At 65, Nigeria’s independence is less a celebration and more a reckoning — a love-hate affair marked by survival, broken promises, and unyielding hope.
Nigeria marks 65 years of independence today, but for millions of its citizens, freedom remains a distant dream. Inflation has pushed food out of reach, insecurity haunts both villages and cities, women face rising femicide rates, and the distance between families grows wider. Each passing year feels less like a celebration of sovereignty and more like a battle for survival.
The world often praises us as a strong and resilient people, but what it fails to recognise is that our resilience is not born out of choice. Daily hardship continues to force us to confront unrelenting battles with hunger, violence, and bad governance, while constantly adapting to suffering. In Nigeria, strength is not a gift — it is a sentence handed down by the very systems that were supposed to set us free.
Last year, I wrote about a dangerous love affair with Nigeria. Today, at 65, that affair endures, scarred by broken promises but also bound by an unshaken hope for true freedom.
The cost of life in Nigeria
I cannot remember the last time I walked into a market without calculating what to cut from my grocery list. Every purchase feels like a battle between sacrifice and need. Once upon a time, rice and beans were staples we took for granted; today, they are luxuries weighed grain by grain. This is the quiet suffering of the average Nigerian — the shrinking of life down to basic survival, the constant negotiation between hunger and endurance.
And I am not alone. Across the country, families wake each day to the same arithmetic of scarcity. Salaries barely last through the month, while inflation undermines every effort to plan.
Even the decision to bring children into this world has become part of this painful calculus. Nigeria’s birth rate fell to 35.34 in 2025, down from 35.68 the year before, a subtle but telling sign that more families are questioning whether it is wise — or even fair — to raise children in a nation where hardship overshadows hope.
For those already born, the quality of life remains grim. Nigeria’s life expectancy in 2025 stands at 56.36 years, one of the lowest globally. It is not that Nigerians are unwilling to fight for survival; it is that survival here extracts everything — body, mind, and dreams. Nigerians endure life like a sentence instead of living it with dignity. Our independence was supposed to mean more than this.
“It is not that Nigerians are unwilling to fight for survival; it is that survival here extracts everything — body, mind, and dreams.”
Femicide: Nigeria’s silent emergency
Perhaps the most haunting crisis of 2025 is the surge in femicide. Reports reveal that in January and February, 22 women died due to gender-based violence. This marked a 240% increase from the same period last year. Between June and July alone, Document Women found that 28 more women were murdered under circumstances classified as femicide. Civil society organisations and activists have repeatedly called on the government to declare a national emergency on gender-based violence, yet the response has been subdued.
The violence thrives in silence, hidden behind closed doors and hushed in police reports. Patriarchal norms treat women as possessions, cultural practices often excuse abuse, and authorities rarely punish perpetrators because they are yet to enforce the rules. While the Violence Against Persons Prohibition Act exists in several states, femicide remains unrecognised as a distinct crime. Until the law names and punishes this horror for what it is, women will continue to live in fear even inside their own homes.
This year, the deaths of four female elected officials plunged Lagos State into mourning. They died barely two months after they were sworn into office. While the causes of their deaths remain unclear, the frequency remains unsettling. Though not yet classified under femicide, the tragedy underscores the urgent need for Nigeria to treat women’s safety, health, and lives with the seriousness they deserve.
Independence cannot be called true freedom when the lives of women remain so precarious, both in public office and within private spaces. Until women are safe, Nigeria’s liberation remains unfinished.
Read also: Her life mattered: Remembering the names and faces behind Africa’s femicide pandemic
Insecurity: living in constant fear
I no longer travel without first sending a prayer ahead of me, sharing my live location, and giving hourly updates to friends and family. Every journey outside of home feels like a gamble, even within my own neighbourhood. The thought lingers: will I return safely? For many Nigerians, especially women, they live in fear every day of their lives.
What used to be ordinary routines — farming, commuting, attending church or mosque — have become acts of courage. Armed groups, kidnappers, and bandits dictate the rhythm of our existence, forcing families to live with uncertainty as a constant companion. In rural areas, farmers abandon their fields after repeated raids, worsening food shortages that were already unbearable.
Even those who are supposed to protect us also struggle under the same weight of insecurity and hardship. Recently, gunmen killed twelve forest guards in Kwara State, a chilling reminder that insecurity does not discriminate. It devours everyone, citizens, officials, and guardians alike.
“In Nigeria, safety has become a privilege rather than a right, and independence loses meaning when people must live in constant fear of violence.”
Free speech traded for silenced voices
Each time I consider raising my voice in frustration, I pause and ask, “What if my words are one day used against me?” The freedom to speak, to complain, to demand better, feels less like a right and more like a gamble. In today’s Nigeria, even honesty has become dangerous.
Raye, a National Youth Service Corps member, learnt this the hard way. She spoke openly about the meagre ₦33,000 that corpers receive as monthly allowance — an amount that barely covers transportation, let alone food or rent. While her cry sparked a reform, authorities punished her. They extended her service for two extra months, seemingly to show her — and the rest of us — the consequences of speaking out.
Independence was meant to guarantee liberation, yet what liberty do we have when our tongues are tied and our thoughts are policed? A nation cannot be truly free when its people are forced into silent submission.
More painful goodbyes
Since writing last year’s reflection, I have said goodbye to three more friends who packed their dreams into suitcases and boarded flights out of Nigeria. Each farewell carves a deeper hollow inside me. Hangouts feel smaller now, laughter shorter, and even phone calls are harder to keep up with as time zones and new realities widen the distance. Friendships once rooted in daily life are fading into digital check-ins, and I struggle to hold on.
However, my story is not unique. This is the new normal for Nigerians — a generation scattering across continents in search of what their homeland denies them: stability, opportunity, and dignity. The statistics confirm it: surveys show that more than 70% of young Nigerians plan to leave if given the chance. The country bleeds its best minds and brightest talents, leaving behind a shell of what it could be.
Nowhere is this drain felt more sharply than in the health sector. Despite their central role in saving lives, Nigeria’s doctors remain poorly rewarded. Under the Consolidated Medical Salary Structure, they earn between ₦180,000 and ₦800,000 monthly. This, however, depends on the field and years of experience — barely enough to withstand rising inflation. In contrast, their peers abroad earn many times more. Salaries over ₦50 million annually in the UK, nearly ₦90 million in the US, around ₦80 million in Canada, and up to ₦120 million in Australia. It is little wonder that hospitals across Nigeria are running short of skilled practitioners, leaving patients and doctors to bear the brunt of an overstretched and under-resourced system.
Independence was meant to bind us together as one people. Instead, it has scattered us across the world, leaving empty chairs at weddings, absent voices at funerals, and virtual hugs that can never replace the warmth of being present.
The year ahead: demands, not dreams
Today, we will hear patriotic speeches and empty slogans to mark Nigeria at 65. However, what we need is urgent action. We need leaders who legislate for the people, not against them. Social protection to put food back on the table and safety nets for the unemployed. Real security reforms that protect citizens, not just elites. We need justice for women, and femicide declared a national emergency, and perpetrators held accountable. Above all, we need the restoration of true freedom — the freedom to speak, to live, and to dream without fear.
Independence Day is not just a date on a calendar. It is a reminder that Nigerians deserve the right to live with dignity. Until that day comes, Nigeria’s true independence remains unattainable.
Happy Independence Day, Nigeria. May the next anniversary be remembered not as another year of survival, but as the beginning of our true liberation.
