A Nigerian Yuletide: Resilience Amidst Ruin

Femi Akintunde-Johnson

A Nigerian Christmas, sometime in the late ‘70s or ‘80s, was a vision of pure joy – a period when families gathered around glowing kerosene lanterns or twinkling sparklers dubbed “bisco”, and bustling coal pots to share plates piled high with special staples, jollof rice, a roast or two, and the rare, treasured sodas and stronger beverages. It was a time when families looked forward to the yuletide season with an expectation that transcended mere festivity. It wasn’t just the aroma of spices or the sounds of familiar highlife melodies wafting through the night air; it was a season marked by the implicit confidence that Nigeria would not change overnight, that life would only get better. In those years, there was a gentle peace and trust in the system. Nigeria was flawed, but still recognisably functional – a country where electricity actually powered Christmas lights and gifts could be exchanged without second thoughts of scarcity or inflation.

Today, the yuletide is no longer quite so promising. In the place of merriment, the average Nigerian is greeted with dread – a December defined not by nostalgia but by survival. The economic downturn, worsened by inadequate leadership and a strained social security apparatus, has created an era where the season of cheer has become, instead, a season of sheer pain. But before going into survival strategies, let’s briefly outline the challenges tormenting Nigerians, who must now contend with these “gifts” from their leadership.

  A pressing issue remains electricity, or rather, the chronic lack thereof. The country’s power grid is a global embarrassment, requiring many Nigerians to rely on generators just to light up a room. And yet, buying fuel to power these machines is a task in itself. Petrol prices fluctuate like the stock market, with endless queues, unexplained shortages, and dispiriting attitudes from attendants at the pumps. For most people, it seems more like queuing for the lottery than fuel – always with an air of chance, never certainty.

  Add to this mix the joy of navigating Nigerian banking services. Long-standing inefficiencies have been compounded by an astonishingly unreliable digital infrastructure, where mobile apps have acquired their own seasonal schedules – working one moment, down the next. Trying to withdraw your own hard-earned money can involve hours of standing in line, only to be met with the ominous phrase, “the network is down.”

 Public offices, another hurdle in the path of ordinary Nigerians, are notorious for a customer service ethic that’s somehow both lackadaisical and actively hostile. From local government offices to police stations, the bureaucracy and level of “protocol” make it easier to walk to a neighbouring country than to renew a driver’s license or file a legitimate complaint. Add in the culture of “kola”,  “your boys are here” or “egunje,” those little tokens meant to “grease the wheels” of service, and the situation verges on the absurd.

Yet, somehow, Nigerians are coping. The famed Nigerian resilience has kept the country from descending into chaos, but the strain is showing. People have developed strategies for survival, innovating around the dysfunctions. Solar panels have started appearing on rooftops; communities band together to share resources and information; micro-enterprises boom as small-time entrepreneurs seek out any way to add to their household incomes. More than ever, Nigerians are getting creative about their own resilience, holding on to whatever faith remains, however frayed.

  As for political and economic leadership, their apparent detachment from the real lives of Nigerians might be the only thing that has kept mass unrest at bay. A cocktail of fear, pragmatism, and the innate aversion to violence has dissuaded Nigerians from open revolt. What would replace the government? Can the suffering be guaranteed to lessen? Many Nigerians seem to believe that, even if change might one day be necessary, there’s no safety net to catch them should a power vacuum emerge.

  But how does this bleak reality stack up against the rest of the world? While Nigeria’s challenges feel uniquely acute, the global economy isn’t exactly a bastion of stability. Inflation, resource scarcity, and supply chain woes are being felt from Brazil to Bangladesh, with even parts of Europe contending with energy shortages. However, it is not quite the same; many other countries have stronger institutions, safety nets, and systems that, however strained, still work for their people. For example, in Britain, inflation may gnaw at Christmas budgets, but people can be reasonably sure that electricity will flow and the police will show up when called. In that sense, Nigeria’s troubles are less a matter of economic misfortune and more an indictment of its structural weaknesses.

  So, as we approach this year’s yuletide, what can ordinary Nigerians do to prepare? A few survival tactics come to mind. For one, families may need to curb the festive traditions that bring on extra expenses. Instead of the ambitious plans of past Christmases, simplicity may be the best bet – focusing on quality time rather than extravagant gestures. Forming or joining cooperative societies within neighbourhoods for bulk-buying food and other essentials could ease some financial strain. Additionally, exploring passive income opportunities, however small, could provide that little extra cushion. No one knows how long the current climate will last, and securing multiple income streams, however modest, may help mitigate the unexpected.

  An ideal end-of-year scenario for Nigerians would undoubtedly involve more than mere survival; it would see electricity restored and maintained, fuel prices stabilised and reduced, and some relief in basic consumer costs. If the government, by some seasonal miracle, decided to exercise its capacity for effective governance – streamlining processes, regulating critical markets, and actually cracking down on corruption and official lethargy – that would be a wonderful New Year gift.

  Yet, in the absence of such miracles, the spirit of survival perseveres. Nigerians are living through one of the harshest eras in recent memory, but with the ingenuity, humour, and shared goodwill that characterises our people, there may still be some cause for cheer this yuletide. After all, Nigerians have survived worse seasons, and this resilience is itself an enduring Christmas miracle – one that not even inflation can steal. Perhaps, in time, those who engineered this hardship will understand that, unlike them, Nigerians do not simply survive on borrowed promises and empty assurances. They endure. And maybe, just maybe, this Christmas, the people will find not only strength but also the resolve to demand better.