Over a lunch of pounded yam and egusi soup, graciously prepared by madam at Duru’s dining table, our conversation, as it often did, gravitated towards the perplexing enigma that is Nigeria. A nation brimming with potential yet struggling across all human development indices. My friend, Duru, is an unwavering optimist who believed the nation’s challenges would recede under capable leadership. I, however, offered a less comforting perspective: a pervasive moral crisis stains both leader and follower alike.
We first met when we attended the same church. Still, our friendship had deepened from casual acquaintance to brotherhood with mutual respect and a shared aspiration for a better Nigeria. Duru’s inherent honesty was a defining trait, the very quality that drew me to him. Yet, within this honesty lay a troubling paradox.
To earn his livelihood, Duru navigates the complex terrain of both the public and private sectors. His success, as he confided in me, hinged on what was termed “the cost of doing business.” In reality, this meant substantial kickbacks, sometimes reaching 30% of a contract’s value, discreetly funnelled to those in positions of power. These “facilitation fees,” a sugar-coated term, were nothing short of bribery, a corrosive force eroding ethical commerce.
My Duru presents a striking paradox. He is devout and a leader within one of the nation’s largest churches, demonstrating his commitment to righteousness through significant dedication to prayer and fasting. This begs the question: how can a man so deeply entwined in practices that perpetuate corruption simultaneously pursue such visible spiritual piety? This juxtaposition mirrors a broader issue – the proliferation of places of worship contrasting with the pervasive corruption within the nation.
Of course, this duality extends beyond Duru’s professional life in Lagos. At a construction site in Abeokuta, I encountered Taofeek, a construction worker. Around 2 pm, driven by his religious obligation, he requested leave from the site supervisor for Friday’s Jumat prayers, promising a swift return within 45 minutes, as if it were an entitlement rather than a request. While Nigerians are indeed deeply religious, and I see no problems with this in itself, the blurring of lines between personal piety and professional responsibility is deeply concerning. Yet, by 2:45 pm, Taofeek was still absent, bringing the construction site to a standstill. He finally reappeared close to 4 pm. The following day, a similar pattern emerged: his crew arrived hours late with flimsy excuses yet expected a full day’s wage for their tardiness. Some might see this as a minor disregard for work ethic, but when multiplied across countless individuals, it contributes to the inefficiency and lack of productivity, hindering national progress.
Back in Lagos, my own experience further illustrated this point. Arriving at a business premises two hours before its scheduled opening to avoid the notorious Monday morning traffic, I observed a slow trickle of staff arriving well past the official 8 am start. By 8:15 am, instead of attending to waiting customers, the office manager commenced a ten-minute praise and worship session. While the importance of faith is undeniable, the casual disregard for dedicated work hours spoke volumes about our collective mindset.
The decay also permeates the esteemed halls of academia. A conversation with a seasoned university professor who serves as a thesis assessor for other institutions was deeply troubling. He mentioned the “standard requirement” of providing elaborate meals and gifts for thesis review panels, stating that a student’s failure to do so could result in a negative outcome. When I questioned the ethics of such practices, he delved more into the rooted corruption plaguing the education system and the open secret of “rent-a-crowd” tactics employed by universities seeking accreditation. To meet the National Universities Commission (NUC) standards, institutions would temporarily hire renowned professors, only to replace them with less qualified tutors once accreditation was secured. His justification for participating in this charade? The irresistible financial incentives and the tacit complicity of the accreditation teams. This compromise of academic integrity, driven by personal gain, erodes the very foundation of education.
Lost in thought after this unsettling exchange, I found myself ensnared in the notorious Lekki traffic. My attention was drawn to a sleek Lexus Jeep ahead, its driver, a man in a sharp suit, abruptly swerving into the oncoming lane, completely disregarding traffic flow and the safety of others. This blatant display of entitlement with an assumption that rules didn’t apply likely belonged to someone holding a position of authority, someone who might very well be vocal in their criticism of Nigeria’s leadership. Yet, he embodied the very lack of consideration and moral compass he might publicly decry. It struck me then: we are all leaders within our spheres, and the decadence we lament at the top are reflected in the compromises we make in our daily lives.
Later, back at Duru’s, his young daughter offered a profound insight. When I posed a hypothetical scenario – swapping Nigeria’s leadership with that of the United States – she astutely predicted that Nigeria would remain unchanged, its citizens still yearning for opportunities abroad.
Why? Because the crisis isn’t solely about who occupies the presidential villa or the state governors’ offices. It is about the collective erosion of our moral fabric, the small compromises we make daily, the “cost of doing business” we rationalise, the work hours we casually disregard, and the ethical corners we cut in our professions. Until we confront the mirror and acknowledge that true leadership begins with individual integrity and a commitment to ethical conduct in our homes, workplaces, and communities, the cycle will persist, regardless of who holds the reins of power. The change we seek in Nigeria’s leadership must first take root within every one of us.
Many years prior, at the annual Accountants Conference in Abuja, the then Governor of Rivers State, Rotimi Amaechi, delivered a paper on Corruption in Nigeria. A particular line resonated deeply and has stayed with me since: the multitude of voices decrying the current leadership as corrupt would likely behave worse if they possessed even a fraction of the present leaders’ authority. Their outcry, he suggested, was often less about genuine concern for corruption and more about a strategic manoeuvre to gain political favour.
This observation compels us to self-reflect. Am I contributing to the problem, one of the chorus of voices Amaechi described? When we fixate on leadership, a fundamental question arises: if five randomly selected eggs from a crate of thirty are rotten, what does that tell us about the entire crate? To be clear, our leaders reflect who we are. They were not imported from some distant land; they are our kin, our neighbours, our very selves. They are us. Therefore, the conclusion is inescapable: we all lead through our actions and inactions, shaping the very fabric of our society.