When I was 14, I was firmly convinced I was Barcelona material. I had the talent of a young Maradona and if Barca’s scouts ever saw me play, they’d fall over themselves to sign me. I knew this because guys who’d seen me play in my Lagos secondary school had told me this. Well, one guy really. But still. I was in JSS2, he was a senior and after watching me play once, he said I was the Maradona of my set. After that, there was no convincing me otherwise. It was just a matter of time. Well, you can guess how that story ended. Not with me playing for Barcelona. But you’d be surprised how long I held on to the delusion I would. Because I wanted it to be true. That is why delusions are a powerful thing.
Some say corruption is Nigeria’s greatest problem. Low education-levels, say others. Then there are those who insist the root problem is “the system,” however you want to understand what exactly “the system” means. These are all major issues. But I don’t think they are actually the main problem. I think the primary problem of Nigeria is a cross-class multigenerational penchant for delusional thinking. A strong tendency to ignore facts, figures and reality in favour of fanciful assumptions we want to believe are true.
This has nothing to do with education. “One of the commonest manifestations of under-development is a tendency among the ruling elite to live in a world of make-believe and unrealistic expectations,” wrote Chinua Achebe in his 1983 book “The trouble with Nigeria.” Delusionary thinking is a virus that has long infected all levels of Nigerian society.
Let’s go back two weeks. Reports were flying in from all over the world of the havoc Covid-19 was wreaking on some of the richest best-developed nations on earth. Countries which have invested trillions of dollars into their healthcare systems over the years. Yet because the virus had not yet hit Nigeria, local Twitter was awash with more or less smug comments about how Covid-19 was exposing all these “so-called” developed nations.
Some suggested European countries battling the virus needed to learn from Nigeria how you handle such emergencies. For these voices, the fact Nigeria saw off Ebola in 2014 clearly proved the country can deal with any medical catastrophe. The popular tone was positively triumphalist. How to explain such attitudes in a country which budgets N2100 – $5 per citizen for healthcare?
Nigeria’s 2020 health budget is N427 billion, equivalent to just over $1 billion. Over 70 percent of this amount – N336 billion – is earmarked for recurrent expenditure, medical staff salaries. Forty-six billion naira is earmarked for capital expenditure (medical infrastructure and equipment) while just 44 billion naira is set aside for the Basic Healthcare Fund (actual service delivery) which comes out to 220 naira per citizen for the year.
South Africa – population 56 million – has a healthcare budget 12 times the size of Nigeria’s, at $12 billion. According to the most recent World Bank figures, fellow African nations like Angola, Egypt, Gabon, Morocco and Tunisia all spend more per capita on healthcare than Nigeria. Just for one Western example, Britain’s £140 billion healthcare budget is roughly six times Nigeria’s entire national budget.
Yet despite these stark realities and the fact many Nigerians have personally experienced the country’s shoddy healthcare system, when Covid-19 eventually hit, causing confusion, Nigerian Twitter went ablaze with “but how is this kind of mess possible” posts. People acted surprised. That surprise is hard evidence of delusionary thinking. On what evidential grounds could anyone have possibly expected otherwise? The Ebola case was a lucky break: a combination of admittedly excellent reactions from the Lagos state government and heroics performed by individual Nigerian doctors and nurses. But it was a one-off. Yet Nigerians chose to believe it was somehow proof of a systemic resilience.
Nigeria is a society which, while regularly complaining it is badly run, deep down refuses to accept the hard facts about just how far behind the rest of the world it has fallen in just about every aspect of human development.
This is not about being “negative”. It is about acknowledging reality. Nigeria is a society which, while regularly complaining it is badly run, deep down refuses to accept the hard facts about just how far behind the rest of the world it has fallen in just about every aspect of human development. Because acknowledging that would offend the sizeable Nigerian ego. Meanwhile, average life expectancy in Nigeria is 54 years, lower than the likes of Zimbabwe (61), Congo (60), South Sudan (57) and Somalia (57). Average life expectancy in sub-Saharan Africa is 61.
Only three countries in the world have a lower life expectancy rate than Nigeria: Chad (54), Lesotho (53) and Central African Republic (52). This statistic alone exposes the country for what it is. Yet you will still hear some Nigerians high and low claiming national greatness. But what, if not delusional, is a country of 200 million people with a budget of $30 billion that thinks of itself as “rich”? Bangladesh has double Nigeria’s budget – $62 billion. Bangladeshis wouldn’t dream of calling their country rich. But try convincing Nigerians otherwise.
I understand it can be tempting to delude yourself you are something you are not if that makes you feel better about yourself. But there are certain realities you cannot run away from forever. You cannot build a successful state on fantasies. Maybe, just maybe, this experience will be the reality call that jolts Nigerians high and low out of the make-believe world Chinua Achebe wrote about four decades ago. It is time to face up to the reality of where the country is today. Behind most of the rest of the world in just about everything. Acknowledging that reality is a necessary first step towards the groundedness, clarity and sense of purpose that is needed to change it.
