Gods of oil and lords of misery by Eze Ogbu

Nigeria, a nation bruised, betrayed, but not broken ...yet. The so-called “Giant of Africa,” remains shackled not by fate or divine wrath, but by the ever-churning machinery of systemic failure, greed, and willful neglect. Floods drown its streets, hunger haunts its children, poverty humbles its potential, and corruption, corruption does not just exist; it thrives, breeds, and throws opulent parties in broad daylight. Gangs, armed robbers, and the monstrous specter of Boko Haram simply provide the soundtrack to a tragic symphony conducted by decades of authoritarian misrule.

And no, this isn’t new. In fact, it’s depressingly routine. Nigeria has perfected the art of surviving crisis after crisis like an athlete stuck on a treadmill of torment, sweating, struggling, and going absolutely nowhere. One might almost admire the consistency if it weren’t so cruel. And yet, despite the flaring tempers and tattered dreams, the parade of strongmen, generals-turned-politicians, self-proclaimed messiahs, and billionaire kleptocrats march on. Their speeches, as empty as the average Nigerian’s fridge, are broadcast over shaky electricity grids to an exhausted populace.

Yes, the floods are real. People in towns like Lokoja and Makurdi watch water rise around their homes like biblical punishment, only without the promise of a Noah’s ark. Children sleep on floating mattresses while their parents pray that tomorrow brings dry land or at least some semblance of government response. Spoiler alert: it usually doesn’t.

Meanwhile, in the north, Boko Haram continues its reign of terror, despite bold-faced declarations from the government that they have been “technically defeated” for the umpteenth time. Villages are burned. Girls disappear. Parents weep. And officials nod solemnly while adjusting their imported suits and preparing for the next international summit. The real question isn’t how the insurgents are still operating; it’s how anyone thought they wouldn’t, given the vacuum of security, the glaring inequality, and a military often more focused on selfies at checkpoints than strategy.

Let us not forget the quiet, slow terror of hunger. Not the Instagram-friendly kind with charity hashtags, but the kind that sits in a mother’s stomach as she watches her children chew on cassava for the third meal in a row. Nigeria’s rich soil could feed a continent. Instead, due to policy failure and banditry, it barely feeds its own.

But oh, the oil. The black gold. The golden curse. Nigeria has it in abundance, yet the more oil it pumps, the more its people bleed. The Niger Delta remains both a symbol of promise and a swamp of broken promises. Oil spills have poisoned rivers, livelihoods, and futures. Shell and other multinationals dance with local politicians in a tango of profit over people, while activists like Ken Saro-Wiwa are remembered not for their victories, but for their martyrdom. It seems, in Nigeria, to speak truth to power is to sign one’s own death certificate, sometimes literally.

And corruption. Sweet, omnipresent corruption. It’s the one industry that never suffers recession. From the inflated contracts for ghost roads to the magical disappearance of COVID-19 funds, Nigeria’s elite have turned stealing into a sport and governance into a façade. When they’re caught, they cry persecution. When they’re not, they run for president.

It’s not enough to say the system is broken. The system is working exactly as it was designed, to benefit the few at the expense of the many. The rest are left to improvise their survival through hustle, prayer, or migration.

And yet this country continues to amaze. There’s a stubborn flame that refuses to die. The music thrives, the literature sings, the people laugh with a depth known only to those who’ve stared into the abyss and decided to dance anyway. But Nigeria doesn’t need another miracle. It needs accountability. It needs leadership. It needs an exorcism of its gluttonous political class. And most of all, it needs to stop being ruled like a resource mine and start being governed like a home.

The gods of oil have had their turn. It’s time the people reclaimed theirs.