As President Bola Ahmed Tinubu’s administration clocks two years on June 12, 2025, the air is thick with mixed emotions—felicitations on one hand, frustration on the other. Alongside him, governors and lawmakers who assumed office on May 29, 2023, will also be marking their second year in power. Despite the nation’s deep-seated challenges, there is still a case for cautious celebration—celebration of survival, of relative peace, of democratic continuity. In a land often battered by storms, the ability to stand—however shakily—is itself an act of defiance and grace. So, I extend heartfelt congratulations to both the leaders and the led. After all, in the poetry of endurance, “half bread is better than none.”
It takes emotional strength—almost a kind of spiritual endurance—to be thankful in the midst of hardship. Yet, giving glory to God even when all seems bleak is not only a cultural instinct but a moral necessity. Hope, fragile as it may be, is sustained by an understanding that peace, movement, and progress—even if slow—are impossible without some degree of national stability. And while many are disillusioned, many more still cling to dreams, to aspirations, to freedom—however imperfectly experienced.
Emotional intelligence is not just about feeling deeply; it is also about perspective. Sometimes, we need to pause and consider the alternative realities in other parts of the world where chaos reigns and anarchy rules. For all our imperfections, we have not yet descended into full collapse. And that, however minimal it sounds, is a blessing.
June 12, Democracy Day, offers a golden moment—not just to wave flags and deliver speeches—but to reflect, assess, and interrogate. What has democracy truly delivered? What has leadership really achieved? The day begs for honesty, not partisanship. I do not intend to evaluate President Tinubu’s administration in isolation, but to question the broader texture of leadership and the quality of governance that we, the people, have experienced—across time, across regimes.
Leadership in Nigeria is a strange cocktail of perception, sentiment, and propaganda. Every government claims achievements, and indeed, even the worst among them will have something—some policy, some project—to present as a trophy. But the real issue is not what a leader claims to have done, but what they consistently fail to accomplish. Often, public perception is swayed by shallow metrics: the number of appointments given to various states, the number of ministries created, agencies relocated, or tertiary institutions sited in one’s hometown. These, while important, are cosmetic—distracting from the deeper crises that remain stubbornly unresolved.
As we mark over two decades of uninterrupted democracy since 1999, my deepest concern lies not in what our leaders have done, but in what they have continuously failed to do. The longer our democratic experiment lasts, the clearer it becomes that certain national ailments defy regime changes. Why is it, for instance, that in this same Nigeria, prices never come down? No matter the party in power, inflation continues its cruel march. Promises are made on campaign trails—affordable fuel, cheaper food, stable electricity—but reality tells a different tale. If we measure leadership by the cost of living, then we are forced to admit: the economy is not improving; it is sinking. What invisible force ensures that the price of electricity, school fees, bank charges, hospital bills only go up? Why is this our national curse?
The National Bureau of Statistics may report quarterly fluctuations in inflation, but to the average Nigerian, prices never retreat. Transport costs soar. Telecom tariffs are adjusted upward. Basic services become luxury items. The people groan under a system that pretends to progress, but only deepens their pain. This—this silent scream of the masses—is the loudest indictment of our democracy.
Another jinx that haunts us is the industrial void. Nigeria, a country of over 200 million, still lacks a viable industrial base. Our refineries are dead monuments. Ajaokuta Steel—once the pride of national ambition—is a tragic metaphor for our failure to finish anything. How can a nation grow without building, producing, and exporting? Most states don’t have a single functioning manufacturing industry. Local governments are administrative zones with no economic identity. Year after year, leader after leader, this curse remains unbroken.
Then there is the never-ending horror show of industrial strikes. ASUU, NASU, NMA, NLC—every few weeks, a new union threatens to down tools. How can a nation hope for productivity when its workers are perpetually in protest? In the past, strikes were rare. Today, they are normal—expected, even. It is a cycle of frustration feeding frustration.
And what of the shame of medical and educational tourism? No Nigerian president, no governor, no minister has had the courage—or faith—to trust in the systems they govern. They run abroad for medical treatment at the slightest sign of ailment. Their children study in Europe and America, while public schools here collapse. Even President Buhari, with his famed integrity, couldn’t resist London hospitals. President Tinubu, like all his predecessors, has shown no deviation from this elite pilgrimage. And yet, we wonder why our Naira bleeds, why our youth flee.
Electricity remains the single greatest metaphor for Nigeria’s underdevelopment. In 2025, we still don’t have stable power. No e-learning system can thrive, no manufacturing sector can take off, no small business can grow in the dark. Every administration promises to fix it. Every administration fails. If anything defines the futility of Nigerian leadership, it is the flickering bulb—or worse, the dead one.
And now, another ghost—public debt. Our leaders, addicted to borrowing, mortgage the future to survive the present. Every new loan is a chain on our children’s necks. This isn’t progress; it is postponing collapse.
Even in football, the jinx persists. We are yet to win the World Cup—not for lack of talent, but for the same reason everything else fails: lack of serious, strategic leadership. Sports, like everything else, mirrors the soul of a nation. And ours is still haunted.
One person recently remarked that the APC, since taking power in 2015, has not solved a single major national problem it set out to fix. Perhaps that is harsh. But when the only measurable achievements are roads, hospitals, and appointments to “our people,” it becomes clear: we are mistaking motion for movement. Until our leaders can reduce inflation, end incessant blackouts, stop the strike culture, build factories, use Nigerian hospitals, keep their children in Nigerian schools, and reduce our public debt, they cannot be said to be better than their predecessors. Anything short of this is recycled failure, disguised as change.
So, as we mark another Democracy Day, I ask not for blind celebration, but for honest reflection. The true test of progress is not in slogans, not in ceremony, but in the breaking of long-standing curses. Until then, may our hope never die.
Happy Democracy Day, Nigeria.
Mohammed sends in this piece from Abuja and can be reached at bagudum75@gmail.com and 07034943575
