2024: A Year of Jollof Rice, Spilled Pepper Soup, and Empty Pots

Femi Akintunde-Johnson

As the curtains drew close on 2024, Nigerians, in our usual flair for blending comedy with tragedy, found ourselves with yet another stack of stories to tell – most laced with either incredulous laughter or head-shaking bewilderment. For a nation perpetually balancing on the tightrope of audacious resilience and self-inflicted absurdity, the outgone year felt like a pot of jollof rice cooked with burnt sides, a little too spicy, yet still satisfying for the hungry optimist.

 When placed side by side, 2023 and 2024 appear like siblings who share the same chaotic DNA but wear slightly different disguises. If 2023 was the year Nigeria tripped and fell flat into the deep well of subsidy removal and naira depreciation, 2024 was the year we realized the well had no bottom. The transition from one year to the next felt less like progress and more like swapping an old pair of slippers for one with a broken strap. Nigerians had barely recovered from the shock of skyrocketing transport fares in 2023 when 2024 upped the ante with more inflation and the continued freefall of the naira. It was as though life had joined a comedy skit to test just how far the people’s resilience could stretch.

Yet, some would argue that 2023 carried more naivety. The buzz of a newly elected administration gave many the faint hope of a turnaround, like a gambler who thinks the next spin will finally deliver the jackpot. By 2024, however, that hope had hardened into weary pragmatism. The promises of “renewed hope” were rebranded as “adjusted expectations,” and Nigerians began to see governance for what it often is – a game of political poker, where the people are the chips, and the leaders are bluffing with straight faces. If 2023 was a rude awakening, 2024 was the year we finally rubbed our eyes, sighed deeply, and decided to get on with life, because, as every Nigerian knows, survival is not just a skill; it’s a full-time occupation.

January was the typical “New Year, New Me” charade for politicians, who promised everything from free power to free air. Amid the rising cost of living, some state governments deemed it fit to “empower” the youth with wheelbarrows and clippers instead of addressing unemployment. Social media was not forgiving. Satirical memes compared these efforts to teaching a drowning man how to sew clothes instead of offering a lifeboat. Meanwhile, the average Nigerian, accustomed to braving storms without umbrellas, trudged through the month with resilience akin to that of a cockroach in a fumigated room.

By March, our economic woes had deepened. The naira, struggling for breath, slumped further against the dollar, hitting an all-time low of ₦1,330 to $1. One might have thought the currency was auditioning for the Guinness World Records as the fastest depreciating legal tender. Traders at Balogun Market took to calculators, each keystroke sounding like a prayer for stability. The government, with its characteristic optimism, announced lofty reforms, including plans to “diversify the economy.” However, many Nigerians joked that “diversification” had become a mantra so overused that even akara sellers were starting to package their wares as “multinational bean-based enterprises.”

The first quarter also brought its fair share of drama from Abuja. A controversial Supreme Court ruling sparked debates over the legitimacy of certain political appointments. Observers noted that in Nigeria’s judicial space, legal gymnastics often rival those seen in Olympic arenas. Ordinary Nigerians, however, remained less concerned with jurisprudence and more fixated on surviving the unrelenting fuel hikes. By April, when petrol prices breached ₦900 per litre, car owners became pedestrians, and roadside mechanics turned philosophers, offering unsolicited lectures on the virtues of trekking for cardiovascular health.

In the midst of these challenges, the entertainment industry offered some comic relief. Nollywood continued its love affair with dubious plotlines and extravagant premieres. An action film, reportedly budgeted at billions, garnered attention for its “special effects,” which social media critics derided as Photoshop’s weaker cousin. Musicians, on the other hand, outdid themselves, with Afrobeats stars like Burna Boy, Wizkid, and Tiwa Savage flying the green-and-white flag on global stages. Nigerians found solace in dancing to hit tracks that often masked the country’s deepening struggles.

Yet, not everything in 2024 was a joke. The reality of insecurity cast its long shadow over the land. From kidnappings in Zamfara to cult clashes in Rivers, headlines reminded us of a painful truth: our nation’s house was still riddled with leaking roofs. Government promises to strengthen security often felt like attempting to patch a dam with chewing gum. Nonetheless, a few bold reforms, including community policing initiatives, showed glimmers of hope, albeit ones overshadowed by recurring bureaucratic inefficiency.

Sports, the eternal unifier, offered brief moments of jubilation. The Super Falcons gave Nigerians something to cheer about at the Women’s African Cup of Nations, narrowly losing in a dramatic final that had fans screaming at TV screens. “At least they didn’t lose 4-0,” someone remarked, a nod to our national obsession with silver linings. Meanwhile, the Nigerian Premier League continued its struggle to gain credibility, with some stadiums still looking like relics from colonial times.

By September, discussions around national debt had taken centre stage. With the country’s total public debt exceeding ₦121 trillion, analysts debated whether our grandchildren would be born with IOUs taped to their foreheads. While the government attributed much of the increase to naira depreciation, critics argued that reckless borrowing had left the nation resembling a prodigal son with an overdrawn credit card. Satirists quipped that Nigeria was fast becoming a case study for IMF interns on “how not to manage a country’s finances.”

October brought fleeting relief as a record maize harvest was announced. However, this was quickly followed by reports of post-harvest losses due to poor storage infrastructure. Farmers watched helplessly as their sweat-fed produce rotted, prompting one farmer to lament, “Na we dey feed Africa, but na hunger wan kill us.” Food prices remained exorbitant, with tomatoes practically earning a spot on Forbes’ list of most expensive commodities.

Despite the trials, Nigerians found ways to celebrate. The yuletide season, as always, saw families splurging on rice, chicken, and fireworks, even if it meant borrowing money to do so. For a people whose humour remains an unshakable defence mechanism, 2024 reaffirmed a collective philosophy: if life insists on being bitter, at least we’ll garnish it with enough pepper to make it interesting.

As the year drew to a close, one could not help but marvel at the peculiar paradox of being Nigerian. We are a people whose laughter pierces through tears, whose hope defies logic, and whose spirit, no matter how battered, remains unbroken. Perhaps 2024 was not our finest year, but it was unmistakably ours – a testament to our dogged ability to dance even when the music fades.