Nigeria at 65: Celebrating Independence With Our Most Toxic Relationship
Nigeria at 65: Celebrating Independence With Our Most Toxic Relationship
If Nigeria were a person, she would be that fine, tall, dark-skinned guy who has been promising you heaven and earth since 1960 but still can’t get his act together. He shows up every October 1st with flowers (green and white ones, of course), smiles sweetly, and whispers, “Baby, things will be better this year.” But deep down, you know the truth: you’re in a toxic relationship with no clear direction and plenty of stress.
Every toxic relationship has stages. Initially, it’s all butterflies in your stomach and love. Then the red flags show up, and like someone who doesn’t want to believe their partner is cheating, you keep saying, “Maybe he’ll change.” Nigeria is like that guy who texts, “I’ve changed, baby,” after cheating on you with bad governance. He’ll show up on Independence Day in the best outfit, with fireworks and a shiny new speech from the President. And suddenly, you’re smiling again, forgetting the crashing economy, raging poverty levels, ASUU strikes, and insecurity.
Nigeria at 65 feels less like a stable marriage and more like a toxic entanglement. We can’t leave her after all, this is home, but loving her is exhausting. And if we’re being honest, celebrating Independence Day now feels like attending a partner’s birthday dinner even though you both know the relationship is hanging by a thread. You’ll still dress up, smile for the pictures, but once the party ends, the wahala resumes.
Here are reasons why living in Nigeria feels like being in a toxic relationship:
Nigerian Government The Sweet Talker
If there’s one thing every Nigerian government has perfected since 1960, it’s the art of sweet-talking. Forget romance novels, our leaders could write the ultimate handbook on how to make promises that sound good in the moment but never materialise. From “Operation Feed the Nation” in the ’70s, to “Transformation Agenda” in the 2010s, and today’s “Emi Lokan Regime,” we’ve heard every slogan and manifesto possible.
Each administration comes in like a smooth-talking boyfriend with new lines, new pet names and the same tired excuses. Just like that unserious partner who keeps saying, “Babe, I’ll change, just give me time,” Nigeria never really delivers.
Instead, she gifts us half-baked reforms, skyrocketing prices, and a collapsing national grid. We’ve lost count of how many times the grid has “fallen” this year alone. And remember the age-old promise of 24-hour electricity? Nigerians have been waiting for that one for ages.
Meanwhile, the economy is out here playing games with our mental health. One day, the dollar is ₦1,400, the next it’s ₦1,600, and by the weekend, it’s looking at ₦1,800. And somehow, we’re still expected to smile through it all, buy tomatoes at the price of small gold bars, and pretend we’re not one more inflation hike away from a national meltdown.
The Gaslighting Phase
Nigeria loves gaslighting its citizens. This country will hand you crumbs and expect you to bake Agege bread, butter it, and still say thank you. When you complain about rising fuel prices, instead of solutions, you’ll hear: “At least you still have fuel. Do you know that in some countries they queue for days?”
When the Naira started flirting dangerously close to ₦2,000 to a dollar, the official response wasn’t reform, it was “buy made in Nigeria.” As if cowries will suddenly start working on Apple Pay. It’s the same thing as your manipulative partner saying, “Other girls wish they had me. You’re lucky.” Lucky how?
The worst part is that the gaslighting works. Nigeria makes you feel unpatriotic for demanding basic things. That’s why many Nigerians are packing their bags faster than you can say Japa. If this were a relationship, our airports would be the front door, and people would be running out before Nigeria even wakes up in the morning.
The Public Display of Affection vs. the Private Mess
On October 1st, the government throws a parade. Soldiers march, school children wave flags, and dignitaries give speeches that sound suspiciously copy-pasted from last year’s notes.
For a few hours, Nigeria looks like she has her life together. But after the cameras stop rolling, reality slaps us. The roads are still exhibiting pothole exhibitions, universities are still threatening to strike, and the prices of food are skyrocketing beyond people’s income. It’s like being in a relationship where your partner posts you on Instagram, but offline, they’re giving you silent treatment.
The Financial Abuse: Naira and Inflation Drama
If Nigeria were a lover, she’d be the type that borrows money from you every week and never pays back. In fact, she’d borrow, then turn around and say, “Babe, you know things are hard. You should support me.”
Tell me why garri, the supposed poor man’s food, now costs an arm and a leg. Even noodles, the loyal emergency meal, has joined the league of luxury items. People now calculate stew ingredients like they’re doing calculus because they can’t afford it: “If I remove two tomatoes and add one sachet of tomato paste, will it still taste the same?”
We’re not even dating Nigeria anymore; we’re being financially abused. And I don’t think she even feels guilty anymore.
The Family Drama: Nigeria and Her 250 Children
Nigeria is like that parent who gave birth to too many children and doesn’t know how to manage them. It looks impressive on paper to have over 250 ethnic groups, lots of diversity, languages and dishes. But in reality, it’s pure wahala. Every child wants attention, every child thinks they’re the favourite, and the parent (Nigeria) doesn’t have the patience or emotional intelligence to manage them.
The Yoruba child is forever demanding representation and respect, reminding everyone that without them, the family’s history book is incomplete.
The Igbo child has been shouting for decades about marginalisation, sometimes even threatening to pack their bags and move out, suitcase in hand, only to be pulled back with promises that never stick.
The Hausa child guards political power like it’s family inheritance; nobody else is allowed to touch it. Meanwhile, the minority children, the ones often forgotten in the corner, are asking: “Are we ornaments or human beings? Because the way this family ignores us, is giving decorations.”
Then, Independence Day is like that chaotic family reunion. Everyone wears their best outfit, poses for pictures, and for a few hours, they pretend to love each other, but as soon as the party ends, reality reappears. We’re back to bickering and walking on eggshells around each other.
The “Other Countries’ Boyfriends” Comparison
Nigerians are world champions at side-eyeing their own relationship while admiring other people’s partners.
It’s that classic toxic relationship behaviour, you know you’re stuck with someone who stresses you, but you can’t help scrolling through Instagram, seeing how your friend’s boyfriend booked her a trip to Zanzibar, and whispering, “God, when?” For us, those “other boyfriends” are countries like Ghana, Kenya, and lately, Rwanda.
Ghana has become our annoying neighbour who never misses a chance to flex. Their lights stay on 24/7 while we’re still treating electricity like a limited-edition item. Then there’s Rwanda, the overachieving sibling in the African family. They cleaned up Kigali, banned plastic bags, and turned their capital into something that looks like Dubai’s cousin.
Compare these to us, where a little rain can turn major highways into swimming pools and politicians are more interested in buying private jets than fixing roads.
Every Independence Day, the comparison posts start rolling in. Someone will post a picture of Rwanda’s clean streets, another will bring up Ghana’s power stability, and someone else will sigh, “If Nigeria had sense, by now we’d be competing with Dubai. We have the resources.”
But deep down, we know the truth: Nigeria is that stubborn partner who refuses therapy. She won’t work on herself, won’t admit she has issues, and somehow expects us to keep clapping for the bare minimum.
The Hope That Keeps Us In This Relationship
The intriguing part is, despite all this, Nigerians still believe. We’re the stubborn lovers who won’t walk away because somewhere, buried deep under the mess, we know Nigeria has potential.
Our music is conquering the world, our films are breaking Netflix, our jollof is unmatched, and our people are resilient like Nokia 3310. Hope is the only reason why many Nigerians still acknowledge Independence Day, why we still wear green and white, take pictures and caption them with “Proudly Naija,” and why we still hustle and dream. Because even in this toxic relationship, some part of us believes Nigeria can change.
For Nigerians, Independence Day will always be a complicated holiday. It’s a combination of pride and sarcasm, a little happiness with a lot of frustration. We’re like lovers stuck with a partner who keeps messing up but somehow still has a hold on us.
So this October 1st, post memes, eat jollof rice, and laugh through the pain. Because being Nigerian ultimately equates to being in a toxic relationship. Even after you swear you’re done, you rant and curse, you still go on the next date in the hopes that perhaps, just perhaps, this time will be different. And who knows? One day, Nigeria might just surprise us and finally choose us back.
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