Nigeria’s greatest tragedy isn’t just corruption or incompetence—it’s the tangled web of contradictory expectations we wrap around our leaders, only to scream betrayal when they fail to untangle them. We worship ideals we cannot live by and crucify others for playing the very game we designed.
Take, for instance, the curious case of Hon. Yusuf Gagdi of Plateau State. A wave of praise recently swept through social media after he helped some constituents secure spots in the Nigerian Navy’s Direct Short Service Course. He smiled in the photos. His people cheered. It was, to them, empowerment. Victory.
Yet, the same people who celebrate Gagdi with chants of “our hero!” are often the ones who spit venom at President Bola Ahmed Tinubu, accusing him of nepotism and favouritism. The same crowd. The same crime. But judgment changes when it’s our own eating the national cake.
In today’s Nigeria, it has become trendy for senators, ministers, and other politicians to release the names of job beneficiaries they helped—usually wrapped in a ribbon of hashtags like #Empowerment, #MyPeopleFirst, #BringingItHome. On the surface, it looks like impact. Like love. But dig deeper, and you’ll find a system rotting under the weight of selective praise and convenient outrage.
We applaud a lawmaker who secures job slots for his town, but hiss with rage when another does the same for his own. We love favouritism when it favours us. When it doesn’t, it becomes injustice. This hypocrisy has become our national anthem.
It’s no surprise, then, that political officeholders are under immense pressure to “deliver” for their constituencies—not in the form of national policy or legislative brilliance, but in raw, tangible benefits: jobs, contracts, appointments. And if they don’t? They’re branded traitors. Enemies of progress. Sellouts.
Worse still, we pretend job openings are for the “common man.” We tell bright, young graduates to apply, polish their CVs, and believe in meritocracy, while in reality, those jobs are already gone. Swallowed by the cousins of senators, the nephews of governors, the friends of chiefs. We stage job interviews like theatre. The decisions were made before the curtains rose.
We don’t question this system because, deep down, we’re hoping our turn will come. That one day, our uncle will be a minister. Our cousin, a director. Our father’s friend, a senator. And then, maybe, the job slot will come home to us. Until then, we rage at the injustice—selectively.
The truth? We are raising a society where power is currency and fairness is fantasy. We expect leaders to be both national and local heroes. We want them to fix Nigeria, yet judge them by what they build in their hometowns. An army chief who boosts security in his state is hailed as a patriot. Another who doesn’t? Labeled selfish and disconnected.
We want a president to uphold national values, yet gauge his success by how many roads, jobs, and schools appear in his village. We want senators who are fair and just—but God forbid their projects benefit another tribe more than ours.
In our desperation, we have made local sentiment the ultimate scoreboard of leadership. We give chieftaincy titles not for integrity or brilliance, but for how well someone “brought it home.” A minister may have revolutionized a sector, but if he failed to fix his hometown hospital, he’s deemed a failure.
This vicious cycle breeds intertribal tension, suspicion, and deep resentment. Because when one group gets what they consider their fair share, another sees only theft. The very notion of fairness collapses under the weight of competing entitlements.
The irony is painful. We criticize Buhari for allegedly favouring his region, yet some of those critics now demand that Tinubu must first empower his own people. We plant landmines of double standards, then act shocked when leaders step on them.
This warped value system doesn’t just harm the nation—it hollows it out. It normalizes inequality, rewards proximity to power, and sidelines merit. The truly competent are silenced by gatekeepers who treat opportunity as inheritance. Traditional rulers, local godfathers, and political brokers now compete not in ideas but in how many slots they can secure for their clans.
In the end, we are the architects of the failure we so passionately protest. We want the president to be a national father, yet we pressure him to act like a tribal chief. We demand justice but celebrate bias when it benefits us. We cry for fairness while hoarding privileges.
Until we confront this contradiction—until we redefine what leadership should look like, beyond kinship and constituency, every leader will fail someone. Every officeholder will be seen as a villain by those they couldn’t please.
And so the cycle continues. The wheel spins. The people clap and curse in turns. And the nation, confused and conflicted, waits for a hero who cannot exist within the rules we’ve written.
Mohammed sent in this piece from Abuja. He can be reached at bagudum75@gmail.com or 07034943575.
