The other day, my 15-year-old son — a scholastic chess award winner — drew my attention to an even younger Nigerian chess phenom in the US. The video reminded me to do what I have been putting off for quite some time — a column on why the Nigeria brand remains priceless to many, even as the country cascades toward implosion. That very fact was another spur to write the article now. We just don’t know how much longer the brand name will survive.
I recently watched a YouTube post of a Nigerian activist pastor bemoaning the major forces undermining the country. Among other things, he said that he loathed carrying a passport that is a liability when he travels abroad. In the same breath, he declared that Nigerians are second to none as professionals around the world. Concurrently then, the pastor unwittingly extolled the Nigeria brand name even as he disparaged it.
In any case, that is the paradox of Nigeria. It is a country that simultaneously engenders pride and vexation, exports top professionals and 419 fraudsters, tantalises black people all over the world with its potential yet constantly teeters on breakup. To many, it remains the giant of Africa, yet it walks on wobbly feet. To Nigeria romantics — and I use the word in its most positive sense — it is the potential that is so alluring. It imposes hope when there is every reason for despair.
The romantics are firm believers in Nigeria’s potential to be an agricultural and industrial power and a technological hub. They believe that Nigerians can build an economy that rivals that of South Korea and Singapore, a country where the standard of living is so high that it becomes a magnet for the African diaspora. Above all, it would be a country where— to quote the first national anthem— “peace and justice reigns.”
Typically, when Nigeria’s failures are bemoaned, it is to point out the adverse effects on Nigerians. That is certainly the prime concern of any government. But, as already implied, there is a grander concern: the letting down of black people all over the world. Despite the failures, many still see Nigeria as black Africa’s flagbearer. They still see Nigeria as the one country that is most capable of lifting the global black psyche.
When recently, the President, Major-General Muhammadu Buhari (retd), urged the US to relocate its Africa Command from Germany to Africa, quite a few critics within and outside Nigeria saw it as a letdown. The invitation was seen as Buhari’s implicit acknowledgement that Nigeria is incapable of dealing with the Boko Haram and ISWAP insurgencies.
Ghanaian newspaper editor Kwesi Pratt Jnr, for instance, could hardly contain himself. “I am embarrassed … so disgraced by Buhari,” Pratt said on Ghanaian TV. “If Nigeria, a giant in Africa … cannot deal with Boko Haram and have to go and beg to bring soldiers to Lagos and Abuja and other places to fight Boko Haram, then what would other countries do? What would Gambia do?”
My first realisation of what Nigeria means to Africa and the African diaspora came in the late 1970s. I was chatting with a gentleman from Barbados (it may have been Bermuda), and he narrated his elation at seeing a Nigerian warship dock at the country’s harbors. It was a matter of pride for him to see an African country in that light. I could only imagine what it would have meant if Nigeria actually built and exported such warships.
The other day, I was talking to a service representative over the phone. At her request, I stated my name, and to my surprise, she repeated it nearly flawless. So, I said to her teasingly, you must be a Nigerian. To which, she responded emphatically, “I wish.” It was not at all a surprising answer. From all indications, she is an American, and it is improbable that she was yearning to trade her American citizenship for Nigeria’s. Still, her response wasn’t entirely fictitious. Nigerians are known here for excellence, never mind 419 fraudsters and Yahoo Boys. Actually, even they represent excellence of the devious kind.
The service rep’s comment was not isolated. I remember one day dropping off my son at his school bus pickup location. As I was about to pull off, another parent, an African-American woman, gestured to me to hold on. When she pulled up, I could tell that she had something special to tell me. In place of her usually placid demeanour, she wore a bright smile, as she said: “Guess what? I just got my genetic test results and found out that I am Nigerian.” I never would have guessed that that would excite her. But it did, and that gave me a glow.
Nigeria is convulsing violently at this time, as scores of people are daily being abducted, killed or extorted. And the masses are hungry and scared. So, anecdotes like the above would seem to be irrelevant. But they are not. And here’s another anecdote that makes that point.
One summer in the early to mid-1990s, I was on the staff of a summer programme for secondary school students from low-income families. The programme was intended to augment their classroom experience through enriching activities. One day, we took the students to a park, where the programme director had us demonstrate the value of interdependence. The demonstration called for several members of the group to climb onto a tree by leaping onto a branch. Someone had to take the lead, then help others climb up.
To my dismay, they almost unanimously asked me to be that person. Blame it on my looking more youthful than my age and fitter than I was. They were unintentionally prodding me to embarrass myself, I felt. After trying to no avail to have them pick someone else, I decided to try.
In my first leap onto the branch, I had a reasonably good grip and tried to pull myself up. But I was too heavy for my arm muscles, so I went back down. I thought that was proof that I couldn’t do it, but I was wrong. Instead, I was greeted with a rhythmic chanting of, “Go Bere, go Bere” (or Berry, as most pronounced it). So, I had no choice but to try, and try again. But successive attempts got worse results. Yet, the chanting intensified, “Go Bere, go Bere.”
At that point, I am not sure whether I was more flustered than embarrassed or more embarrassed than flustered. Still, I sensed that they were convinced that if I couldn’t do it, no one else in the group could. In which case, the demonstration would have had to be scuttled.
So, after giving my arms some rest, I decided to go for it one final time. I leaped higher, gripped firmer and pulled harder. It worked! The group applauded and we completed the lesson-of-life demonstration. For me the additional lesson was that there is a downside to looking younger and fitter than you really are. But that’s by the way.
The real point here is that awareness that many others are counting on us does and should spur us to try harder. If only Nigerian leaders are thus inspired.
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