Nigeria, We Need To Talk

by Similoluwa Ifedayo

Nigeria, it’s Valentine’s Day, and guess what? I should be texting someone who treats me right, but here I am…texting you. Again. I don’t know why I do this to myself.

Do you even realise how much I’ve loved you? I built my dreams around you. I imagined a future where we’d thrive together—where I could wake up knowing that my hard work would actually count, that I wouldn’t need to “Japa” just to breathe. I saw us growing old together, Nigeria. I prayed for you, for us. I really did. I believed in us. I defended you when others laughed. I told them, “Nigeria just needs time. Nigeria will change.”

But you? You took all my love, all my dreams, and gave me bad roads, no light, no water, and a fluctuating exchange rate in return. I don’t even cheat on you—my passport is fresh.

Nigeria, My Love: Ah-ah, baby, why are you like this? Can we just enjoy Valentine’s Day? After everything we’ve been through?

Don’t “baby” me! You still have the effrontery to talk? Nigeria, you are the reason people go to sleep with dreams and wake up with regrets. Look at Boye—he wanted to be a doctor, but after five years of school, no housemanship slot. Look at Ada—she started a business, then boom! Government policy wiped her out overnight. Even Ade, the tech bro, is running to Canada because your economy moves like a drunk uncle at a wedding.

Nigeria, My Love: But I gave you resilience! Hustle spirit! You people are doing well—look at Afrobeats, Nollywood, Startups, Tech! Look at you, my Similoluwa, you dream so well and you are the future.

Oh please, please. Nigeria, we need to talk. And no, this isn’t one of those “let’s work things out” conversations. This is the final one—the breakup. I’ve tried. God knows I’ve tried. I have defended you in conversations, held onto hope, even convinced myself that your flaws were just phases. But here we are, decades later, and you’re still the same.

I mean, I get it. Relationships are hard. But, Nigeria, you don’t even try. You say you love me, but how does love look like corruption, poor governance, and policies that make life unbearable? How does love mean unemployment, bad roads, and constant power outages? If this is love, please, I want no part of it. You hurt me.

Nigeria, My Love: Babe, I am trying and you know it. I still take care of you.

Nigeria, don’t gaslight me. Why must I succeed despite you? Why can’t I succeed because of you? Do you know what it’s like to dream here? To build something, only for policies to change, opportunities to disappear, and dreams to evaporate like fuel at a filling station?

Nigeria, My Love: But you still love me, sha.

Nah, I’m done with you. It’s not your fault, hard guy fell in love with you.

Nigeria, My Love: Ah-ah, just like that? After everything we’ve been through? You knew what you were signing up for! Nobody forced you to stay.

Oh, don’t do that. Don’t make it seem like I had a choice. Where was I supposed to go? Firstly, you became mine by birth. You trapped me here with a weak passport, failing institutions, and some leaders who make decisions like they’re playing a badly written script.

Nigeria, My Love: But I gave you culture, resilience, and the best jollof rice!

Nigeria, don’t distract me with food. That’s emotional manipulation, and I won’t fall for it. Again.

Nigeria, My Love: Okay, fine. I know I have problems. But it’s not my fault—it’s my leaders! It’s those in charge. You can’t blame me for everything!

Oh, so now you’re playing the victim? Nigeria, your leaders didn’t fall from the sky. They came from you. You enabled them. You watched corruption grow, and instead of fighting it, you gave it aso-ebi and turned it into a celebration. And let’s not even talk about the way you treat your best people—pushing them to leave while rewarding incompetence.

Nigeria, My Love: Babe, you act like I haven’t improved. I still want you, I need us. How can I fix this?

Firstly, you didn’t get me a Valentine’s Day gift. Anyway, I want you to change. Not by mouth, not by campaign slogans. I want real accountability. I want working systems. I want to stop hearing “e go better” like it’s a lullaby. But honestly, I’m tired of waiting. So, yeah, I’m done.

Nigeria: Similoluwa mi, omo Ifedayo, I love you, and I know you do too.

Sigh. I wish I didn’t. I wish I could pack my bags, change my number, and never look back. But you’re home. And no matter how much you hurt me, I still find myself hoping. Hoping that one day, you’ll stop making dreams a luxury. That one day, you’ll be a place where love and ambition don’t have to fight for survival. Not because you deserve it, but because you’re home. And no matter how hard it gets, a part of me will always hope that one day, you’ll be worth it.

But for now? I need space. Don’t call me. Don’t text me. Just… fix yourself.

Nigeria: You’ll come back. You always do.

Lol.