Growing up in nursery school, we used to sing a nursery rhyme:
“Nigeria is my country,
A place of joy, a place of peace,
Where mommy was born, where daddy was born,
No matter what happens, Nigeria is my country.”
We sang it with wide smiles and clapping hands.
We didn’t really know what it meant.
To us, it was just a rhyme; a sweet melody that sounded like truth.
But sometimes, it was a lie we wished was true.
Now, I’m an adult.
And every time I remember that song, I pause.
I ask myself, is Nigeria really a place of joy?
Where is the joy in watching dreams die in traffic, or children study by kerosene lanterns?
Where is the peace in headlines filled with bandits, Boko Haram, and broken promises?
SARS… fuel queues… missing billions… long months of industrial action…
Is Nigeria really a place of peace?
And that last line of the song—no matter what happens, Nigeria is my country…
How many of us can still beat our chest and say that without a lump in our throat?
How did we get here?
More importantly… can we ever get it right?
I don’t have all the answers.
But I know this: if we are still asking these questions,
If we are still angry, still hopeful, still here…
Then maybe, just maybe, all is not lost.
Happy Democracy Day.
We mourn, we remember, we hope.
