The Choices We Made for Our Future

A nation decides its future long before it gets there. Nigeria made those choices in the 1980s and 1990s. Now, we are facing the consequences. I shared this idea in 2017. I have seen it grow worse since then, and I feel it is time to say it again, more clearly than before.

The wealthy and upper middle class in Nigeria watched the country decline. We thought it was not our problem if others suffered, as long as we had enough. Now, that choice is coming back to haunt us. As my generation enters middle age, we face an unprecedented rise in loneliness and isolation. Our fathers, the teachers, doctors, and lawyers in their seventies and eighties, enjoyed a rich community life that we will not have. That legacy is fading. The Yorùbá say, Ọwọ́ ọmọdé kò tó pẹpẹ, ọwọ́ àgbàlagbà kò wọ akèrègbè, the child cannot reach high places, and the elder cannot fit into tight spaces. Each generation needs the other, but we have created a Nigeria where that no longer happens.

Most of us in middle age went to public schools that offered hope when we were young. That hope disappeared as we grew up. Many fathers in education and healthcare left the country, leading to a decline in education and public service that has never improved. Meanwhile, the population grew, but opportunities did not. Under a military government with no vision, many young people left for survival, not adventure. Those who stayed tried to build a future, but it became clear that there was no hope for their children either. They decided to send their kids abroad for a better education, believing that education would still be the key to success.

That choice to emigrate, or to keep children at home while sending them abroad, is now taking a heavy toll on a whole generation. Both choices lead to the same lonely old age.

Those who moved abroad are not ready for what living in a foreign old age home means. Returning to Nigeria is not a real choice for many. Some built houses here for their return. Unfortunately, they won’t see those houses again until they pass away. They have gotten used to stable electricity, clean water, police who do not ask for bribes, functioning public schools, and hospitals that treat everyone with respect. Having experienced a country that works, they cannot forget it.

Many who left struggle with their decision. This is the classic immigrant’s struggle. Being an immigrant means living between two worlds, never fully belonging to either. There is the Nigeria they left behind and the new country they live in, often with a tough adjustment. It is hard to leave the land where your family has lived for generations, knowing your parents or grandparents will grow old and pass on without you. By the time most immigrants gain citizenship elsewhere, they have poured their best years into a country that is not their own.

Nigeria of our fathers let us down, and we have let the next generation down even more. Those of us in middle age, at the height of our careers in various sectors, have done very little to demand a fair society. Our political leaders are no better than those before them; in fact, they seem to be outdoing their predecessors. And those of us outside politics are also part of this decay. If there is any mercy in this, it is that we all share the same fate.

Those who stayed face a different struggle. They spend most of their earnings on school fees for kids who may never return to Nigeria. The children study abroad, gaining the experiences their parents hoped would bring them back. But as years pass, Nigeria has not improved; it has gotten worse. There is nothing for them to return to. The children settle in places that ensure a better future, leaving their parents alone in middle age, living a life they never imagined.

Drive through Bodija or Ilupeju today and see the grand homes built by my father's generation now falling apart. Some were taken over by greedy relatives or are now homes for lonely elderly parents. For years, the children of that generation undervalued Nigerian real estate compared to what they were building abroad. Now that opportunities are dwindling overseas and the cost of living is rising, they are realizing the value of the inheritance they once dismissed and are selling it off without thinking about its significance.

This migration is not happening evenly across Nigeria. The educated elites from the North usually study abroad and return to serve in public roles, education, or industry. It is mostly those in the South who are not returning. Let us not complain in ten or twenty years when it is Northern-trained returnees filling the jobs our children left, while our people remain overseas doing jobs beneath their qualifications.

Nigeria of our fathers let us down, and we have let the next generation down even more. Those of us in middle age, at the peak of our careers, have done very little to demand a fair society. Our political leaders are no better than the previous ones; they seem to be trying to outdo them. Those of us outside politics are also part of this decline. If there is any mercy in this, it is that we are all sharing the same fate.

Many governors, past and present, were educated in the West and returned home. They could do this because they were grounded here, rooted in our language and culture, and could relate to their people. But what about their children? How much do they know about Nigeria compared to London or Geneva? How many of us in public life have kids who can sing a Yorùbá song or name the dialects of the Yorùbá sub-nations? If they cannot, how can they ever claim the right to lead here?

We are caught between a past we regret and a future we cannot trust. Many of us will spend our old age in nostalgia, regret, and guilt, living long years with our children continents away. We will turn down invitations to visit them, preferring the comfort of our homes and the country that raised us, hiding our pain behind a brave face. We will pass away asking if it was worth it.

This same question lingers in every home of my generation. We will all experience this dysfunction and insecurity, no matter how much personal comfort we have built for ourselves. We are serving a sentence in a prison we built ourselves.

Middle age is usually when disappointments from unsatisfactory work, family issues, and health problems intensify. Life feels more precarious than it did for our parents. The family, home, job, and pension we grew up believing would secure our old age have become sources of worry instead.

We are caught between a past we regret and a future we cannot trust. For many of us, old age will be filled with nostalgia, regret, and guilt, living long years away from our children. We will decline invitations to visit them, choosing the comfort of our familiar home instead, hiding our sadness behind a brave front. We will die asking ourselves if it was worth it.

The Yorùbá also say, Àgbà kì í wà lọ́jà kí orí ọmọ tuntun wọ́, an elder should not stand by and let a child’s head be twisted out of shape. The elder’s presence is crucial in keeping a community from ruining its future. We pulled away from our responsibilities. We let the children grow up however they wanted and called it opportunity.

If there is a way out of the situation we created for ourselves, it will not come from the children we sent away or from the country we abandoned in our hearts. It will only come if we, the ones still here, choose to act like elders again, to build schools, hospitals, and other institutions that will give the next generation a reason to stay or return home. Until we do, we will keep serving this sentence, one lonely house at a time.