By Richard Ikiebe
I know a Nigerian man living in the United States who sends me an almost unending stream of messages about Nigeria. Posters, videos, short texts, long texts, most of them angry, contemptuous and relentlessly negative. I have sometimes considered blocking him. Instead, I have kept his contact as a reminder of how criticism of one’s country ought not to be done.
What troubles me is not his anger (Nigerian political leaders give us ample reason for that) but its indiscriminate nature. Recently, he circulated a true story about a politician who, after losing an election, disconnected his community from the national electricity grid and removed its transformer. But it happened in Uganda, not Nigeria. The story was presented with photographs of a Plateau State politician. Some recipients may spot the error; others may not. The falsehood then acquires a life of its own, staining Nigeria in the process.
There is a genuine question here, larger than one man’s social-media habits. Perhaps more troubling is that he is not alone; some academics are among Nigeria’s most vitriolic critics. Still more frightening is listening to some diaspora Nigerians when they gather to swap versions of their most recent “news” about Nigeria. As the conversation becomes reflexively negative, it is as if there is a competition about who can tell the goriest story, and who can laugh the loudest, while doing so.
To be fair, Nigerians in the diaspora, having experienced better-functioning institutions elsewhere, may sometimes see our deficiencies more clearly. But why with such deep anger, disdain and mockery towards the country they freely left? When does criticism of a government become cynicism that damages confidence in the country itself? A government is not a country. Why is it hard for us to make that distinction?
Without doubt, Nigeria needs vigorous criticism. The place is replete with bad policies that need to be challenged, and more politicians need to be held accountable. But when criticism becomes a ceaseless catalogue of everything wrong with Nigeria; when exaggeration, ridicule and misinformation replace evidence; and when politicians become indistinguishable from the people they govern, the object of criticism has quietly changed.
What began as an indictment of government ends up becoming an indictment of the whole country. A country’s reputation affects confidence, investment and how its possibilities are perceived. It is not merely a matter of vanity. Who wants to invest in a country whose own citizens continually describe it as hopeless, ridiculous or beyond repair?
Social media magnifies the problem because outrage attracts attention. Unrelenting repetition of the negatives can eventually give it the authority of truth. But incremental progress and incredible deeds by individuals (against all odds) rarely do, because failure travels faster than quiet improvement.
However, the story thus far does not represent the extraordinary paradox that the diaspora presents. Across Africa, diasporas maintain remarkably durable relationships with their countries of origin through family, remittances, property, business, religious and social networks, and regular visits. Migration has often made belonging transnational. The same people who are among Nigeria’s harshest critics remain deeply connected to it. Every December, Nigerians abroad return home (many with their non-Nigerian friends) in the hundreds of thousands.
Nigerians remarkably outdo other Africans, year-on-year. They send money home, buy land, build houses, invest in businesses and stocks, and constantly look for opportunities. Some of those imposing houses may be occupied for only a few weeks each year. Yet they represent something more than property. They are physical declarations that the connection has not been severed.
I know a young Nigerian woman in London who was born and raised in Britain and has never really lived in Nigeria. Yet she understands the Nigerian economy remarkably well. She follows its opportunities with intelligence and enthusiasm. At one point last year, she seriously considered relocating.
Why such different responses to the same country? Perhaps distance produces both sharper criticism and deeper attachment. Having experienced functioning systems elsewhere, emigrants can become impatient with Nigeria’s failures. But family, memory, identity, property and the possibility of return keep Nigeria psychologically present.
The result can be a curious mixture of love and anger. While some appear to have converted disappointment into contempt; others have converted attachment into agency. The critical issue confronting us is not whether Nigerians abroad can criticise Nigeria. They should. It is an obligation that can be beneficial if done in the right spirit. The nagging question therefore is about purpose: what are these criticisms designed to achieve?
Expose the lie. Establish the facts. Challenge the politician. But please propose the alternative. Invest. Build. Mentor. Organise. Bring knowledge home. Use experience elsewhere to help improve the society from which one came.
A nation that is relentlessly mocked by its own citizens is perpetually held in derision by other nations; its own people eventually begin to lose confidence in themselves. Nigeria needs the diaspora’s capital, expertise, and critical intelligence. It needs its people to tell uncomfortable truths. What it does not need is a chorus of Nigerians endlessly persuading Nigerians (and the rest of the world) that Nigeria is beyond redemption. It is not.
Criticism should leave a country better equipped to confront its failures, not less capable of attracting the confidence, capital, and people needed to overcome them.
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