I died for Rice
The cost of survival in Nigeria
I died on Christmas day. That morning, I was so sure I'd be so lucky but if the angel of death told me my fate. I would have chosen life. I would have chosen hope.
That morning, with a smile on my lips, I polished my old bata shoes and brushed my teeth with joy, an activity I sometimes skipped. With that same smile on my lips I left for the event with hopes that a three day meal would at least be secured. I took a cab, an unusual activity hoping that before the end of the day, my pockets and hands would be heavy with survival tools.
The event started smoothly at first. When the MC announced that Santa clause would be out soon bearing palliatives, cash and rice, I didn't object about the name. Father Christmas can't do that kind of thing, so Santa clause fits just right.
I waited till all the Christmas songs were sang and the drama people did their thing with the birth of Jesus Christ. Finally, it was time and Santa clause emerged bearing gifts. The last thing I remembered was my two hands out with hopes to receive the survival kit. That was when I died. I wasn't the only one who died. Many other people whose ears heard my story died too within them.
At first, I blamed the organisers of the event. “Why didn't they create a perfect receiving structure”
After some time it wore off, I blamed my parents for their inability to provide what I needed as a child. That was when I realised I had been hitting the wrong nail. I should have blamed the system. Whatever, it meant, I'm a child, I do not know much.
I have become so popular ever since my death. Church pastors make prayer points with my name, school teachers even, radio stations and TV stations got a lot of attention because of me. I made the front page of every newspaper, bold not italics as my other counterparts. I was the news of the day.
I've been lingering around ever since I met the angel of death. I haven't been at peace just yet but I've realised a few things about my beloved country- Nigeria. I've realised that the small victories – paying rent, keeping food on the table, staying sane, matter. That Nigeria teaches one to measure growth differently. That some milestones aren’t loud. They look like resilience, like showing up every day, even when the country itself feels like it's on autopilot.
Nigeria has a way of making you feel like you’re standing still, even when you’re moving. But if you look closely, you’ll see the subtle shifts – the lessons learned, the quiet growth, the strength you didn’t know you had.
So maybe you didn’t hit that target this year. Maybe the business idea is still on paper, or the plan to “japa” got tangled in embassy appointments and visa rejections. It’s frustrating, but next year, I strongly hope you go again like you post on your status every other day.
Hope, in Nigeria, is not naïve. It’s necessary. It’s what keeps the market woman opening her stall at dawn and the young graduate filling out applications even when the emails stay silent. It’s what keeps you dreaming, planning, and moving, even if slowly. Obasanjo confirmed this.
He said, “The failing state status of Nigeria is confirmed and glaringly indicated and manifested for every honest person to see through the consequences of the level of our pervasive corruption, mediocrity, immorality, misconduct, mismanagement, perversion, injustice, incompetence and all other forms of iniquity. But yes, there is hope.”
President Tinubu also formed an agenda with it. (Renewed Hope agenda)
So It’s okay if this wasn’t the year.
Not every season is about harvest. Some are just about survival. Unfortunately, not for me but can be for you. I need you to do one thing- shake off the harmattan dust and keep trying even if the “odds no sure”.
I died on Christmas day in Ibadan, Abuja and Anambra. That morning, I was so sure that I'd be able to keep my head above the water for a while but if the angel of death had told me my fate ahead, I would have chosen life. I would have chosen hope.
And this wouldn't have happened to me.