By Agbeze Ireke Kalu Onuma,AI-KO
Enugu of the 1970s was a city of ghosts and red dust, a place where the air tasted like unfinished sentences. I grew up into this quiet rebellion – a world where adults spoke in code, their laughter too loud, their silences too heavy. The war had ended, but its shadow clung to the dust-smudged streets like the stubborn scent of gunpowder after rain. The Older generation wore “Normalcy Restored” like a borrowed costume, plastering brittle cheer over sad and mournful gazes. They hid the war from us children, as if scrubbing the word “Biafra” from conversations and schoolbooks could erase the hollows in their eyes. But the truth seeped in anyway: in the way many of their hand trembled when any loud gong is heard, in the hushed arguments about “abandoned property,” in the way old derelicts, casualties of the war, huddled by the rail crossing or by Coal Camp junction, making commuters cross the street to avoid their gazes and pleas.
At St. Zik’s Avenue Primary School, we sang “Arise, O Compatriots” every morning, our small fists saluting a flag we were told to love. Yet recess was a battleground of whispers – stories of “vandals” and “heroes,” depending on who told them. My friend Chidi, whose father lost both legs to a landmine, once snapped at our teacher: “If Nigeria is our father, why does he starve his own children?” The class froze. Mrs. Nkwocha marched him to the principal’s office, but not before I saw her wipe a tear.
That’s how we learned patriotism here – not as a creed, but as a riddle. A thing stitched from contradictions: the pride of survival, the shame of complicity, the hope that flickered like a kerosene lamp in a power-cut night. Enugu taught me that to be Nigerian is to hold two truths at once – to love a nation that does not love you back, to mourn a country that still breathes, to pledge allegiance to a dream while dodging the potholes of its reality.
By the time I turned twelve, I knew patriotism here wasn’t a flag; it was a reckoning. A question we carried in our bones: “How do you belong to a place that refuses to belong to you?”
The first time I felt the knife-twist of patriotism’s paradox, I was eight years old. My uncle, a Pharmacist who had survived the Biafra War, hung a Nigerian flag in his Enugu Office. “We are Nigerians,” he often declared, as if repetition could glue the cracks of history. Yet, over several and frequent nocturnal conversations with his friends and sometimes with us, in the form of a monotonous soliloqy, when he could afford to, he recounted our ancestors’ resistance to British colonialism, his voice booming and trembling with pride. One day, in the streets a quarrel broke out between a Hausa man and an Igbo over some trifles, in the heat of the verbal exchanges, the Hausa man sneering, snickered “Nyamiri… anand a few other indicipherable words in Hausa” and so many bystanders as if shot by an unseen bullet, suddenly entered the fray. What later happened, shook me to the core. I returned home, clutching the flag given to us in school as part of the psychological conditioning, and asked one of my Uncles: “Are we Nigerian or Igbo first?” He sighed – a sound heavy with generations of unresolved tension.
That question has haunted me ever since. To ask a Nigerian, “Are you patriotic?” is to ignite a silent war between blood and borders. For me, patriotism is a fractured mirror, reflecting shards of Igbo proverbs, colonial betrayals, and the lingering scent of Lagos danfo fumes. But I am not alone. Every Nigerian carries this conflict in their bones.
To understand patriotism here, one must dissect its layers. For the Hausa-Fulani trader in Kano, patriotism might mean loyalty to the Sokoto Caliphate’s legacy, tempered by resentment toward a federal system that privileges southern oil wealth. For the Yoruba market woman in Lagos or Ibadan, it could oscillate between pride in the Oduduwa heritage and fury at Lagos politicians who invoke “One Nigeria” while hoarding contracts for their cronies. For the Igbo mechanic in Onitsha, patriotism is a bitter joke – a nation that labels his people “rebels or criminals” for seeking survival rather than brutal death, yet demands allegiance to a flag that once flew over their starvation.
Even minority groups – the Ogoni fisherfolk of the Niger Delta, the Tiv farmers of Benue – navigate this maze. The Ogoni activist Ken Saro-Wiwa, hanged in 1995 for demanding environmental justice, famously said: “Nigeria is a nation where justice is a commodity sold to the highest bidder.” His words, coming late in life, echo in the silence of oil-polluted creeks, where “patriotism” feels like a shackle.
Nigeria’s patriotism crisis is rooted in its colonial midwifery. Lord Lugard’s 1914 amalgamation was less a marriage than a corporate merger, stitching together disparate peoples for administrative convenience. Chinua Achebe, in “There Was a Country”, lamented that Nigeria became “a mere geographic expression,” lacking the “binding myths” of nationhood. Instead, the British weaponized differences: favoring the North’s feudal structure while stifling the South’s educated elite, a divide-and-rule strategy that birthed the 1966 coups and the Biafra War.
Post-independence, the political class inherited this toxic blueprint. As political theorist Claude Ake noted, Nigeria’s leaders “ethnicized governance,” reducing citizenship to a calculus of quotas and federal character. Today, the average Nigerian’s patriotism is transactional: “What has Nigeria done for me?” For the unemployed graduate in Kaduna or anywhere else, the answer might be rage. For the Edo nurse migrating to Canada, it’s resignation. Yet, in this chaos, a new patriotism is emerging – one forged in protest, art, and everyday defiance.
This aligns with philosopher Benedict Anderson’s idea of nations as “imagined communities.” Nigerians are reimagining their community not through state decrees, but through shared trauma and creativity. The Arewa feminist in Kano, the Igbo blockchain developer in Aba, and the Efik chef in Calabar are drafting a new patriotism – rooted in justice, not jingoism.
This essay is my attempt to untangle the knot of patriotism – a journey through Nigeria’s colonial ghosts, ethnic firewalls, and the audacious hope of its people. I write not as a detached observer, but as an Igbo man whose many family members are interred in a war-turned-mass-grave, yet whose daughter, nieces and nephews sing the national anthem at various schools across the country with innocent fervor.
We will explore how the Hausa griot, the Yoruba market poet, and the Ogoni environmentalist are rewriting patriotism’s script. We will confront uncomfortable truths: Can a nation built on blood and oil spills earn its people’s love? And if not, what radical reimagining might yet save us?
In the words of Wole Soyinka: “The man dies in all who keep silent in the face of tyranny.” But what if the nation lives in all who dare to redefine patriotism? Let us begin.
Nigeria’s origins are an open secret: it was never meant to be a nation. In 1914, British colonial administrator Lord Frederick Lugard amalgamated the Northern and Southern Protectorates into a single entity for administrative convenience. The goal was not to foster unity but to streamline resource extraction. The British cobbled together over 250 ethnic groups – Yoruba, Hausa-Fulani, Igbo, and countless others – into a geographic expression with no shared identity.
Colonialism’s toxic legacy was the entrenchment of ethnic divisions. The British favored the Hausa-Fulani North for indirect rule, while the South, with its educated elite and Christian converts, was seen as a threat. This sowed seeds of distrust that blossomed into post-independence power struggles. When Nigeria gained independence in 1960, it inherited a fractured foundation. The First Republic collapsed in 1966 amid ethnic coups and counter-coups, culminating in the Biafra War (1967 – 1970), where the Igbo-led Southeast attempted secession. Over a million lives were lost, yet the war’s scars remain unhealed.
In Nigeria, the first question asked when two strangers meet is rarely “What do you do?” but “Where are you from?” This inquiry is not casual – it is a litmus test. The answer determines how you are perceived, trusted, and treated. To be Igbo in Lagos is to face landlords who reject your ethnicity; to be Hausa in Port Harcourt is to endure suspicion. Ethnicity, not citizenship, dictates opportunity, safety, and belonging.
For many Nigerians, ethnic identity is primal. It is tied to language, culture, and ancestral land. National identity, by contrast, feels abstract – a legal designation with little emotional resonance.
As an Igbo person, I grew up steeped in a culture of resilience and enterprise. The Proverbs of my native land alongside the curated lores of Chinua Achebe, and our communal ethos shaped my worldview. Yet this pride coexists with bitterness. The Igbo have long felt marginalized since the Biafra War. Infrastructure in the Southeast lags, federal representation is minimal, and calls for restructuring are dismissed as “treason.” To pledge allegiance to Nigeria, for many Igbos, feels like endorsing a system that excludes them.
This tension is not unique to the Igbo. The Hausa-Fulani of the North cling to a legacy of pre-colonial caliphates, often viewing Southern “settlers” with suspicion. The Yoruba of the Southwest, meanwhile, navigate a dual identity as both Nigerian nationalists and champions of regional autonomy (e.g., the Oduduwa Republic movement). Each group’s loyalty to Nigeria is conditional, contingent on whether the nation serves their interests.
Nigerians are masters of performative patriotism. When the Super Eagles play, social media erupts in green-and-white emojis. During the 1996 Olympics, Chioma Ajunwa’s gold medal and the Dream Team’s victory sparked nationwide euphoria. But such moments are fleeting – a temporary salve for a nation allergic to introspection.
In 2024, Nigeria’s government reinstated the old national anthem, “Nigeria, We Hail Thee,” in a baffling attempt to “rekindle patriotism.” The public response? Mockery. Critics called it a distraction from insecurity, inflation, and corruption. The anthem, like the flag or the pledge, feels hollow when the state fails to protect its citizens. How can one hail a nation where students are kidnapped en masse, and police extort citizens they swore to serve?
Nigeria’s elites preach patriotism while looting the treasury. Politicians switch parties like costumes, appealing to ethnic sentiments during elections only to abandon their constituencies afterward.
Nowhere is this hypocrisy clearer than in the Niger Delta. Despite producing 90% of Nigeria’s oil wealth, the region remains impoverished. Environmental degradation from oil spills has destroyed livelihoods, while elites in Abuja and Lagos profit. When militants demand resource control, they are labeled “unpatriotic” – a convenient narrative for those benefiting from the status quo.
The “federal character” principle, designed to ensure regional representation, has morphed into a tool for mediocrity. Jobs and scholarships are awarded based on quotas, not merit, deepening resentment. A Yoruba man may begrudge an Igbo appointee, not due to incompetence, but because the system frames their success as a zero-sum game.
Nigerians are rebels – not with placards, but through survival. When the state fails, we create parallel systems: private electricity (generators), private security (vigilantes), and crowdfunded healthcare. The 2020 #EndSARS protests against police brutality revealed a generation tired of empty promises. For a moment, ethnicity faded as youths united under a shared cause. Yet the government’s violent crackdown proved, again, that dissent is met with bullets, not dialogue.
Over 15,000 Nigerian doctors have migrated abroad since 2015. The “japa” (escape) wave reflects a grim truth: patriotism is a luxury when survival is at stake. How can one love a country that offers no future?
Patriotism cannot be demanded; it must be earned. For Nigeria to inspire loyalty, it must become a nation worth believing in.
True federalism – where regions control resources and governance – could reduce ethnic friction. The Igbo, Yoruba, and Hausa-Fulani might coexist better as partners in a loose federation than as rivals in a centralized state.
Addressing historical grievances, from the Biafra War to the annulment of the 1993 election, is not merely a moral imperative – it is a prerequisite for national healing. South Africa’s Truth and Reconciliation Commission (TRC), though imperfect, demonstrated that confronting the past openly can disarm generational bitterness. Nigeria, however, has repeatedly sabotaged its own attempts at reconciliation. The most notable effort was the Human Rights Violations Investigation Commission (HRVIC), better known as the Oputa Panel, inaugurated in 1999 by President Olusegun Obasanjo. Tasked with investigating atrocities from the 1966 coups to the Abacha dictatorship, the panel heard testimonies from victims of the Biafra War, families of murdered activists like Ken Saro-Wiwa, and survivors of military brutality. Its 2005 report recommended reparations, public apologies, and institutional reforms. Yet, like every subsequent initiative – the 2005 National Political Reform Conference, the 2014 National Conference under Goodluck Jonathan, and countless legislative committees – the findings were buried in bureaucratic vaults, deemed “too controversial” by a political class allergic to accountability.
This pattern is no accident. Nigeria’s leaders, past and present, thrive on ambiguity. To acknowledge the state’s role in massacres, displacement, and systemic marginalization would destabilize the delicate ethnic arithmetic that keeps them in power. For instance, implementing the Oputa Panel’s recommendations would require admitting that the Nigerian state committed genocide against the Igbo during the Biafra War, a truth that remains taboo in national discourse. Similarly, confronting the annulment of the June 12, 1993 election – arguably Nigeria’s freest and fairest poll, won by the Yoruba businessman MKO Abiola – would force the North to reckon with its historical grip on power. These truths are inconvenient, but they are also non-negotiable if Nigeria is to evolve.
What we need is not another panel or conference, but brave leadership willing to exhume these reports and act on them. The Oputa Panel’s recommendations, though imperfect, are a starting point. A leader with moral courage could begin by:
Publicly releasing and adopting the panel’s findings,
2. Issuing a formal apology to victims of state violence,
3. Establishing a fund for reparations and memorials,
4. Reforming institutions like the military and police to reflect inclusivity.
This would not erase the past, but it would signal a commitment to breaking the cycle of impunity.
However, truth-telling alone cannot resolve Nigeria’s existential crisis. The deeper issue is that Nigeria, as currently structured, is a failed experiment. We have held countless elections since 1999, but each cycle deepens disillusionment. Politicians campaign on tribal rhetoric, loot with tribal accomplices, and weaponize ethnicity to evade scrutiny. Elections, under these conditions, are not exercises in democracy but rituals of renewal for a broken system.
This is why Nigeria needs to put itself on the ballot.
Instead of another election, we need a National Referendum to answer the question: “Should Nigeria continue to exist as one nation?” If the answer is “Yes,” then we must define the terms:
What type of federation do we want? (e.g., regional autonomy, resource control),
– What constitutional safeguards will protect minorities?
– How will power rotate among regions?
If the answer is “No,” we must plan a peaceful dissolution:
Timelines for secession,
– Agreements on asset sharing,
– Protocols for cross-border relations.
A referendum would force Nigerians to confront the elephant in the room: “Do we still want this union?” For too long, the political elite have weaponized the rhetoric of “unity” to silence dissent while exploiting divisions to cling to power. A referendum would transfer this existential question to the people – the only legitimate source of sovereignty.
Critics will argue that a referendum risks anarchy. But Nigeria is already in a “silent civil war”. From Boko Haram in the Northeast to separatists in the Southeast, banditry in the Northwest, and oil militancy in the South, the state has lost its monopoly on violence. A referendum, conducted transparently and supervised internationally, could either revalidate Nigeria’s unity on clearer terms or allow a dignified divorce. The results might even surprise us: beneath the performative ethnic rancor, many Nigerians may opt to stay together – but only if the terms are fair.
To dismiss this as radical is to ignore history. The Soviet Union dissolved via referendum in 1991. South Sudan seceded from Sudan in 2011 after a popular vote. Even the UK allowed Scotland to vote on independence in 2014. Nigeria, however, acts as though it is immune to the democratic right of self-determination.
We cannot continue muddling through with cosmetic fixes – renaming airports, swapping anthems, or hosting “national unity” dinners. The Oputa Panel’s dusty files and the 2014 National Conference’s 600-page report are mocking reminders of our cowardice. If we lack the courage to implement past recommendations, let us at least have the courage to ask the people what they want.
A referendum would not be the end, but a beginning. It would force us to “choose”: either rebuild Nigeria as a nation of equals or let its components pursue their futures in peace. Either way, it would be a decision made not by politicians in backrooms, but by the people who live with the consequences. Until then, patriotism will remain a loaded word – a demand for loyalty to a country that has yet to earn it.
To redefine what it means to be Nigerian, we must turn to the stories that emerge not from the sterile halls of power, but from the vibrant chaos of everyday life – the laughter in Lagos traffic jams, the grief of a farmer in Benue burying family, friends and crops destroyed by herdsmen, the defiant joy of a Maiduguri street artist spray-painting hope on bullet-pocked walls. Nigeria’s creative class – writers, musicians, filmmakers, and activists – are already stitching together a new national identity from these fragments, crafting narratives that transcend ethnicity and forcing the world to see us as more than a “mere geographical expression.” This is not idealism; it is survival. And it is already happening.
Nollywood, once dismissed as low-budget melodrama, now produces stories that challenge tribal stereotypes and celebrate hybridity. Take Kunle Afolayan’s “October 1” (2014), a psychological thriller set on the eve of Nigeria’s independence. The film follows a Hausa detective investigating murders in a northern Nigerian town, weaving themes of colonial legacy, ethnic suspicion, and national identity into its plot. Though steeped in Yoruba culture, its commentary on corruption and unity resonates nationwide. Similarly, “The Milkmaid” (2020), Desmond Ovbiagele’s Hausa-language Oscar entry, humanizes the trauma of Boko Haram insurgency through the eyes of a Fulani woman, fostering empathy across regions that politicians have spent decades alienating. These films do not erase ethnic identity; they contextualize it within a shared struggle for dignity.
Afrobeats has become Nigeria’s most potent cultural export precisely because it refuses to be siloed. Burna Boy’s “Another Story” opens with a searing critique of colonialism – “Let me tell you ’bout 1914…” – before melting into rhythms that borrow from Igbo highlife, Yoruba jùjú, and Edo folk traditions. His collaboration with Zlatan, a Yoruba street-hop artist, on “Killin’ Dem” became an anthem for the 2019 #EndSARS protests, blaring from Port Harcourt to Sokoto. Meanwhile, Rema’s “Calm Down” and Ayra Starr’s “Rush” blend pidgin English, Yoruba, and French, mirroring the linguistic fluidity of Nigerian markets and universities. These artists are not “neutral” – they are rooted in their cultures – but their art insists that our differences are not walls, but bridges.
Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie’s “Half of a Yellow Sun” (2006) did more than document the Biafra War; it forced Nigeria to confront a past it had buried. By centering Igbo characters without villainizing others, the novel invited non-Igbo readers to empathize with the pain their textbooks had erased. Likewise, Helon Habila’s “Oil on Water” (2010) explores the Niger Delta crisis through the friendship between a Hausa journalist and an Ijaw militant, framing environmental devastation as a collective betrayal. Even fantasy works like Tomi Adeyemi’s “Children of Blood and Bone” (2018), though set in a mythical Yoruba-inspired world, speak to universal themes of oppression and resistance that resonate with young Nigerians battling police brutality or religious extremism.
When the state fails, Nigerians rewrite the rules through protest. The 2020 #EndSARS movement was a masterclass in unity. A Yoruba DJ in Ibadan blasted Fela’s “Zombie” as a Igbo nurse in Enugu distributed masks stamped with “Soro Soke” (“Speak Up”). Artists like DJ Switch documented police shootings in real-time, while illustrators turned victims’ faces into viral memorials. This was not just a protest; it was a collective work of art, a living archive of defiance. Similarly, the #BringBackOurGirls movement, though sparked by the Chibok kidnappings, became a national reckoning with gender violence, drawing Muslim mothers in hijabs and Christian grandmothers in wrappers to Abuja’s streets. These movements succeed because they speak in a language politicians cannot manipulate: the raw, unfiltered truth of lived experience.
Nigeria is not alone in this cultural insurgency. Post-apartheid South Africa’s “Truth and Reconciliation Commission” (TRC) failed many, but artists like playwright Athol Fugard and singer Miriam Makeba kept the vision of a “Rainbow Nation” alive through stories and songs that humanized all sides. Rwanda, after genocide, banned ethnic labels in public discourse and rebuilt its identity through education and film – “Rwanda: The Royal Tour” (2021) reframes the nation as a unified tech hub. Even the U.S. civil rights movement drew power from gospel music and James Baldwin’s essays, which turned Black pain into a universal cry for justice.
For this renaissance to endure, Nigerians must weaponize their creativity. Imagine a national referendum not just on secession, but on values: What if voter registration required submitting a poem, song, or story about “home”? What if the National Assembly included seats for artists and activists, as Kenya’s parliament reserves slots for youth and disabled representatives? What if we treated the 2014 National Conference report as a draft script, inviting Nollywood directors to adapt its recommendations into films screened in village squares?
This is not fantasy. During Senegal’s 2011 anti-Wade protests, rappers like Fou Malade and Thiat used music to mobilize voters, forcing constitutional reform. In Nigeria, the “Not Too Young To Run” campaign – a cross-ethnic coalition of artists and activists – pushed through legislation lowering political office age limits. The law itself was a victory, but the real triumph was proving that a Hausa rapper from Kano and an Igbo spoken-word artist from Awka could co-write a new political language.
Patriotism in Nigeria will never be decreed by anthem changes or enforced by flag-waving. It will be forged in the intimate spaces where a Yoruba grandma hums a Igbo lullaby to her granddaughter, where a northern keke driver blasts Phyno’s “Fada Fada” as he weaves through Jos’s sectarian scars. It will live in the films that make us cry for people we’re taught to hate, the songs that turn protest chants into wedding playlists, the novels that gift our pain to strangers as prophecy.
The Nigerian state fears this power. It knows that when a people can imagine themselves anew, they can no longer be ruled by old lies. But this is not our loss – it is our liberation. Let the politicians keep their conferences and panels; we have already begun drafting a better Nigeria, one story at a time.
Am I patriotic? Let me roar it: *Yes*, but not to the Nigeria shackled by looters, ethnic warlords, and the ghosts of colonial sabotage. My patriotism is a wildfire, a radical love for the Nigeria we refuse to let die – the one we are birthing in the shadows of this crumbling edifice. It lives in the sweat of the Tiv farmer tilling Benue’s soil as if it were gold, in the fury of the Lagos market woman who haggles in pidgin while balancing a tray of hope on her head, in the Hausa griot in Kano rewriting our history through ancient drumbeats that defy Boko Haram’s madness. My loyalty is not to a flag but to the people who bleed green-white-green in their veins yet paint the world with the kaleidoscope of their cultures.
This is no passive hope. It is a revolution stitched from the frayed edges of our 250 ethnicities. Imagine a Nigeria where the Yoruba “àṣẹ” meets the Igbo “ike” and the Hausa “ƙarfi” in a chorus of defiance. Picture the Durbar’s horsemen galloping past the Niger Delta’s canoe regattas, not as rivals but as co-authors of a new epic. Envision the Qua dancers of Calabar twirling alongside the Fula nomads’ *Sharo* rites, their rhythms clashing and merging like the rivers that forged our land. This is the Nigeria we fight for – one where “Where are you from?” becomes “What magic do you bring?”
Our strength? Look to the streets. To the #EndSARS youths who turned Lekki’s bloodstained tollgate into a shrine of resistance, singing Burna Boy anthems in Yoruba, Igbo, and Efik. To the Arewa feminist in Kaduna coding apps to educate Almajirai girls, and the Igbo cyberpunk in Aba 3D-printing prosthetics for bomb survivors. To the Edo chef in Benin City reinventing jollof rice with Ofada spice, and the Kanuri poet in Maiduguri scribbling verses on bullet casings. We are Frankenstein’s masterpiece – a nation cobbled from brokenness, yet crackling with electric life.
The political elite fear this collage. They know that when a Hausa mechanic in Sokoto and an Igbo pharma-genius in Nnewi swap tools and dreams, their lies collapse. They tremble at the thought of a National Anthem written not by British colonizers but by the Okun minstrel, the Ibibio folklorist, and the Ogoni environmentalist – voices harmonizing in a language even the ancestors would envy.
So here’s the rallying cry: “Àwa l’ókàn! Mun gaba! Anyị ga-emeri! – We Are One! Forward! We Will Win!” Let it echo from the Obudu Hills to the Zuma Rock, a mantra in Yoruba, Hausa, and Igbo, yet fluent in every tongue this soil has ever known.
Patriotism here is not a pledge of allegiance – it’s a promise to the child in IDP camps scribbling equations in the dust, to the Aláàfíà woman in Ibadan brewing herbs against COVID and despair, to the Northern teen girl coding her way out of forced marriage. It’s a vow: We will build a nation where your name opens doors instead of prisons, where your tribe is a melody, not a curse.
Forget the anthem. Forget the borders. We are the Nigeria that dances on the edge of chaos and creates miracles. We are the unfinished symphony, the defiant hybrid, the original “Naija” – no permission needed.
“Ofu onye di ndu, Mmadụ niile di ndu.” “When one lives, all live.” Let that be our creed. Let’s stop begging for a seat at the table – we are the table. Now, let’s feast.
©️ Agbeze Ireke Kalu Onuma, AI-KO
