy who should spend five years learning electrical engineering now wants one miracle connection. One politician uncle. One Yahoo client. One betting ticket.

One skit to blow or one rich sugar mummy to change his life forever.

Read Also: Echoes of Trauma: The children we are failing and the monsters we may be creating

Read Also: Leveraging Nigeria’s young population for national growth and development (3)

One dubious crypto platform.

Koko sighed deeply.

The hunger is real though.

I know. Poverty is terrible. But poverty should push people toward productivity, not permanent dependency.

Koko: Our fathers suffered too.

But they believed in building something. Tailors learned tailoring. Mechanics learned mechanics. Farmers farmed. Traders traded. Teachers taught with dignity.

Kaka: Today, everybody wants to be ‘big’ immediately.”

Koko: My brother, the disease is called Impatient Prosperity Syndrome, IPS.

Kaka: (laughed loudly) You just invented another sickness.

Koko: And Nigeria is full of infected people.

Politicians are now obsessed with titles and power. They want to rule forever.

A man becomes councillor today. Tomorrow he wants House of Assembly. Then House of Reps. Then Senate. Then governor. Then minister. Then ambassador. Then board chairman.

Kaka: These people don’t retire. They don’t mentor successors. They don’t build institutions. They want to contest forever and die in office. If you ask them, they say they want to stay relevant. Can you imagine the greedy audacity? Or is it audacity of greed?

Koko: We are becoming a nation addicted to status instead of substance.

Meanwhile, roads are bad. Schools are collapsing. Hospitals are begging for oxygen.”

But every weekend there is another chieftaincy title ceremony, everybody wearing embroidered agbada heavy enough to sink a small canoe and spraying money borrowed from tomorrow.

Where are the elders? Why are they quiet?

Kaka: The elders have gone to the market to watch gelede.

Koko: With our money and on out time too!

My brother, elders of today are spectators. In the old days, elders corrected society. They rebuked greed. They punished indiscipline. They warned irresponsible leaders.

Kaka: Today’s children are uncouth, rude and violent. Didn’t one beat an old woman a few weeks ago,  and then proudly announced the great feat on social media?

Maybe that’s why the elders now sit in front row at every nonsense event collecting envelopes for logistics.

Koko: A thief donates one bus to the community and instantly becomes ‘distinguished son of the soil.’”

Nobody asks questions anymore because everybody hopes to benefit somehow.

That is why evil is multiplying.

Kaka: Exactly. Silence is fertiliser for corruption and destruction.

Koko: Things are so bad that even those who are rich are hiding their wealth. 

Kaka: The rich hiding?

Koko: Yes. A wealthy man cannot enjoy his wealth openly again. He hides his cars, his house, his children. He hides behind fences, cameras and security guards.

Kaka: In all of this, Nigeria’s biggest headache is kidnapping that has now become a major industry.

Because society has normalised desperate wealth-seeking where honest wealth is not respected and criminal wealth is celebrated, insecurity is spreading like wildfire.

A businessman who has toiled for 30 years is compared to a fraudster who stole public money for eight years.

Koko: Our young people can’t seem to be able to tell the difference.

Kaka: Exactly.

Koko: Add that to some parents who no longer ask where money comes from. They just accept the cars and move into new houses, no questions asked. Are all these what you termed the grand conspiracy?

Kaka: Yes, the conspiracy of short-term thinking. We are eating tomorrow today.

A country survives only when people sacrifice present comfort for future stability and when leaders plan ahead.

Koko: Like planting trees whose shade you may never sit under.

Kaka: Exactly. But here, everybody wants immediate gratification. Leaders borrow carelessly. Followers spend recklessly.

Politicians loot shamelessly.

Young people seek instant fame.

Parents pressure children to become rich at all cost. Religious houses sometimes glorify prosperity without productivity.

Koko: And social media has worsened everything. Everybody is competing with fake lifestyles. A boy sees another boy posing beside rented Lamborghini and suddenly hard work and going to school look stupid. A girl sees influencers changing wigs every three days and starts hating honest struggle.

Kaka: We are raising a generation that wants applause without apprenticeship.

Koko: Hmmm. That line is dangerous.

Kaka: Write it down.

Koko (pretended to type in the air.) Continue, professor.

Kaka: The tragedy is this: wealth is no longer being created. Wealth is merely changing pockets.

Koko: Explain please.

Kaka: A politician steals public funds. He buys a mansion for himself. After exporting his family abroad in a trendy display of affluence, he eventually sells the now-empty and echoing house to another we-have-arrived politician. Note that he didn’t start even a pure water factory to spread his wealth.  A contractor inflates contract. A banker finances consumption. Businessmen import toothpick, matches, tomato paste, even things we can produce locally. And we all call it economic activity.

Koko: Meanwhile, real wealth comes from production.

Kaka: Yes, like you turn crude oil to petroleum products, make your car batteries and bathroom wares yourself. Nigeria has enough mineral deposit to be a true giant.

Koko: Not like this one with clay feet.

Kaka: Clay feet that are cracking.

Koko: But we have abandoned all that makes us king of the jungle and rats are playing soccer on our head.

Kaka: And now everybody wants government appointment because many people no longer believe productivity pays.

Koko: A belief that is deadly for any nation.

(A roadside vulcaniser nearby hammered noisily at a tyre rim.

Kaka points at him.)

Kaka: See that man? He may be earning honestly, training apprentices, solving real problems but the society will celebrate the flashy fraudster more than him.

That is why many youths are confused. The reward system is broken.

Koko: What happens if this continues?

Kaka: Then Nigeria becomes a giant marketplace with no factory.

Koko: Ouch!

Kaka: A noisy country consuming what others produce. It is already a country exporting brains and importing toothpicks.

A place where politicians recycle power and citizens recycle suffering.

Koko: So what is the solution?

Kaka: First, citizens must stop worshipping freebies.

Koko: That one will be difficult o.

Kaka: Any politician sharing rice today is indirectly collecting your future tomorrow. Second, we must start respecting skills again: plumbers, electricians, coders, teachers, farmers, and technicians. Not just title holders who want to steal everything and everyone’s lives.

Koko: Oook.

Kaka: Third, parents must stop pressuring children for overnight success and fourth, our elders must recover their voice, correct bad behaviour, shame corruption and reward integrity.

Koko: And politicians?

Kaka: They must understand that leadership is stewardship, service, not inheritance. It is neither a job nor a profession. It is a call to make a difference, not an opportunity to acquire wealth, even obscene wealth.

Koko: Which wealth is obscene?

Kaka: When only one man has 20 cars just by holding political office, what does anybody need so many cars for?

Koko: Do you still have hope for this country, after all this?

Kaka: Yes, because despite everything, millions of honest Nigerians still wake up every morning to work. The farmers are still sweating under harsh sun, the nurses still go on night duty. The mechanics are still boiling.

The woman who begins frying akara at dawn. The young graduate learning software skills. The entrepreneur trying again after failure. The ordinary citizen refusing to steal. They are all still here.

They are Nigeria’s remaining oxygen.

Koko: So perhaps the conspiracy has not fully succeeded.

Kaka: Not yet. And maybe one day, we will stop celebrating consumption and start celebrating creation.

The views expressed by contributors are strictly personal and not of Law & Society Magazine.