In a span of days, Nigeria once again found itself at the mercy of preventable tragedies, this time in the form of deadly stampedes. Lives were lost in Ibadan during what should have been a joyous children’s funfair. In Anambra, a rice distribution effort turned into a scene of chaos and death. And in Abuja, palliatives meant to alleviate suffering instead became death warrants for ten or more citizens. This is not a story of isolated incidents; it is the culmination of a broken system, a government disconnected from its people, and a society burdened by desperation.
What sort of nation allows its citizens to die in line—not for justice, education, or opportunity—but for food, for palliatives, for mere survival? Nigeria’s current trajectory is a betrayal of its promise, a stark deviation from the ideals of development. Development, after all, is not the accumulation of skyscrapers or the flaunting of GDP figures. As the economist Dudley Seers posited, true development eradicates poverty, reduces inequality, and provides employment. By these standards, Nigeria’s so-called progress is a colossal lie.
A Nation Choking on its Failures
Consider the Ibadan tragedy, where a children’s funfair devolved into horror. Parents took their children to enjoy a rare moment of joy in a country where joy is in short supply. Instead, they carried lifeless bodies home. The state government failed to provide basic crowd management or safety protocols, leaving attendees vulnerable to chaos. This is not governance; this is criminal negligence masquerading as leadership.
The Ibadan incident is emblematic of a broader trend. Time and again, state governments prove incapable of organizing even the simplest public events. Whether it’s a recruitment drive, a relief distribution, or a funfair, the outcome is the same: chaos, injury, and death. Governance in Nigeria today resembles a poorly constructed house built on sand. The façade may look sturdy, but beneath it lies a foundation ready to crumble under the slightest strain.
Where is the empathy, the sense of responsibility from our leaders? It’s easy to blame the crowd for being unruly, but unruliness is a predictable outcome when people have been conditioned to expect scarcity and failure at every turn. To blame the victims is to ignore the systemic failures that make such tragedies inevitable.
Hunger is the Real Pandemic
If Ibadan’s tragedy was about poor planning, the Anambra stampede was a direct consequence of hunger. People flocked to collect rice not because they were greedy but because they were desperate. Imagine living in a nation so abundant in resources yet so poor in distribution that rice—basic, staple rice—is enough to draw a crowd so large it becomes deadly.
Hunger in Nigeria is not a force of nature; it is man-made, a product of decades of bad policies, corruption, and incompetence. Despite the rhetoric of diversification and food security, the nation remains dependent on imported food, with inflation putting basic meals out of reach for millions. State governments often treat hunger like a seasonal nuisance rather than a year-round emergency. Their response? Sporadic handouts, photo-op-driven food distributions that serve more as public relations exercises than meaningful interventions.
Anambra’s stampede reveals a deeper crisis: the loss of dignity. What dignity is there in lining up for hours, pushed and shoved, just to secure a bag of rice? What dignity is there in watching your loved ones trampled underfoot because hunger drove them to desperation? The Anambra tragedy is not just about rice; it is about the death of hope, the erosion of humanity.
Palliatives as Instruments of Death
Then there is Abuja. The federal capital, where the nation’s wealth and power are concentrated, became the stage for yet another deadly stampede. This time, it was over palliatives—the government’s so-called solution to the hardship caused by its own policies. At least ten people lost their lives scrambling for relief packages that were supposed to ease their suffering. Instead, they became casualties of a system that views its citizens as expendable.
The Federal Government’s response to these tragedies is predictable and infuriating. Officials will release hollow statements of condolence, promise investigations that will never yield results, and return to business as usual. Meanwhile, the propaganda machine will roll on, celebrating marginal GDP growth, minor naira appreciations, and other irrelevant metrics that mean nothing to the average Nigerian.
Here lies the great deception of our times: the government’s obsession with numbers that do not translate into improved living conditions. GDP growth is touted as a sign of progress, but what good is growth when it is concentrated in the hands of a few? Inflation is down, they say, but ask the market woman how much her basket of goods costs compared to last year. The naira is gaining strength, they claim, but at what cost to the millions of unemployed youths and struggling families? These are the lies told with statistics, a smokescreen to obscure the reality of widespread suffering.
When Desperation Becomes a Death Sentence
What kind of nation accepts stampedes as a normal occurrence? In countries that value human life, such tragedies prompt immediate action: resignations, policy overhauls, and systemic reforms. In Nigeria, they are met with shrugs, as though the loss of life is just another day in a country accustomed to heartbreak. This apathy from the government is not just a failure of leadership; it is a moral failing.
Desperation has become a death sentence in Nigeria. Whether you are a child at a funfair, a parent in line for rice, or an unemployed youth seeking palliatives, the simple act of standing in line can cost you your life. This is not a nation; this is a tragedy playing out in slow motion.
A Way Forward, If We Dare
The solutions to these problems are not complex; they are simply inconvenient for those in power. First, state governments must prioritize competence and accountability. Organizing public events and distributions is not rocket science; it requires planning, training, and investment in infrastructure. Safety must be non-negotiable.
Second, hunger must be treated as the emergency it is. Instead of sporadic handouts, governments must invest in sustainable food systems. This means supporting local farmers, reducing reliance on imports, and ensuring that food is affordable for all. Hunger is not inevitable; it is the result of policy choices.
Third, the Federal Government must stop lying with statistics and start addressing the lived realities of Nigerians. Economic policies must prioritize job creation, affordable living, and equitable growth. Palliatives are not a solution; they are a band-aid on a festering wound. The focus should be on long-term reforms that reduce poverty and inequality.
Finally, as citizens, it is our responsibility to demand better from our leaders. We must hold them accountable, not only during times of crisis but every day. Complacency is a form of complicity. We can no longer tolerate a path of neglect, incompetence, and suffering. It is time to push for change – one that values human life, upholds dignity, and rejects the deceptive narrative of false progress. The power to choose a better future lies with us, but we must act now. If we fail to act, the next tragedy is inevitable, and its consequences may be far-reaching.
