Nigerians, let’s talk about us

Nigeria asks much of its leaders. It may be time Nigerians asked more of themselves.

I stopped at a red light on my way to work recently. The road ahead was clear. One driver went through the light. Then another. And another. I stayed.

As I watched them disappear down the road, a thought occurred to me: some of those drivers would probably complain about Nigeria before the day was over. They might lament corruption, lawlessness and politicians who behave as though the rules are for other people. Yet, minutes earlier, confronted with a small law at an empty junction, they had made precisely the same calculation: the rule need not apply if I can get away with breaking it.

That red light has stayed with me.

As Nigeria enters another season of political argument, we will scrutinize parties, candidates, tribe, religion and those who wish to govern us. We should. But perhaps we should make room for a more uncomfortable conversation.

Let’s talk about us.

Nigerians often speak of “government” as though it were a separate species. Government is corrupt. Government is wasteful. Government disregards the law. Often, the criticism is deserved. Public officials exercise power entrusted to them by citizens and must be held to a higher standard. But government is not imported.

The people who govern us come from our homes, schools, businesses, churches, mosques, villages and professions. They were once our classmates, neighbours, colleagues and friends. Before a public official learns to manipulate billions, society may already have taught smaller lessons about rules, privilege and consequences.

Consider ordinary life.

An employer agrees terms with an employee and later ignores them because the employee has little power. An employee collects a full salary while routinely giving less than an honest day’s work. A trader tampers with a measure. A contractor substitutes inferior materials. A parent uses a connection to obtain an advantage for a child. A motorist runs a red light because no policeman is watching. Then, in the evening, everybody complains about Nigeria. And the beat goes on. None of these excuses misconduct in public office. Quite the opposite. But it raises a harder question: What if Nigeria’s crisis is not only a crisis of government, but also a crisis of culture? Not culture in the sense of our languages, traditions, music or faiths. Culture in its quieter meaning: the things a society rewards, excuses, admires and eventually regards as normal.

Something has happened to our definition of success.

There was a powerful social idea that a good name mattered. A teacher could be an important person. So could a nurse, journalist, doctor, engineer, farmer, craftsman or conscientious civil servant. Their standing came not necessarily from wealth, but from competence, service, learning and integrity. Increasingly, wealth itself can appear to have become the credential. A man becomes spectacularly rich and too few people ask how. Doors open. Titles follow. Front-row seats are found. Respect arrives. The provenance of the money may be obscure. Its social authority is not. That should worry us because societies educate their young not only through classrooms but through applause. Tell a child that honesty matters but repeatedly show that unexplained wealth commands greater respect than an honest life, and the child will eventually understand which lesson society really means.

Children are excellent students of adult hypocrisy. This is why role models matter.

Recent reports from China described prominent public displays celebrating accomplished scientists, putting scientific achievement into spaces commonly associated with commercial advertising and celebrity. The point is not whether Nigeria should imitate China. It is the question the example forces us to ask: Whose face do we want our children to look up and see? Art, sport and entertainment enrich society, and excellence in them deserves celebration. But a serious country needs more than one definition of a star.

Where are our celebrity teachers? Where is the applause for the nurse who has served patients with distinction for decades? The engineer whose work still stands? The farmer who transformed a community? The scientist who solved a problem? The journalist who refused to sell the truth? The mason whose reputation rests on buildings made properly rather than cheaply?

The question is not whether we ever reward these people. We do. The question is: what do we celebrate most loudly? A nation’s role models constitute a kind of national curriculum. Show children whom society applauds and you begin to tell them what kind of adults to become. Perhaps our difficulty is not that Nigerians cannot distinguish right from wrong. It may be that we have become remarkably skilled at deciding when right and wrong should apply. We condemn corruption when somebody else benefits from it. When it benefits us, it becomes a “connection”.

We dislike nepotism when another person’s relative gets the opportunity. When ours does, we know someone who can “help”. We demand strong institutions when they constrain powerful people. When they constrain us, we reach for the telephone. We rage at politicians who ignore laws, then drive through red lights when nobody is watching. This is convenient morality. No nation can build strong institutions upon it.

Campaign seasons make matters worse because identity can become an excuse for suspended judgment. Nigeria’s diversity is not a defect. There is nothing wrong with loving one’s language, faith, history or community. The trouble begins when loving mine requires distrusting yours.

A bad candidate does not become good because he speaks my language. An incompetent politician does not become competent because she worships where I worship. A thief does not become less of a thief because we share a hometown. Corruption does not become moral because the beneficiary belongs to the right tribe. We tend to imagine national transformation in grand terms: a new government, a new constitution, a great reform programme or a charismatic leader.

All may matter. But countries are also built in millions of small places where nobody is watching. At the traffic light when no policeman is present. In the office when the boss is away. At a construction site where inferior materials could be substituted. In an examination hall when the invigilator turns around. Inside the home when children listen to whom their parents admire. Perhaps character is simply what remains when enforcement disappears.

So, let us make the excellent teacher important again. Celebrate the nurse. Respect the farmer. Admire the engineer who refuses to compromise a specification. Give social status to the honest entrepreneur, researcher, craftsman, journalist and civil servant.

Let the modest house of an honourable person command more respect than the mansion nobody can explain. Let a good name become an asset again. And, for goodness’ sake, let us stop at the red light.

Nigeria needs competent leaders, strong institutions and consequences for corruption. But perhaps we have placed too much hope in the idea that one great election can rescue society from accumulated habits. No president can legislate integrity into every home. No governor can put a policeman at every junction. No anti-corruption agency can accompany every citizen to that quiet moment when personal interest and conscience part company. Some work belongs to government. And some belongs to us. So let us interrogate those who seek to lead us. Ask about security, jobs, schools, hospitals, electricity and the economy. Ask where the money went. Ask hard questions. But after interrogating the politicians, let us reserve one final question for the mirror: What kind of( Nigeria are we ourselves creating?

Presidents will come and go. Campaign posters will eventually come down. Nigeria will remain. And its character will be shaped not only in the corridors of power, but in homes, classrooms, businesses, markets, workshops, places of worship and on ordinary roads. Including at an empty junction, where a Nigerian sees a red light and decides whether a rule still matters when nobody is watching.

The light is red. Perhaps the rebuilding of Nigeria begins by stopping.