₦airaland Forum

The Nigeria and Africa We Want

‘Why do you all cry when you come here?’ the taxi driver asked me. His voice, a gentle current against the hum of the car’s engine, was a stark contrast to the chaotic symphony of Lagos.
‘What?’ I asked, the word a raw, choked-off sound. I scrubbed at my eyes with the heels of both hands, as if I could wipe away not just the tears, but the profound sense of cultural whiplash that had seized me the moment I stepped out of Dubai International Airport.
‘I mean,’ the man said, taking a smooth left turn. ‘When most Africans arrive here, once they get down from the airport, they start crying. Why?’ The driver, who later introduced himself as Zayd, adjusted his rear-view mirror, a subtle invitation to a deeper conversation. He turned right, and there it was: the Burj Al-Arab, a sail-shaped monument to human ambition, catching the last of the setting sun like a jewel.
‘Do most Africans cry?’ I asked, my voice barely a whisper. The question was not just for him, but for myself. Was my breakdown a shared experience, a collective grief?
‘Yes, especially the first-time visitors.’
My head was spinning. It was a dizzying, disorienting sensation. The absence of the familiar was deafening. There were no bone-rattling potholes, no rivers of stagnant water. There were no policemen with AK47s slung low, their eyes a cold demand for “Kolanut” – a slang used for bribe. There were no yellow vans—the Danfos—with their foul-mouthed, reckless drivers, weaving through traffic like angry hornets.
I felt as if I had been teleported. The organization, the brightness, the flawless asphalt of Dubai’s roads—it was a vision of heaven. And with that revelation came a devastating, gut-wrenching realization: if this was heaven on earth, then my country, Nigeria, and by extension, much of Africa, was its unholy counterpart. A land of broken promises and perpetual struggle.
‘I was just overwhelmed,’ I croaked, surprised at the raw sadness in my voice. The words felt hollow, inadequate.
‘I mean, everything is so beautiful and perfect. I just wished my country; my Nigeria, my Africa could one day be like…’ I couldn’t finish. The dam broke, and I choked into another gale of sobs, the grief a physical weight pressing down on my chest.
The driver was quiet as the car cruised along. The tall, shimmering towers of Dubai blurred by, each one a middle finger to the notion of impossibility. After a long, heavy pause, Zayd’s voice cut through the silence. ‘Is it that terrible in Nigeria, and Africa?’
I nodded, blinking back tears. In that moment, my national and African pride, a shield I had carried since birth, dissolved completely. It felt like a betrayal to feel this way, but the evidence was overwhelming. I stared out the window, amazed and ashamed, at how a country with lesser natural resources than my own could accomplish such astonishing development, such seamless transportation, such breathtaking organization within some decades.
‘My father was here in the 90s,’ I began, my voice steadier now, infused with a new, dark anger. ‘He still has pictures he took at your airport and hotel back then. He said this used to be an empty desert filled with mud houses, tents and camels.’
‘Yes,’ Zayd smiled, a nostalgic light in his eyes. ‘My country was so wretched back then. We had like a hundred taxis, and thousands of camels impeding the traffic. They were used in transporting passengers. You remind me of the old days.’
‘Well, your country has made many strides since then,’ I said, the words tasting like ash. I turned to face the driver, taking a chest-expanding breath. ‘Meanwhile, my country, my continent, is still stuck in the 80s. And I wonder if we are ever going to get out.’
‘You are Nigerian?’
‘Yes.’
‘Nigeria,’ Zayd repeated the word distastefully. It was a single word, but it carried the weight of a thousand newspaper headlines and whispered stories. ‘We have many of your people here, just like we have several Africans. Most of them visit, some never leave. And that house, yeah, that massive building: it belongs to one African governor.’
He mentioned a name, and my blood ran cold. The owner was an ex-governor and present senator from my mother’s hometown, a place plagued by underdevelopment and grinding poverty. Zayd pointed at more buildings, each one a monument to stolen African wealth, a gilded cage built with the dreams of a people they had sworn to serve.
‘It looks like all the government people in Africa have houses here?’ I said, my voice wounded, laced with a bitter irony.
‘Indeed. My wife works in the tax office. She said Nigerians alone have invested over $2 billion into Dubai properties and real estate. Africans, especially Nigerians, are the backbone of Dubai. If they were ever to take or sell their investment, or stop coming here for vacation, the UAE economy might collapse.’
For the next couple of days, I was a walking paradox—excited and depressed at the same time. I loved the beauty of Dubai, but the most painful feeling was the gnawing question: why can’t this happen in my country, in the whole of Africa? I wasn’t angry that Dubai was great, but I was utterly frustrated that this unknown region my father had visited twenty-nine years ago was now more developed than some popular European countries.

Welcome Back to Hell
When I turned to Lagos, Nigeria, the reality of my return hit me like a physical blow. The air, thick with heat and the smell of exhaust fumes, was a humid blanket of despair. At the sweaty airport, the unruly customs officers brazenly snaffled naira notes from foreigners, their eyes flicking with greed, their authority a tool for extortion.
The greatest pain was the Lagos traffic, a living, breathing monster with a nasty personality. I saw an Okada (motorcycle) loaded with an entire family almost get flattened by a truck. The rider, a grim reaper with no helmet, nearly wiped out an entire bloodline for the sake of a few seconds. I saw a driver taking a piss by the side of his vehicle, his casual indifference matched by the two police officers who didn't care. I saw Danfo drivers (yellow buses) sipping alcoholic beverages to "ginger" their bodies, their eyes glassy with a toxic blend of recklessness and false courage.
I hadn't even spent a full week in Dubai, and the contrast was so stark, so devastating, it messed with my mind. I was appalled by the madness called Lagos, simply because of its horrible transport system.
The argument started a kilometer from the airport. My taxi driver, a man who navigated the chaos of Lagos with a weary resignation, was being harassed by three police officers. Their hands were outstretched, their eyes cold and demanding, a familiar scene playing out in a city where authority often masqueraded as extortion.
My fists began to shake, a fury born of the pristine streets and organized calm I had just left behind. The memory of Dubai was still a fresh, stinging wound. ‘I've returned from an Arab country!’ I yelled at them, the words spilling out like a desperate, wild confession. ‘There is no lawlessness and recklessness there!’
My outburst was met with blank stares. My words, my anger, my experience—they were meaningless here. We managed to drive away, the incident leaving a sour taste in my mouth, but the reprieve was short-lived.
Barely another kilometer down the road, we encountered the notorious SARS officials. They were toting their guns with a casual menace, hailing my driver to park. A chill ran down my spine. The ritual was the same, but the threat felt sharper. As one of them demanded my ID card, another began scrolling through my phone and laptop, an invasion of privacy so brazen it left me speechless. I spent the next ten minutes explaining why I could afford a trip to Dubai, feeling the weight of their assumptions and the cold reality of being back in a place where your freedom could be bought or sold for the price of a bribe.
I was back in hellfire.
That night, the familiar darkness of a power cut enveloped my room. The petroleum generator failed to sneeze to life, its silence a final confirmation of my return to reality. The heat was a suffocating shroud, and the mosquitoes, tiny, tormenting demons, feasted on my despair. I ran out of my room into the moonlit yard, the cool night air a welcome relief. It was there, under a sky filled with stars I could barely see through the haze of light pollution, that I completed a speech for my students, a final act of defiance. The title: The Nigeria, the Africa We Want.
After my promotion to the C-Suite, my employer, a visionary man, made a remarkable demand. He insisted that every key team member travel outside Nigeria to a major global hub—the UK, Europe, the US, or Dubai. He was willing to fund the entire trip. His reasoning was simple yet profound: he believed that this experience would fundamentally alter our perspective and expand our vision, giving us a firsthand understanding of the kind of organization he was striving to build.
Weeks later, standing before the school board, parents, and students, I was no longer just a teacher and administrator. I was a messenger, tasked with translating a profound personal experience into a shared vision for Nigeria and the entire continent. The speech I was about to deliver wasn't just a recount of my trip; it was a testament to what we could be, a blueprint for the future I had glimpsed in another land.

The Speech:
‘The Nigeria we want is not a land of broken dreams, but a nation of builders. It is a place filled with people who haven’t lost their identity or their national pride. We are not a country of 50 million bike men, called Okada riders, scrambling for scraps of survival. We are a nation with the potential for 50 million programmers, professional teachers, tech gurus, scientists, engineers, inventors, and entrepreneurs. That is the Nigeria we want.
‘The Nigeria we want is a place where we are not defined by the circumstances of our birth, but by the fire in our souls. It is a Nigeria filled with people with dignity, people who understand that God didn’t make them black so they could feel inferior, or bear the burden of being sub-human. We are not a people who should be content with being classed as a “third-world country,” or happily bear the yoke of poverty. We are a people who must rise up, striving for human excellence and reaching for the cusp of brilliance.
The Nigeria we want is a nation reborn, not in the shadows of its past, but in the brilliant light of its future. We refuse to be defined by the transatlantic slave trade, by the lingering scars of colonialism, or by the corrupt leaders who have plundered our potential. Our identity is not the one painted by global media—a narrative of despair, poverty, and tragedy.
The Nigeria and the Africa we want is a testament to our indomitable spirit. It is a continent that is prosperous, rich, and powerful, no longer emerging, but fully emerged. We are not just breaking free from a dark history; we are forging a new one, a narrative of innovation, strength, and boundless potential. We are here to reclaim our story and stand tall as the architects of our own destiny.
‘The Nigeria we want must be a place filled with people who are passionate about building their dreams, a better dream, built around our identity, our culture, our blackness and our Africanness. We are not meant to be a reflection of another’s success, but the architects of our own destiny.
The Price We Must Pay
The shiny roads, the breathtaking organization, and the beautiful cities of Dubai or the developed world didn’t emerge overnight. They were forged in a crucible of sacrifice and vision. Many local “souks”—ancient markets—had to make way for modern structures. Many camel riders had to upgrade their skills to become the professional pilots who today constitute the workforce of Emirates Airline—one of the world's largest and most luxurious airlines, a symbol of revolutionizing global travel.
We stand at a similar precipice. It is a hard time, and the road ahead is filled with difficult choices. This is why we must support leaders like Governor Sanwo-Olu as he takes this bold and tough decision to create a Lagos that will ultimately be our greatest pride and the crown jewel of West Africa. We cannot continue to be a disorganized, rough, dirty, and backward country. We cannot be at peace with being 100 years behind the modern world. We must not be afraid of change, no matter how painful it is.
I hope the media, our thought leaders, and our thinkers support Governor Sanwo-Olu, so he can transform Lagos while assisting those who will be affected during the process. Dubai didn't allow backwardness to hold its dreams hostage. The people paid the price, and I hope we, as Nigerians, can do the same. We must not mistake the pain of progress for the permanence of poverty. We must be brave enough to tear down the old, the broken, the corrupt, and build something new—something worthy of our name, our identity, and our potential.
The Nigeria we want is within our grasp. But it is not a gift. It is a fight. And it is a prize we must earn with every drop of our sweat, every shard of our courage, and every beat of our hopeful hearts.
Yet, as I stand here, the stark reality of our challenges, powerfully embodied by the current uproar surrounding the Okada ban, pulls me back. The shocking backlash, the intricate political twists it has unleashed, momentarily threaten to overshadow the gleaming vision I hold so dear. But this struggle only reinforces my conviction: we can become better, greater, and profoundly more. This truth rests on our collective willingness to shed our old skin—to rip off the comfort of outdated habits and self-defeating resistance, and with shared resolve, courageously build a brighter, more powerful future together. It is a future within our grasp, if we dare to seize it.

Ok

Lagos

As much as I suffered today,I just have to commend Governor Sanwolu for banning the bikes and tricycles. I hope he bans the Danfos as well. I mean, it is only in Nigeria we see all this rubbish,even Ghana has a better and more organized transport system despite not having trains.its time we stop living like animals and act like civilized entities

Shut up jare. It is because you have a ride.

bsonenterprise:
Shut up jare. It is because you have a ride.

So you want everything to be the same? Do you know how many thousands of Lagosians killed yearly by Okada? Do you know how many legs and arms have been amputated. Do you know napep was built to carry materials within factories and it is only extremely wretched countries that use them on their roads. I can feel your pain but Lagos is not a gutter state. It should be the pace setter in Africa. @opNice write up

Progress takes alot of sacrifice, development is never accidental but with intentions...

and to slightly contradict the O.P or the Author, a real Emaratti, i mean the real UAE local will never drive a cab or work as a driver anywhere in the world, their Goverment prioritize on the citizens wellfare so much that you would think their government are spoiling them, from loans, to housing, scholarships to having locals register business to foriegners, as a citizen who decides to work with Government starts as a boss, they literarily have many social investment to tap from as a citizen that 3000 dirham driving seem like an insult to them

one of the best Malls in UAE is Sahara Mall in Sharjah, that place looks like paradise.. it was during my interaction with someone that i new it belongs to one ex Vice President and Presidential adviser... i mean this mall is nothing like the mini market we call mall in nigeria yet the man couldnt build it in Nigeria,



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solmus:
Progress takes alot of sacrifice

God bless you.

@op,u write well.

@lala frontpage stuff. the ugly truth!

A beautiful write-up that would make every Nigerian yearn for the realization of that Nigeria that is truly a giant of Africa and pride of black race.

However, the truth is that Dubai emerged out of a robust MASTERPLAN. It is a holistic roadmap to realising a vision. The stage by stage development of Dubai is deliberate. The reality of Dubai project is that massive city development or renewal requires MORE of planning and LESS of sacrifice or discomfort.

Now, the ban on okada and keke in Lagos state seems sudden and hasty. The inability of the state government to respond adequately to arising challenges shows that the move is not part of any encompassing long-term plan to develop Lagos. It looks more like a knee-jerk reaction to a threat.

Nevertheless, Gov. Sanwo-Olu and his team should seize the challenges of the last couple of days to critically review the existing Lagos State master plan with a view to upgrading it to a LIVING plan.

why isnt this front page and some trash stuff?

enlightening!

my stuff never made fb so sad