“I disapprove of what you say, but I will defend to the death your right to say it.”
– Voltaire
“Patriotism is the last refuge of the scoundrel.” – Samuel Johnson [1775].
Kemi Badenoch, the British MP and former Business Secretary and current leader of the Conservatives , recently distanced herself from Nigeria, her country of birth, citing the deep rot in its governance and systems.
Around the same time, Davido, our globe-trotting musician and cultural ambassador, advised foreign investors to avoid Nigeria like a plague.
Predictably, these statements set off a maelstrom of indignation. The so-called patriots, ever ready with their fiery defenses, accused both of washing our dirty laundry in public and labeled them unpatriotic.
They stopped just short of blaming Kemi and Davido for a live fowl costing ₦25,000, a bag of rice ₦120,000, and a 20-liter Kings Vegetable Oil selling for ₦100,000 in Lagos today. Their anger seems focused not on the systemic failures but on these supposed traitors who, they claim, don’t love their fatherland.
But why all the fuss? Are we not the same people who lament daily about the same “rot” in WhatsApp groups, Twitter threads, and pepper soup joints? Why is the truth suddenly unbearable when aired by a Kemi or a Davido? Let’s take a moment to reflect on our hypocrisy—and then consider the importance of such uncomfortable truths.
History is replete with individuals who spoke harsh truths about their nations, often risking their reputations or even their lives, but whose actions ultimately sparked global attention and change.
Take Albert Einstein, for instance. When the Nazis came to power, Einstein, a Jew, fled Germany to escape persecution. But he didn’t stop there. From his safe haven in the United States, he used his platform as a globally celebrated scientist to expose the horrors of Hitler’s regime. His sharp criticism of the Nazis was not only an act of self-preservation but also a moral duty to alert the world to the dangers of fascism. Was he unpatriotic? Hardly. His critiques were rooted in his commitment to justice and humanity.
Similarly, Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn, the Russian writer and Nobel laureate, used his pen to highlight the brutalities of the Soviet regime. His works, including The Gulag Archipelago, laid bare the horrors of Stalin’s labor camps and the oppressive machinery of the state. For his outspokenness, he was exiled, but his words inspired both his fellow Russians and the global community to confront the tyranny of the USSR.
Closer to home, Chinua Achebe, Nigeria’s literary giant, wielded his pen like a sword to lay bare the failings of his beloved country. From his base in America, Achebe used lecture circuits and interviews to decry Nigeria as a failed state, one plagued by corruption, tribalism, and leadership failure. His searing critique reached its zenith in his seminal book The Trouble With Nigeria, which unapologetically dissected the country’s systemic issues. Achebe’s words may have stung, but they were grounded in love for Nigeria and a desire to see it rise above its challenges. If I’m right, he likely passed on with a deep regret for what could have been, had Nigeria not succumbed to its malaise of poor leadership.
Wole Soyinka, our Nobel laureate, stood firm against the injustices of our country during the Nigerian Civil War. He was branded a traitor and imprisoned in solitary confinement, but his voice endured, reminding us that the highest form of patriotism is often the courage to speak truth to power. Years later, under the Abacha regime, he went into exile, dodging assassins’ bullets and enduring a campaign of calumny.
His cousin, Fela Anikulapo-Kuti, died broken after decades of confrontations with the military over the same solvable issues—“water, light, food, house,” injustice, and corruption. His criticisms live on in his songs, eternal and unrelenting in their truth.
Chief Obafemi Awolowo, in 1982, addressed a ‘world press conference’ and warned that the ship of state was floundering and heading for disaster. The so-called patriots threw rocks at him, but their anger could not stop the calamity that unfolded a year later, proving him right.
Criticizing one’s country is not an act of treason; it is often the highest form of love. The Kemi Badenochs and Davidos of this world are not “dragging” Nigeria for sport or clout. They are using their platforms to expose the dysfunction we all know exists but often feel powerless to address. If their words sting, perhaps it’s because they hold a mirror to our collective shame and demand better.
Yes, there are valid concerns about “branding.” Some argue that public figures should temper their criticisms to protect Nigeria’s image. But let’s be honest—an image cannot be more important than the substance behind it. A nation isn’t a marketing campaign; it’s a living, breathing organism that needs truth to heal. Pretending everything is fine while the house burns is not patriotism—it’s complicity.
To those critics who want nothing negative said about Nigeria: Relax. The world already knows. The country’s reputation is not being tarnished by a tweet from Davido or an interview with Kemi Badenoch. The real damage is being done by decades of corruption, mismanagement, and broken promises. It’s being damaged by lining up underage children for trial or granting bail in the sum of ₦50 million to urchins who cannot afford a loaf of bread or a sachet of pure water. Instead of silencing critics, why not direct your energies toward fixing the issues they highlight?
It’s high time we recognized the value of uncomfortable truths. Let those who dare to call attention to our nation’s failures do so without fear of reprisal. We need their voices, sharp and unfiltered, to shake us from our complacency. And if we’re lucky, their words might just light the spark for the change we desperately need.
So, to Kemi, Davido, and others who have the courage to speak out: Carry on. Nigeria needs you more than it knows. As for the rest of us, let’s worry less about silencing critics and more about silencing the ills that brought us here in the first place.
We come in peace, o. Or should I say… tough love?
