In the life of every nation, it is tempting—perhaps even convenient—to focus blame solely on those in formal positions of power. Yet history suggests a more layered truth: the slow unraveling of societies often begins not at the center, but around it—among those who whisper influence without bearing its weight, who possess access without accountability. These are the polished minds, the lettered elites, the eloquent voices who, rather than challenge the system, cushion it with compliments and curated applause.
Leadership, at its core, is not only a matter of policy—it is shaped by perception. And perception is, more often than not, sculpted by those behind the scenes. When professionals, intellectuals, and technocrats choose flattery over frankness, they do not simply endorse decisions—they shape destinies. What is often praised as loyalty may, in truth, be fear in fine clothing. What is framed as diplomacy may, in some cases, be silence negotiated for convenience.
As the Yoruba wisely put it, “Bí a bá rí òtítọ́, kà sọ́ ọ́; òtítọ́ kì í bàjé”—if we see the truth, let us speak it; truth does not decay. And yet, in our civic space today, truth is increasingly treated as an unwelcome guest. We are not witnessing a crisis of knowledge, but a crisis of courage—where understanding abounds, yet the willingness to speak with integrity wanes.
It is deeply unsettling to watch a nation in distress while many of its brightest minds remain silent or choose abstraction over advocacy. These are not the uninformed—they are professionals, consultants, and policy shapers who frequent the halls of influence. Yet, in the moments that matter most, they master the art of polite evasion: never too sharp to offend, never too firm to confront. As the Igbo proverb reminds us, “He who holds the knife and the yam must not pretend to be a victim.”
What we observe daily is not merely weak governance—it is a broader culture of institutional ambiguity. Hardship is explained away with polished data, and national pain is often reduced to policy terminology. But are these truly misunderstandings, or carefully managed narratives? Where are the moral compasses? Where are the dissenting voices grounded in patriotism? Have they all become muted in the comfort of proximity to power?
We must remember: no position is permanent. The reins of authority are always temporary. As the Hausa say, “Sarakuna na da iyaka, amma gaskiya tana dawwama”—kings have limits, but truth endures. One day, when influence has faded and relevance is past, the question will remain: with all your knowledge and access, did you challenge or conform? Did you offer light, or did you help shade the truth?
A more pressing tragedy looms: the gradual disillusionment of the citizenry. The people no longer demand transformation—they simply hope for survival. The despair is not only economic, but existential. It is the kind of weariness that comes when those who should speak boldly have chosen instead to whisper, or worse, to say nothing. Silence, in moments of moral urgency, is not neutrality—it is abdication.
This is a form of poverty not captured by any economic index—the poverty of principle. We are nurturing graduates with technical proficiency but shallow conviction. We are raising professionals who pursue influence but flee from accountability. Then we ask ourselves: why does our society remain fragile? As the Yoruba caution, “Ẹni tí kò ní i tìkára rẹ̀, kò le kó’lé”—he who has no backbone cannot build a house.
Still, time watches. The masquerade may dance with grandeur, but it must retire. The rains may fall with force, but they never fall forever. History does not rush, but it remembers. And when power passes—as it always does—the enduring question will be: what did you do with your moment? Did you heal wounds or merely dress them with words?
