By: Gift Ijeoma
Nigeria, the country, is dead. Gone. Kaput. But the Nigerian community? Oh, it’s alive—and not just breathing, but singing, shouting, arguing, and dancing azonto at the same time. Somehow, in the middle of dysfunction, poverty, and persistent power cuts, we’ve built a community that thrives in spite of the chaos. We are masters of survival, comedians in suffering, and experts at pretending everything is fine—especially on Sundays.
At the core of this loud, complex survival is a set of unspoken societal viruses. Diseases that walk around looking like culture, that dress up in agbada and gele, and sometimes lead prayer meetings. From performative holiness to generational trauma dressed as discipline, these issues have become so normalised that anyone who dares to question them is quickly labelled disrespectful, unserious, or worse—”un-African.”
This piece is not a solution. It is a spotlight, a mirror, and maybe even a loudspeaker. Because some things need to be said, even if they ruffle a few feathers in the elders’ WhatsApp group chat.
Elders and entitlement – a chronic condition
In the Nigerian social ladder, age is currency. Once you cross a certain threshold—usually 40 and above—you are automatically awarded the right to speak anyhow, demand respect, and avoid accountability. Questioning an elder, even politely, is interpreted as rebellion. Correction is disrespect. And if you insist on boundaries, you are reminded that “na person born you.”
This unchecked reverence allows toxicity to grow under the excuse of tradition. The result is a society where young people are expected to swallow insults, endure injustice, and keep saying “yes sir” until they eventually become the elder that no one can question. A generational full circle of silence.
Bleach and believe – colourism as tradition
We don’t talk enough about how deeply colourism has rooted itself in the Nigerian beauty standard. Skin tones are now a class system. Light-skinned girls are called “fine,” while dark-skinned girls are asked if they spend too much time under the sun.
Entire industries thrive on selling inferiority to people, convincing them to rub away their natural complexion in exchange for acceptance. It’s not just about preference anymore—it’s psychological warfare. Yet, society claps for the result and pretends the damage isn’t deeper than the skin.
Church clothes and covered wounds – religion as image control
Religion in Nigeria is less about transformation and more about reputation. We have churches on every street and morality in every mouth, yet corruption, abuse, and oppression remain national hobbies. The problem isn’t faith—it’s the culture we’ve built around it.
People are raised to believe suffering is spiritual. They’re told to fast their way through emotional abuse, and to forgive predators if they can quote Psalm 91. We have glorified silence and called it submission. And because nobody wants to offend “men of God,” many people suffer in silence, hiding wounds under long skirts and choir uniforms.
Parenting or psychological warfare?
The Nigerian parenting handbook is often a collection of trauma responses. Children are expected to be obedient, grateful, brilliant, humble, and strong—usually all before the age of 12. If you express emotions, you’re weak. If you express opinion, you’re stubborn. If you speak up, you’re disrespectful.
Love is rarely spoken. Instead, it is implied through food, school fees, and the occasional “go and bring my slippers.” Many grow up craving validation, only to repeat the same patterns with their own children. It’s a cycle that goes unchecked, because discipline and emotional abuse are still mistaken for the same thing.
Classism – rich people also cry (but in Range Rovers)
In Nigeria, being rich doesn’t just give you access—it gives you a different passport within your own country. The wealthy float above societal issues like potholes and NEPA. They speak with accents that only come out in Ikoyi and pretend not to understand why minimum wage can’t buy fuel.
Meanwhile, the poor are mocked for daring to exist loudly. They are told to hustle more, pray harder, and be patient—as though poverty is a choice, and not a symptom of a deeply unequal system. Instead of fixing the ladder, we’ve made a culture out of blaming the people stuck at the bottom.
Ageism – too young to matter, too old to change
Young Nigerians are constantly told they’re “the leaders of tomorrow,” but when tomorrow comes, they’re told to wait a little longer. You must earn your right to speak, usually by watching your elders make terrible decisions in peace.
Innovation, new ideas, and fresh voices are often silenced—not because they’re wrong, but because they’re young. At the other end of the spectrum, elders are allowed to grow old without growing up. Their age is used as a shield to deflect any and all correction. And so, the cycle continues: silence the young, excuse the old, repeat.
A nation of survivors, not citizens
In Nigeria, we survive more than we live. We normalise trauma, decorate dysfunction, and market suffering as part of our identity. But beneath all that madness is something oddly beautiful—a community spirit that refuses to die. We share food during hard times, laugh during blackouts, and somehow make magic with madness.
The country may be failing, but the people are fighting. And that’s the paradox: a dead society held together by a vibrant, resilient, fiercely loving community. We may be sick with many diseases, but we are not dead inside. The question now is—will we keep managing the symptoms, or will we finally treat the root?
