Nigeria; These three words—FIX THE SYSTEM

Nigeria’s greatest tragedy is not just corruption or poverty—it is the stubborn belief that our salvation lies in individuals, not institutions. We have turned every election into a search for a messiah, every officeholder into a demigod, every system into a stage for personal performance. The country bleeds not because its people lack brilliance or resources, but because it insists on worshipping personalities instead of building processes.

Every four years, we recycle hope through faces. The names change, the songs change, the party colors change—but the structure remains rotten, the logic unchanged. We cry, “If only the right man comes!” forgetting that even the right man, without a right system, becomes wrong over time. A saint in a broken system becomes a sinner by survival.

Walk into a Nigerian office and you’ll see our problem dramatized. The “Oga” parks his car in a reserved spot, his chair is bigger, his toilet cleaner, his name whispered with reverence. The same people who curse bad governance at night bow before their own petty tyrants by day. The receptionist rises when “Madam” enters, not out of respect but out of fear. The driver calls the cleaner “aboki” and bows to the secretary. Everyone plays small emperor to someone and humble slave to another.

This “Oga-Madam Syndrome” is not workplace culture—it is a psychological infection. It teaches that power must be performed, not served. It rewards distance, not diligence. It elevates titles above tasks. We have learned to respect position, not principle; access, not accountability.

We mistake privilege for importance, proximity for power, and hierarchy for efficiency. The system doesn’t function because it was never built to serve—it was built to display.

In Nigeria, mediocrity doesn’t just survive—it receives standing ovations. We sing for governors who build one bridge after ten years of neglect. We roll out drums when a minister pays salaries that are already budgeted. We call corruption “empowerment,” and mismanagement “generosity.”

The journalist who praises a failed leader is called “loyal.” The critic who tells the truth is branded “enemy of progress.” The politician who donates boreholes gets street names. The civil servant who insists on due process gets transferred to Gashua.

We are a people who fear being right when wrong is rewarded. Our culture has replaced truth with “eye service” and conscience with “connection.” Every tragedy—from collapsed buildings to stolen budgets—is met with a chorus of “God will help us.” But God cannot fix what humans refuse to structure.

From independence to now, every era had its “savior.” Azikiwe was the nationalist prophet, Gowon the soldier-peacemaker, Shagari the gentleman, Buhari the disciplinarian, Obasanjo the fixer, Yar’adua the rule of law don, Jonathan the humble democrat, Tinubu the strategist. We always begin with hymns and end with curses.

The problem? No system outlasts the man. When one leader leaves, his ideas, his institutions, his morality all vanish with him. Nigeria resets every eight years, not because we lack plans, but because we lack structure to preserve them. We build nations around personalities, not principles.

Messiahnism is a drug. It numbs a people’s responsibility and inflates their delusion. We wait for the next redeemer while our schools’ decay, our roads die, our hospitals gasp. We forget that the best nations are not those with the best leaders—they are those with the best systems that make even average leaders’ function.

A working system is not emotional—it is impartial, cold, and consistent. Systems do not care if you are Hausa, Yoruba, Igbo, or Tarok. They don’t bend to sentiment or kneel before wealth. They define rules and enforce them, not based on who, but on what.

In Nigeria, the traffic light is a metaphor: it is merely advice, not law. The rich ignore it, the poor obey it until the rich comes by. The police stop the powerless and salute the powerful. In a working system, the red light means stop—even for the president’s convoy.

A working system is what makes a country predictable. When institutions function, justice is not a negotiation, and progress is not a privilege. The difference between a functional and a failed state is that one runs on structure, the other on improvisation. Nigeria runs on vibes.

Our dysfunction has a predictable pattern; Every public post becomes a private estate. The officeholder’s name replaces the institutions’. You hear “Sanwo-Olu built this road,” not “Lagos Ministry of Works.” Agencies are designed to serve incumbents, not mandates. The EFCC fights corruption selectively. The civil service is run like a family business. Continuity dies at every swearing-in. Children are taught obedience to power, not respect for systems. “Don’t talk when elders are speaking,” we say, even when the elders are wrong. We baptize corruption as “our way.” We call tribalism “loyalty.” We excuse inefficiency as “African time.”

We are trapped in a circle of dysfunction because we refuse to fix the design.

Those three words—Fix the System—could change Nigeria. They sound simple, but they demand revolution, not rhetoric.

Fixing the system means dismantling the culture of exemption that protects elites. It means redesigning institutions so that punishment is certain, not negotiable. It means strengthening processes that make mediocrity impossible to hide behind charisma.

It means rewriting the unspoken code of Nigerian life—where we worship people, not policies. It means unlearning the addiction to “connections” and learning the power of “compliance.” It means demanding that rules apply to everyone—Oga, Madam, and Mallam alike.

To fix the system is to stop romanticizing suffering. It is to build structures that make bribery unnecessary, service efficient, and leadership accountable. It is to value time, process, and merit over tribalism, religion, and proximity to power.

The loudest speeches cannot outshout a bad system. Nigeria’s challenge has never been a lack of good intentions—it has been the absence of institutional enforcement. You can’t fight corruption with sermons. You need structure: transparent audits, functional courts, independent policing, professional bureaucracy.

Leadership without systems is like a car without brakes—momentum without control. Systems are the rails that keep leadership from derailing. They ensure that even if a fool becomes president, the country won’t collapse.

Singapore didn’t change because of one man’s charisma; it changed because of one man’s insistence on structure. Rwanda’s order isn’t magic; it’s systematized accountability. The West isn’t holy; it’s structured.

Fixing the system is not only a task for government. Systems reflect the people who build them. Nigerians cheat systems because they are designed to be cheated, but also because we have normalized dishonesty as hustle.

We fake receipts, cut corners, inflate budgets, steal time at work, pay for favors, and then pray for transformation. The same man who condemns corruption in government will bribe a police officer to avoid court. The woman who complains about bad governance will sell votes for a bag of rice.

The truth is uncomfortable: Nigeria mirrors its citizens. Systems are built by cultures; cultures are shaped by collective behavior. Until we fix the Nigerian within, the Nigeria without will remain broken.

We’ve blamed the British, the military, the elites, the economy, even the devil. But at some point, the nation must look in the mirror and admit: We built this mess together.

To fix the system, we must end the worship of titles. Call leaders by their names, not their chairs. Demand performance, not pity. Question, not kneel. Stop praising survival as achievement. Stop confusing fear for respect.

We need to design processes so strong that they make corruption difficult, not reform sermons that make corruption poetic. We must shift from charisma to competence, from improvisation to institution.

If I could tattoo three words on Nigeria’s conscience, they would be these: FIX THE SYSTEM.

Not elect a new messiah.

Not change the constitution first.

Not pray harder.

Just fix the system.

Because once systems work—leaders behave, followers trust, and nations grow. When systems fail, even angels in office become devils in uniform.

Until then, we’ll keep dancing around the same mountain—singing for the next Oga, clapping for the next Madam, and wondering why nothing ever changes. Three, words can change Nigeria. Fix. The. System—May Nigeria win!