On this Democracy Day, I had intended to rest my pen. I wanted to leave the fate written on the walls of history to speak for itself. I thought perhaps the sacrifices of those who fought for democracy were enough testimony. Yet, in the final hour, a thought stirred within me, compelling me to write a message to all of us who have come together to form this sovereign nation called Nigeria. My message is particularly for those who believe that the business of Nigeria lies in the hands of a powerful few. Perhaps they are influenced by what the German sociologist Robert Michels described as the "Iron Law of Oligarchy" ,the tendency for power to concentrate in the hands of a small elite. Looking at our politics, our institutions, and our economy, one may be tempted to believe that the destiny of Nigeria is determined only by those who occupy powerful offices and influential positions. But history tells a different story. Nigeria does not belong to any president, governor, politi...
A thought came to me as I watched the empire of two generations dragging itself through the dust, still pointing fingers, still blaming the old guard, like children shouting at ghosts while the house collapses.
I asked myself: Do we even count as men and women anymore?
Men and women who once woke up with fire in their bones, who had dreams bigger than their compound walls, now reduced to watching their WiFi disconnect, not just from the network, but from history, from heritage, from hope itself.
The red alert? The ember that once glowed in each of us now fades like a phone battery blinking at 1%, no charger in sight. The system is hot. The lights are out. And what do we say?
"Make we just dey go. Life no hard pass like that. Time dey go."
So we go. We drift.
From birthday parties to burial ceremonies.
From reposted quotes to recycled hashtags.
From Sunday service to soft life.
Meanwhile, the baton we are meant to carry? We dodge it with style.
We pass it like it's infected.
To children who won’t even recognize the root of what we once fought for.
But Who Are We Fooling?
This generation wants glory without story. We want closure without confrontation. We call it peace, but it’s just fatigue wearing a white robe.
We’ve become people who decorate trauma with aesthetics:
Poverty with a filter.
Depression with cruise.
Betrayal with bants.
And failure with expensive captions.
We are the generation that has become unbothered to the point of extinction.
We no longer disturb God. We don’t knock on Heaven’s door, we mute it.
And in return, God leaves us alone.
He’s no longer angry. He just watches, quiet, patient, ready to clap when we finally do right, but only after forty years of friendly wrongs.
The Cost of Ambition Is Now a Luxury Item
Where in this world is ambition taxed this heavily?
Where is vision penalized like crime?
And even if it is here, must it die here?
We live in a place where excellence is treated like arrogance, and dreams are greeted with side-eyes and sly comments:
"Calm down na. Who do you think you are?"
Well, maybe we don’t know anymore.
Because we’ve inherited not just failure, but confusion.
Two generations fell. One from silence. One from compromise.
And now we, the third flame, are left trying to make sense of both ashes and ember.
Trying to build a bridge with no blueprint.
Trying to speak a language that was buried before we were born.
But We Are Still Burning
Even if faint. Even if flickering.
We are still the third flame.
Still capable of rage that refines.
Still capable of memory that resists.
Still capable of making ruins sing.
And perhaps that’s enough for now.
Not to save the empire.
But to tell the truth before it forgets our names.```
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