By: Asefon Stephen
On October 1, 1960, the green-and-white flag of a new nation fluttered proudly over Tafawa Balewa Square. The British were gone, and Nigerians poured into the streets singing, dancing, and toasting to freedom. Palm wine flowed like rivers; drums spoke the language of joy. The dream was simple but profound — at last, the chains of colonial rule had been broken. We were free. We were “Nigeria.”
But sixty-five years later, that euphoria feels like a faded photograph. The colours have dimmed, the smiles have stiffened. The question now is unavoidable: did Nigeria truly gain independence, or did we simply exchange colonial masters for domestic ones?
The Illusion of Freedom
True independence is more than raising a flag or drafting a new constitution. It is the ability of a nation to stand on its own — politically stable, socially progressive, economically confident. Independence should translate into prosperity, security, and dignity for citizens.
Yet, across Nigeria, what we see is the opposite. Poverty is rampant, insecurity is deepening, and governance often feels like a tragic farce. According to the National Bureau of Statistics, about 63% of Nigerians — roughly 133 million people — live in multidimensional poverty. In rural areas, that figure rises to nearly 75%. This means that more than half of our population struggles daily for food, healthcare, and education — basic necessities that independence was supposed to guarantee.
Worse still, insecurity has turned entire communities into war zones. A 2025 report by Beacon Consulting revealed that in just the first quarter of the year, 341 people were killed and 495 kidnapped across Katsina State alone. Multiply that across dozens of states, and the scale of our national trauma becomes clearer. In Nigeria today, safety has become a privilege of class, not a right of citizenship.
Education in Shambles
If the soul of any nation is its education system, then Nigeria’s soul is bleeding. Many of our universities — once proud symbols of African scholarship — now operate like relics from a forgotten age. Buildings crumble, laboratories rot, lecturers strike, and students struggle through degrees that barely equip them for modern realities.
The NELFUND student loan scheme, introduced with the promise of opportunity, has instead become a weight around the necks of young Nigerians, many already crushed by the rising cost of living. According to UNICEF, about 14.8 million children remain out of school — the highest number in the world. Even our dear University of Ibadan, Nigeria’s oldest and arguably most prestigious university, battles frequent blackouts, water shortages, and administrative paralysis. What does independence mean when the “leaders of tomorrow” are indebted to a system that can barely sustain itself today?
Politics as a Private Business
Nigeria’s political landscape reads like a never-ending novel of betrayal. After the Civil War ended in 1970, there was hope that the nation would rebuild itself on unity and purpose. Instead, what followed was an endless cycle of corruption, ethnic rivalry, and elite capture.
Our leaders inherited the British system of governance but perfected its inequities. Power has remained concentrated in the hands of a few, while the majority watch from the sidelines, clinging to survival. Government “works,” yes — but for whom?
The irony is almost poetic: our politicians campaign on the language of liberation while governing in the spirit of exploitation. Budgets are passed, reforms announced, but the everyday Nigerian continues to drown in hardship. In a country where public servants live like emperors and citizens beg for power, water, and safety, independence begins to look like a myth.
Economic Bondage by Another Name
The British may have left, but our economy still kneels before foreign powers. Nigeria remains addicted to oil exports, a vulnerability that leaves us exposed to global price shocks. When oil prices fall, so does our national mood. When they rise, the benefits seldom trickle down.
The World Bank reported that Nigeria’s economy grew by 3.9% in early 2025, but this growth means little when inflation devours the poor. Food prices have soared by nearly 35% in some states, while unemployment hovers around 33%. Farmers in the Middle Belt abandon their fields out of fear; traders pay levies to bandits before they pay taxes to the government. How do we call ourselves independent when survival itself has become a privilege?
Between Decolonization and True Freedom
What Nigeria achieved in 1960 was, at best, political decolonization. The British handed us the keys but left the house hollow — weak institutions, uneven development, and a power structure built on exploitation. Instead of rebuilding the foundation, we moved in and redecorated.
The result is a state that looks free but lives dependent. We import what we should produce, borrow what we could earn, and elect leaders who mirror our former masters in arrogance and detachment.
And yet, hope lingers. Nigerians remain some of the most resilient people on earth. From tech innovators in Lagos to farmers in Kebbi, journalists in Abuja to students in Enugu, there are millions still striving to rewrite our story. The question is whether the state will ever rise to match the strength of its people.
A Sobering Celebration
Every October 1st, the drums roll again. The parades march, the speeches flow, and the flags rise. But beneath the ceremony lies a quiet unease — what exactly are we celebrating? Freedom from Britain, yes. But freedom from poverty, from fear, from corruption, from hunger — not yet.
Until Nigeria finds the courage to liberate itself from its internal colonizers —the corruption, the greed, the indifference— Independence Day will remain a date, not a destiny. Perhaps it’s time to call it what it truly is: a Decolonization Day. Because independence is not declared; it is earned.
