At 66, is Nigeria truly independent?

By: Ifeoluwa Adeyeye

WHEN a child is born, nobody expects the child to survive alone. The child is nurtured, fed, educated and protected. Then adulthood comes. By the time that child reaches their 20s, they are expected to begin making decisions that will shape the direction of their life. In their 30s and 40s, the expectation changes. They should be building something of their own: a career, a business, a home, a system, something they can depend on. By their 50s and 60s, one would expect a measure of independence. Not perfection, not a life without challenges, but definitely not a life defined by constantly stretching out a hand for basic survival. Now, imagine that child is Nigeria. On October 1, 1960, Nigeria became independent from British colonial rule. Sixty-six years later, we will once again raise our flags, sing the national anthem and celebrate another Independence Day. But beyond the ceremonies, speeches and patriotic messages, one question deserves to be asked: At 66, how independent is Nigeria?

Nigeria has been described as a developing country for decades. But at what point does “developing” stop being a description of our circumstances and become an excuse for the absence of measurable progress? At 66, the question should no longer be whether Nigeria has potential. We know that it does. We have human capital. We have natural resources. We have entrepreneurs, professionals, researchers, creatives, farmers, engineers, doctors, journalists and young people building things despite difficult circumstances. The question is what we have built around them. Consider the Nigeria Education Loan Fund. NELFUND has created a mechanism through which students can access loans for institutional charges and upkeep. Its current published terms provide that beneficiaries who participate in NYSC begin repayment two years after completing the programme. Once employed, 10 percent of monthly salary is to be deducted at source for repayment. On the surface, it is a response to one of the barriers to accessing higher education. But perhaps the conversation should not end with giving a student money to remain in school.

What happens after graduation? What happens after NYSC? What happens when the two-year period expires? Most importantly, what employment opportunities are waiting for these graduates? A student can leave university with a degree, complete NYSC and still spend years searching for meaningful employment. Meanwhile, responsibilities do not wait. Rent does not wait. Food does not wait. Family responsibilities do not wait. And eventually, neither does loan repayment. The question, therefore, is not whether students should be supported to access education. They should. The question is whether we are preparing them for what comes after education. Perhaps a student financing programme should be connected more deliberately to employability. Beyond tuition and upkeep, can students be helped to build CVs, acquire relevant professional skills, develop portfolios, understand the labour market, access internships, connect with employers and position themselves for opportunities?

A student loan should not only help someone remain in school. It should help create a pathway from school to sustainable work. Otherwise, we risk financing education without sufficiently financing the transition into economic independence. And that takes us back to the 66-year-old child. At 66, should we still only be asking how to keep the child in school? Or should we be asking how to make sure the child can stand after leaving school? The conversation around recovered proceeds from financial crimes raises another question. The government has a responsibility to recover public funds and proceeds of crime through due legal processes. The EFCC continues to report recoveries and forfeitures, and the Commission recently reported a directive concerning funds approved for indigent students. But recovered funds should not become a substitute for proper budgeting. Education should not have to wait for someone to steal before students can be supported. Healthcare should not depend on the next recovery. Infrastructure should not depend on the next forfeiture. The country should have functioning systems capable of funding its priorities from legitimate, predictable revenue. Recovered funds may provide relief. They should not become the foundation.

And then there is debt. Nigeria continues to borrow to finance development. There is nothing inherently wrong with borrowing. Countries borrow to finance infrastructure and other productive investments. But borrowing creates a basic responsibility: show the people what the money achieved. If a government wants to borrow more, citizens deserve to know what previous borrowing financed, what outcomes were achieved, what remains outstanding and how the new borrowing will produce measurable value. A country cannot keep borrowing its way into development without being able to demonstrate the development that previous borrowing was supposed to produce. The question is not simply “How much are we borrowing?” but “What are we building with what we borrow?” Perhaps nowhere is our crisis of confidence more visible than in migration.

Every year, Nigerians leave in search of better opportunities. Some leave through legitimate routes and build successful lives abroad. Others take dangerous routes because they believe that almost anywhere outside Nigeria offers a better chance at survival.

When citizens are willing to risk their lives crossing deserts, travelling through dangerous territories or falling into the hands of traffickers simply because they believe their future is elsewhere, that should make us uncomfortable.  We shouldn’t just ask, “Why are Nigerians leaving?” We should ask: “What have we failed to build that makes leaving appear to be the better option?” The answer cannot simply be patriotism. You cannot ask people to remain in a country while offering them little opportunity to build a sustainable life. Love for country matters. But so do jobs. So does security. So does healthcare. So does education. So does housing. So does food. So does the confidence that one’s children can have a better future than oneself.

There is also a growing distance between the citizen and the state. For many Nigerians, government can feel like something that exists far away, in Abuja, in official statements, in budgets and policy documents, rather than something they experience directly in their daily lives. When insecurity occurs, citizens want protection. When people lose loved ones, they want leadership that feels present. When communities suffer disasters or violence, they want government to be visible, not merely through statements but through action. Leadership cannot only be experienced through television or print broadcasts. People need to feel the presence of the state in their schools, hospitals, roads, communities, workplaces and homes. That is what makes a country feel like home.

After 66 years, can the average Nigerian confidently say: “I have access to quality healthcare”? “I can get a good education without my family being crushed by the cost”? “I can find meaningful work”? “I can afford to feed myself and my family”? “I can find decent shelter”? “I can live safely”? “I can grow old without becoming a burden because there is no social protection?” These are not extravagant demands but basic ingredients of a dignified life. And yet, Nigeria is still struggling with them.

Even older citizens deserve to ask what the country has built for them. At 66, a nation should be thinking not only about getting young people into school and work, but also about what happens to citizens when they can no longer work. What social protection exists for the elderly? What happens to people who spent decades contributing to society but reach old age without sufficient income, healthcare or support? A country cannot measure its development only by how quickly its economy grows. It must also ask who can actually live decently within that economy.

Independence does not mean Nigeria must never ask another country for help. No modern country exists in complete isolation. Countries trade, they borrow, they collaborate, they receive investments, they seek technical assistance. The issue is not cooperation; the issue is capacity. Partnership should strengthen our ability to stand. Education should strengthen human capital. Investment should create industries and jobs. Natural resources should create sustainable wealth. Loans should produce measurable development. Technology should build local capacity. And government should create systems that continue to work beyond individual administrations.

Nigeria has enough people capable of building. We have enough resources to create possibilities. We have enough ideas. What we need is sustained commitment to building institutions, developing people and creating an environment where hard work can actually produce a decent life.

This is the kind of independence we should be pursuing, not simply independence from colonial rule, but independence from perpetual dependence. Independence from systems that force citizens to leave before they can thrive. Independence from the idea that every problem requires another loan. Independence from the belief that our brightest minds must build other countries before they can have a future. Independence from the cycle of starting again every four years.

Nigeria is 66. She is no longer a child. She should not be expected to be perfect, but she should have something substantial to show for the years. So, as the flags go up this October 1, let us ask ourselves: “What are we celebrating?””What are we building?” Because independence is not only the freedom to govern ourselves. It is also the capacity to provide our people with a country in which they can build lives worth staying for. And perhaps, at 66, that is the independence Nigeria should be working hardest to achieve.

•Adeyeye is a 300-level Mass Communication student of Adekunle Ajasin University, Akungba Akoko, Ondo State