Over the years, I have written many articles that sought to engage with the younger generation; to question, to challenge, and to encourage them. A few of those pieces remain close to my heart – among them “The Young Shall Grow.” In that article, I had reflected on the failures of our leadership and the troubling reality that not only have our leaders failed, but the followership – and indeed the young generation – have also faltered. It was a call for self-examination, a reminder that before we become unable to govern and ungovernable, there must be an honest conversation between ages
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….while the young shall indeed grow, growth is not automatic. It requires humility, patience, discipline, and the courage to learn. Many young people today aspire to lead, to build businesses, or to inspire others, but few are willing to go through the process of learning. Before the student becomes the master, he must first learn to listen, to serve, and to endure. How can you teach if you have not learned? How can you walk if you have not crawled?
THIS is the first of a four-part reflection born from A Conversation That Connects Between Ages – where the echoes of the past meet the questions of the present, and where childhood memories collide with the realities of nationhood.
In just eight weeks, I will turn 88. For eight years, week after week I have written this column, publishing more than 500 articles across national, local, and online platforms. Along the way, I discovered something remarkable that the majority of my readers, admirers, and even my fiercest critics are young people. That realization has inspired me to open this space even wider to invite more young men and women to join me in conversation, to write, to question, and to dream alongside me. This column has never been about one voice; it has always been about generations listening to each other.
My deepest thanks go to those who have walked this path with me: Akin Olukirun, writing from London; Onuorah Aligbe from Atlanta, USA; Dr. Dike Okwulum from Asaba; and my daughter, Edith Jibunoh, from New York. Their contributions have been invaluable adding new texture and depth to this ongoing dialogue.
As I look back on my journey through my 30s, 40s, 50s, and 60s, I see a life shaped by storms and seasons: by the course of a nation still finding itself. I have lived through the colonial years, the civil war, the military regimes, and the endless experiments of democracy. Through it all, one question continues to trouble me: What kind of country are we, the elders, leaving behind for those coming after us? Some of the young have been bold enough to ask me directly if the Nigeria they will inherit will be better than the one we had. My honest answer, sadly, is “NO”. We have slid backward in almost every measure of progress – social, economic, and moral. Yet, I do not despair completely. I have found partial comfort in small acts of hope, in moments of activism, and in the courage to keep believing that change is still possible – especially when generations decide to build it together.
Over the years, I have written many articles that sought to engage with the younger generation; to question, to challenge, and to encourage them. A few of those pieces remain close to my heart – among them “The Young Shall Grow.” In that article, I had reflected on the failures of our leadership and the troubling reality that not only have our leaders failed, but the followership – and indeed the young generation – have also faltered. It was a call for self-examination, a reminder that before we become unable to govern and ungovernable, there must be an honest conversation between ages.
In “The Young Shall Grow,” I borrowed the operational name of a popular transport company that plies major routes across Nigeria. The name struck me deeply because it carried both a promise and a warning. Across the East and West, transport companies often bear names filled with meaning and philosophy: “No Condition is Permanent,” “The Sea Never Dry,” “We Shall Return.” Some believe that the name you give your vehicle can influence the safety or success of your journey. Though this may sound superstitious, it speaks to how Nigerians often connect hope to destiny. To further drive home my point, I am reminded of a joke that was told to me by Professor Iweala, the husband of Professor Ngozi Okonjo-Iweala, at his residence in Washington DC. My daughter and I were invited to dinner and after we were treated to some delicious Nigerian cuisine and fine wine, he told a joke that went like this:
The average young Igbo trader transiting from apprenticeship to leadership position travels to Lagos on a regular basis to purchase his commodities for sale or distribution to consumers. Some of these commodities might be on the banned list, but hoping to reach Lagos safely, he travels with ‘THE YOUNG SHALL GROW’ transport company because it guarantees him the safety of the money he’s carrying and, on his return, he patronizes ‘OSONDE’ transport. Osonde in Igbo means ‘run for your life’ and, coincidentally, the Osonde transport system has a way of transporting the young Igbo trader to their territories without being harassed by security agents at checkpoints. When the young Igbo trader arrives safely in his territory, he will then patronize services of ‘EKENE DILI CHUKWU’ Transport Company, which translates to ‘Glory be to God’. Finally, when he crosses the River Niger to his home territory, he boards the ‘IFESINACHI’ bus, which means ‘God is Good’ in Igbo.”
It was a humorous story, but it carried profound lessons about life’s journey from youth to maturity, from learning to leadership. There was a time in our society when succession was a culture, when the young were mentored, guided, and prepared to take over from the old. That tradition is disappearing. Today, too many of the young want to skip the process, while too many of the old refuse to pass the torch.
True leadership is tested by succession, by leaving behind a path that others can tread and improve upon. That, to me, is the real definition of success. It was that same conviction that inspired my environmental work and expeditions across Africa. After my third expedition, which included young participants, we decided that the fourth should take a new form. We transformed it into a reality TV show called “Desert Warrior,” where 44 young men and women joined me in crossing the desert to Agadez, Niger Republic. The aim was to test endurance, teamwork, and awareness about the environment. It became a boot camp for courage, resilience, and purpose.
The contestants worked hard, waking early, training daily, planting trees, reclaiming land, and engaging in community service. Some of the tasks were so difficult they had to be modified, but the lessons were immense. Many of those young people went on to launch environmental initiatives of their own. My dear friend, Kabiyesi Kosoko, even opened a museum in Ikorodu where he preserves relics from the desert. Others pursued careers in environmental advocacy.
Not all continued, of course; some joined only for the thrill and adventure – but the experience left a mark. It reminded me that while the young shall indeed grow, growth is not automatic. It requires humility, patience, discipline, and the courage to learn. Many young people today aspire to lead, to build businesses, or to inspire others, but few are willing to go through the process of learning. Before the student becomes the master, he must first learn to listen, to serve, and to endure. How can you teach if you have not learned? How can you walk if you have not crawled?
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II
My hope for the youth remains strong. They must examine themselves honestly and heal from the injuries of bad governance, greed, and misplaced values. They must rediscover integrity and hard work – those virtues that once defined us. As Bashorun J.K. Randle once wrote, our generation suffered from “head injuries” inflicted by misrule and corruption. The young must now cure themselves of these wounds and chart a different course
THIS is the second part of a four-part reflection drawn from A Conversation That Connects Between Ages – a dialogue between generations, between what was and what is, between memory and the moment we now inhabit. If the first part began with a question of legacy – what kind of country are we leaving behind – this part turns the lens toward responsibility: who among us will dare to repair what has been broken?
My hope for the youth remains strong. They must examine themselves honestly and heal from the injuries of bad governance, greed, and misplaced values. They must rediscover integrity and hard work – those virtues that once defined us. As Bashorun J.K. Randle once wrote, our generation suffered from “head injuries” inflicted by misrule and corruption. The young must now cure themselves of these wounds and chart a different course.
As I look back, I realize that the bridge between generations is fragile but vital. The young shall grow, yes – but only if they are guided by the wisdom of those who came before them. And the old must learn to listen, to step aside gracefully, and to make room for new voices. For in the end, every generation writes a part of the same story. Between the ages, there must always be a conversation that connects – a dialogue that ensures wisdom is not buried and youth is not wasted. That, perhaps, is the only way tomorrow can stand.
Not given up, therefore, I am in the process of recruiting two young writers who will continue this conversation with me. Beginning with the next series of articles in this column, you will be reading the thoughts and voices of Chidera Melissa Onyia and Joy Ezekwem – two bright young minds whose perspectives, I believe, will enrich our shared dialogue between generations.
In this second reflection, Chidera Melissa Onyia takes up that torch with a piece that asks one of the hardest questions of our time: not “What is wrong with Nigeria?” but “Who will bell the cat?”
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Belling the Cat: The challenge of true leadership
By Chidera Melissa Onyia
Politicians preach reform but act in the same old ways. Public servants condemn corruption yet quietly feed from its crumbs. Ordinary citizens blame bad leadership, yet many of us cut corners when it serves us. The problem is not only at the top it lives among us, in our markets, schools, offices, police checkpoints, hospitals, and even in our homes. We have normalized wrong-doing, choosing what is easy over what is right…
THE first time I heard the expression “Who will bell the cat?” I was a child who loved and owned a cat. Without knowing the story behind the saying, I created my own version of it. I imagined a mischievous cat that had stolen someone’s meat perhaps even eaten all the meat from Aunty Ginika’s pot of soup and that the police had been called to arrest it. I remember thinking, with all the seriousness of a child, that if my cat ever stole anything, I would “bail” him out myself.
As I grew older, I came to understand that “Who will bell the cat?” is far more than a playful saying. It is a timeless metaphor, a question of courage, duty, and moral responsibility. It reminds us that while many can identify a problem, and even propose brilliant solutions, few are willing to take the risk to make things right.
The original fable tells of a group of mice who lived in fear of a cat that hunted them daily. One clever mouse suggested hanging a bell around the cat’s neck, so they could hear him coming and run to safety. The idea was brilliant until the oldest mouse asked the question that silenced the room: “Who will bell the cat?” The plan failed not because it lacked wisdom, but because it required courage.
Nigeria today finds itself in a similar dilemma; a nation overflowing with brilliant minds, eloquent voices, and passionate dreamers, yet starved of brave doers willing to bell the cat. Politicians preach reform but act in the same old ways. Public servants condemn corruption yet quietly feed from its crumbs. Ordinary citizens blame bad leadership, yet many of us cut corners when it serves us. The problem is not only at the top it lives among us, in our markets, schools, offices, police checkpoints, hospitals, and even in our homes. We have normalized wrong doing, choosing what is easy over what is right.
That brings us to one group that faces the ‘cat’ every single day – the Nigerian Police. They stand at the frontline of our nation’s daily struggle between order and disorder, chaos and calm. Despite overwhelming challenges, they remain the first to respond whenever trouble strikes.
When a tenant owes rent, the landlord calls the police.
When there’s an armed robbery or a domestic dispute, the police are called.
When someone goes missing or a neighborhood erupts in chaos, once again, it is the police we turn to.
The truth is simple: in moments of fear and uncertainty, it is the police who stand between safety and confusion; between the fragile peace we cling to and the disorder that constantly threatens it. For all their faults and failures, they remain the first line of defense in a nation where danger hides in too many corners. We must give them their due. Despite poor funding, exhaustion, and a painful lack of modern equipment, many officers still rise each morning, ready to face criminals, protect lives, and maintain order. They are the ones who run toward the sound of gunfire when everyone else is running away.
And yet, while we commend them, we must also speak the truth. Some officers still stain their uniforms with greed, abuse, and unnecessary violence. Some have turned checkpoints into toll gates, treating the very citizens they swore to protect as suspects or worse, as sources of income. These few bad eggs tarnish the image of an entire institution and make life even harder for the good men and women who serve with dignity and courage. The Nigerian Police can and must do better. True reform will not come from new slogans or uniforms, but from restoring integrity, discipline, and empathy within the force. For until those who guard the law begin to embody justice, our nation will keep asking the same haunting question: Who will bell the cat?
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III
Nigeria desperately needs a rebirth of patriotism – not the kind measured only by sacrifice, but the daily loyalty expressed through responsibility and integrity. As Dr. Newton Jibunoh once said, patriotism is not merely dying for one’s country – it is an intense loyalty to its well-being… We do not need a war to fix this nation. We need a change of mindset. We must see Nigeria as a child we are nurturing – a child we want to thrive, to stand tall, and to succeed. When we see our nation this way, doing what is right becomes natural
THIS third part of Between Ages: A Conversation That Connects deepens the generational reflection; an ongoing dialogue between what we inherited, what we are living through, and what we may leave behind. It is a conversation that forces us to look not only at our failings as a nation, but at the quiet ways we all contribute to them.
It is difficult to accept that some officers have become the very criminals their colleagues are meant to protect us from. It breaks my heart to see the name Nigerian Police mentioned in the same breath as crimes like extortion, assault, and bribery-the very wrongs they were sworn to fight. Now, these acts are being carried out by those who should protect us, prevent them, and defend justice. The rise in crime is spiraling out of control, and it should never be said that an officer of the law has joined the ranks of the offenders. Yet, here we are.
Still, I believe they can do better by choosing what is right instead of what is easy. The uniform should be a symbol of honor, not fear. It should command respect, not suspicion.
There is a truth we can no longer avoid: the burden of fighting crime and corruption has grown beyond what mere mortals can shoulder. Even as we call for reforms, training, and better policing, the weight keeps increasing. We have reached a point where our streets bleed with corruption, our homes cry out for safety, and our children’s futures tremble in uncertainty. If the fight has become larger than our human capacity, then perhaps it is time to admit that we need help beyond policy and manpower – time to call upon heaven itself.
But even with divine help, one reality remains: the police cannot fix what the rest of us continue to fuel. Fighting crime is not their burden alone; it is a shared responsibility. The citizen who refuses to pay a bribe, the leader who chooses integrity, the officer who remains honest when no one is watching – these are the true foot soldiers of national transformation. If we keep expecting the police to solve every problem while we continue to create new ones, then who exactly is going to bell the cat?
Because the cat we speak of is not a thief lurking in the night. It is the corruption we tolerate, the shortcuts we embrace, and the silence we maintain when wrongdoing becomes normal. And as I pondered this, a troubling question emerged: perhaps the cat we keep trying to “bell” is not just fierce – it is overfed. We imagine that once we place a bell around its neck, we will hear danger approaching, just like the mice in the old fable. But what happens when the cat grows so large, so entitled, so accustomed to feeding on everything around it, that no bell can warn us anymore? What happens when it turns toward the smaller and more vulnerable-the next generation, the unborn children, and the future leaders we hope will rebuild the nation? At that point, the problem is not the bell. It is the cat we have allowed to swell on corruption, excuses, and collective complacency. Maybe what the cat truly needs is not a bell, but discipline-perhaps even a long overdue workout for a nation weakened by excess.
This reflection carried me back to an experience from last year. My daughter was only five months old, and I had an important exam scheduled for 11 a.m. living in Delta State but schooling in Anambra, I set out by 7 a.m., confident that the usual one-hour journey was more than manageable. But that day, the fragile road collapsed under the weight of a bustling market day. Potholes deep enough to swallow tyres, eroded lanes, broken-down vehicles, honking drivers, thick fumes, people abandoning their cars to walk – it felt like the road itself was protesting years of neglect.
By 9:30 a.m., I was still trapped in Delta State, panic rising as time slipped away. Missing that exam meant carrying the course over into my final year something I desperately wanted to avoid. Exhausted, sweating, inhaling smoke, I made the only choice left: I stepped out of the bus, wrapped my five-month-old daughter tightly in my wrapper, and began walking under the burning sun, weaving through stranded vehicles until I finally found another ride.
And the question that echoed long afterward was simple: Who is responsible for this?
Every year, millions are allocated for road repairs. Yet months later, the same roads crumble. When the rains come, we hear the same excuse: “The rain spoiled the road.” But is Nigeria the only country with rain? Must we beg the heavens to hold back the clouds? Or should contractors simply do their jobs with the funds entrusted to them? Around the world, nations endure storms and harsh climates, yet they repair and maintain their roads. The difference is not weather. The difference is accountability.
Bad roads do more than inconvenience travelers – they endanger lives. A woman in labor may not reach a hospital. A student may miss an exam. A patient may die because an ambulance cannot pass. Sometimes, I joke that if we filled our potholes with fish from the River Niger, they could at least serve as fishponds, since they certainly cannot serve as roads.
But beneath the humor lies a painful truth: we blame rain, citizens, and fate, but refuse to hold leaders and contractors accountable. We admire foreign nations yet refuse to build the same here. Is it that we no longer love this country?
Nigeria desperately needs a rebirth of patriotism – not the kind measured only by sacrifice, but the daily loyalty expressed through responsibility and integrity. As Dr. Newton Jibunoh once said, patriotism is not merely dying for one’s country – it is an intense loyalty to its well-being.
We do not need a war to fix this nation. We need a change of mindset. We must see Nigeria as a child we are nurturing – a child we want to thrive, to stand tall, and to succeed. When we see our nation this way, doing what is right becomes natural.
Only then will we stop feeding the cat.
Only then will the cat shrink to a size we can finally bell.
Only then will police officers stop protecting criminals, and lawmakers stop breaking the laws they swore to defend.
Only then will the conversation between ages lead us toward a future worthy of the generations to come.
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IV
When a nation’s leaders consume more than they create, failure becomes inevitable. Political scientists call this the road to a failed state.” In political science, a “failed state” is one that can no longer provide basic services or maintain law and order. Nigeria has not officially collapsed, but the signs are unsettling. Insecurity spreads across regions from kidnappings in the North-West to cult violence in the South-South. Economic instability deepens, with inflation pushing food prices beyond the reach of ordinary families. Public confidence in institutions is at an all-time low
THIS is the final part of Between Ages: A Conversation That Connects – a reflection that began with the hope of bridging generations and now ends with the sobering truth of a nation at the edge of itself.
In this series, each voice adds a new thread to the fabric of our shared story, and in this part, that voice belongs to Joy Ezekwem, a young writer whose keen observations uncover the moral fractures within our national life. Her reflection, titled “It Is Mine, It Is Mine: When the Children’s Quarrel Mirrors a Nation’s Crisis,” draws from a simple childhood fable to reveal the deeper truth of a country torn by greed and entitlement. Through the innocent echo of those words “It is mine!” she invites us to confront the selfishness that has eaten into the soul of our politics, our institutions, and even our daily lives. Like a mirror held before the nation, her piece reminds us that the problem is not only in our leaders but also in our collective conscience. Between ages, the conversation continues – not in accusation, but in awakening.
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“It Is Mine, It Is Mine”: When the children’s quarrel mirrors a nation’s Crisis
By Joy Ezekwem
MANY years ago, as a child, I read a simple story in our Macmillan English textbook titled “It Is Mine, It Is Mine.” It was about a group of children who found a bright red ball in the schoolyard. Two of them grabbed it and both shouted, “It is mine!” No one let go, they fought, tugged, and in their struggle the ball burst. In the end, nobody had it. Their teacher asked: now, after all that, is it still anybody’s? Her lesson: selfishness destroys; sharing builds friendship and hope. That parable “It Is Mine, It Is Mine” once an innocent tale of childhood quarrels now stands as a haunting metaphor for Nigeria’s present condition. The children’s struggle over a simple red ball mirrors the nation’s endless fight over power, privilege, and possession. Everyone wants a share, yet no one wants to let go. And in that struggle, the very thing we claim to love – our country – is bursting at the seams.
Across government offices, boardrooms, and communities, the chorus has not changed. The words “It is mine” echo through every corridor of power, distorting public service into private profit. Every political office, every national resource, every appointment seems claimed in the name of self-interest. The result is a slow, painful unraveling of the nation, a land rich in talent and potential, yet crippled by greed.
In the story, the children lose sight of community because each one wants to possess everything. There is no cooperation, no shared vision – only the blind hunger of ownership. Nigeria’s modern politics mirrors this same moral failure. From the presidency to local councils, power is rarely treated as stewardship. Instead, it has become a form of personal inheritance – a trophy to be guarded, not a trust to be served. When politicians say “my ministry,” “my constituency,” or “my budget,” the possessive pronoun reveals the sickness of our political culture.
The Nigerian sociologist Jibrin Ibrahim once noted that “public office in Nigeria is viewed as an entitlement, not a responsibility.” That mindset has transformed democracy into a scramble not for the good of all, but for the enrichment of a few.
In 2024, Transparency International ranked Nigeria 145th out of 180 countries in its Corruption Perception Index. Billions vanish every year in inflated contracts, ghost projects, and “constituency funds” that never reach their destination. Ministries are allocated vast budgets for education, health, or infrastructure, yet classrooms collapse, hospitals lack drugs, and roads remain death traps. A World Bank report from the same year estimated that over $400 billion has been lost to corruption since independence a figure greater than the GDP of some African nations combined.
Still, the cycle continues. A new administration takes office promising reform, but soon the same story unfolds: appointments distributed as political rewards, budgets padded with hidden allocations, and policies designed to benefit cronies. The cry is the same as in the fable “It is mine, it is mine!” And when those in power feast on the nation’s wealth, what remains for the rest? Just crumbs trickling down slowly, unevenly, to a population whose patience has worn thin.
What makes It Is Mine, It Is Mine such a powerful metaphor for Nigeria is that it exposes how greed – not just as a moral flaw, but as a force of collapse. When everyone takes without giving, the community disintegrates. Nigeria is already showing those cracks. According to the National Bureau of Statistics, over 133 million Nigerians now live in multidimensional poverty lacking access to food, healthcare, or education. The naira continues to weaken; unemployment remains stubbornly high. Public institutions from the power grid to the judiciary are eroding under the weight of inefficiency and corruption.
The 2023 Academic Staff Union of Universities (ASUU) report lamented that tertiary education has become “a hostage of budgetary neglect and political interference.” A similar pattern is evident in healthcare: doctors leave en masse for better conditions abroad, while state hospitals deteriorate. In each of these failures lies the echo of the same selfish cry “It is mine.” My budget. My cut. My time to eat.
The late Chinua Achebe, in The Trouble with Nigeria (1983), wrote that “the trouble with Nigeria is simply and squarely a failure of leadership.” Decades later, his words still cut deep. But perhaps the problem now is deeper a failure of collective conscience. From the top to the grassroots, greed has become normalized. When a contractor diverts project funds, when a police officer demands a bribe, when a civil servant inflates an invoice each act whispers the same incantation: “It is mine.”
The culture of entitlement has seeped so deep that even the moral outrage once common in communities has been replaced by resignation. “Everyone is corrupt,” people say, as though it were a law of nature. But corruption is not fate. It is a choice repeated often enough to become habit, and habit repeated long enough to become identity. And that identity has turned Nigeria into what many analysts now describe as a failing state.
When a nation’s leaders consume more than they create, failure becomes inevitable. Political scientists call this the road to a failed state.” In political science, a “failed state” is one that can no longer provide basic services or maintain law and order. Nigeria has not officially collapsed, but the signs are unsettling. Insecurity spreads across regions from kidnappings in the North-West to cult violence in the South-South. Economic instability deepens, with inflation pushing food prices beyond the reach of ordinary families. Public confidence in institutions is at an all-time low.
The International Crisis Group, in a 2024 report, warned that “Nigeria risks sliding into systemic instability if governance does not shift from self-interest to public accountability.” And yet, every effort at reform faces the same obstacle: those who benefit from the status quo refuse to change it. Like the children in the Macmillan story, the leaders cling tighter to their share of the meat, even as the house burns around them.
Colonialism once exploited Africa’s wealth through foreign masters. Now, a new form of colonization thrives internal colonization where the colonizers are local elites. Oil revenues, once described as the blessing of the Niger Delta, have become a curse. Communities that host the nation’s wealth live in degradation and poverty, while politicians build mansions abroad. Every sector from power generation to transport has been turned into a feeding trough. Projects are announced, committees are formed, but nothing moves unless someone gets a share. “National interest” has become a phrase without substance. This internal colonization is more insidious than the external one because it hides behind the flag and anthem, claiming patriotism while devouring the people it claims to serve.
At the end of It Is Mine, It Is Mine, the children lose everything. The story ends not with victory, but with silence; a silence of regret. Nigeria is approaching that silence. The infrastructure is collapsing, public trust is broken, and young people are fleeing abroad in record numbers. The 2025 National Migration Report revealed that over 73% of Nigerian youths would leave the country if given the opportunity. When the young abandon hope, it is not just an economic loss it is a sign of moral exhaustion. We are becoming a country devouring its own children.
The cure for greed is not another speech or slogan. It is a rebirth of moral responsibility from citizens and leaders alike. We must begin by dismantling the culture of ownership and replacing it with stewardship. Power, position, and privilege must be seen as responsibilities, not rewards. Anti-corruption laws must not stop at low-level officers; they must reach the top, where impunity thrives. Civic education must return to our schools, reminding the next generation that integrity is not a weakness. The media must continue to expose wrongdoing, while the judiciary must act without fear or favor. Most importantly, Nigerians themselves must stop feeding the system of greed by refusing to pay bribes, by voting conscientiously, by holding leaders accountable. The fight to save the nation cannot be outsourced; it must be owned by all. Because the truth is simple: when everyone shouts “It is mine,” there will be nothing left for anyone.
If Macmillan were to rewrite It Is Mine, It Is Mine today for Nigeria, perhaps the moral would end differently. Maybe one of the children would step forward and say, “No, it is ours.” That single shift from mine to ours is what Nigeria needs. It is the difference between a country that survives and one that fails. Until we learn that lesson, we will remain trapped in the same tragic circle – the story of a great nation that could have been, but was eaten alive by its own hands.