As far as your eyes can see

On finding the Nigerian dream.

Cinderella once said, “a dream is a wish your heart makes when you are fast asleep”.

But I like to take it a step further and say, "A dream is a vision you steadfastly hold on to, against all odds.”

As the US elections come to a head, I have thought more and more about a phrase that was thrown around a lot during the campaign season, from all sides of the political aisle.

The American Dream.

Everyone has an opinion on it, everyone has their own version of it, and every politician wants to restore it. Whatever it looks like to them.

I have memories about the American dream. Where I accumulated them from, I can't tell you. Was it the movies, or the songs, or in passing conversations? I can’t say. But all I knew was that there was an American dream, and ‌it should give me hope, for reasons I did not fully grasp.

Then I slowly connected images to this idea in my mind. It started as a ‘white picket fence'. I remember scouring the internet for pictures to relate that phrase to. A suburban neighborhood. Clear blue skies. Green green grass (you and I both know the grass is literally greener on the other side). A nice family. A sweet husband. Never a dog though; I have a long line of inherited trauma with animals that I am not ready to heal from.

So no, no dogs ever made it to the vision. But it was a vision nonetheless.

Photo by Bryan White on Unsplash

Later in life, I paid attention to this said dream. What was it actually? What did it entail? It was the reason why immigrants were flocking to the nation and why their soldiers would fight to death to protect the land.

There was something sacrilegious about it. This dream.

Then,

Ah. I see.

A land of freedom. A land where, with hard work and diligence, anybody can become somebody regardless of their background or class. A land of opportunities.

A beacon of hope in a suppressive world.

Ah. I see.

This is what the hype is all about. Anyone would want a taste of something like that, including me.

Armed with this knowledge, I looked eagerly to my nation. 

What is our dream?

Oh.

Oh.

The disappointment was swift and violent.

My nation, it seemed, had no dream.

A nation where her people struggled to survive. Talk less of dream.

With each passing year, the idea of a Nigerian Dream seemed more and more fruitless. Like chasing the wind.

Until 2020.

There was a grumbling in the underbelly of the nation that gave way to the explosion that was the EndSARS protest.

A New Nigeria!

My heart perked with joy. It was a demand. It was a plea. It was a prayer on the lips of every man. A New Nigeria.

I saw my country's dream that year. Visions of good governance and a thriving economy burst into our sight. The New Nigeria looked glorious. After all, a nation where the majority population are the youths has to be a nation of endless possibilities.

Then October 20 happened.

There was a shocked silence in the land that night, cloaked with gunshots. Similar to the deceptive calm following the shutdown of a heart monitor. How could a government betray the people they were appointed to protect?

The powers that be muttered about other powers that were, each one pointing a finger at the other, ignoring the fact that four fingers pointed back at themselves.

They denied, gaslit, and lied. They lied and lied and lied until shame covered us like dung. And we buried our faces in our hands.

But during the next election, they found their way into power all over again. Round 2. Or maybe 10?

I finally understood. The problem was not that my nation had no dream. The problem was that my nation was afraid to dream. Consistent disappointment had left a bitter taste in her mouth.

By 2024, the dream of a New Nigeria looked like a myth. 

The citizens, struggling to survive, talk less of dream.

Artwork by BreezeChai on X

As the U.S. elections have made me ponder the concept of having a national ideal, I looked once again at the landscape of my nation.

The words of my good friend echoed in my mind, asking, As far as your eyes can see, what do you see?

I see a nation of limitless possibilities.

I see a nation whose people have been crippled by injustice.

I see a nation ripe with potential.

I see the politician whose belly is rounded and engorged with the wealth that was entrusted to him for the welfare of the people.

I see life. Everywhere. In our music, in our innovations, in our output.

I see the Niger Delta region, battered and molested by greed.

I see the determination of the man who left his village to make something out of nothing.

I see the man with many plastic Spider-Man masks, waving them obnoxiously at car windows. Hustling.

I see my people making waves on global stages.

I see the victims of flooding, gathered in refugee camps with little hope.

I see people who find joy. We always find joy.

I see a failing national grid.

I see resilience.

I see trendsetters.

I see strength.

I see fruitfulness.

I see the Nigerian.

As far as my eyes can see? To be honest, my eyes did not see very far. And maybe the fact that I am actually shortsighted plays a role in this. My eyes wage war against me; the images of hope are a blur while the images of instability burn behind my lids with sharp clarity.

On days when bad news seems like a never-ending stream and frustrated tears clog my throat, I turn to my Father and cry to Him. What do you see? 

When you look at us, what do you see? Whatever you see will be the vision I hold on to steadfastly. Whatever you see will be my dream.

I have not yet found the strength to give up on my nation. And my Father will not let me give up on my nation. So I need His sight. Constantly.

Today, do not respond in a hurry. Slow down, swallow your anger for ten seconds, and breathe. Then answer.

What do you see?

Pray for Nigeria. Pray for her people. Pray for the land.

The song I listen to on the days it is difficult to see.