Govt. Talks, Hunger Listens

Femi Akintunde-Johnson

Now that we are in an era of the absurd, the following anecdotes will only make sense if you do not take them too seriously…or literally. Indulge us with a bit of a suspension of realism, and let your imagination go wherever it pleases. After all, this is Nigeria, the home of absurdities.

 It was a crisp Monday morning – crisp like the ₦500 note that can no longer buy a sachet of groundnut – when the Federal Ministry of Alternative Realities summoned journalists to a special press conference. Word on the street was that they wanted to address the “growing perception” of economic hardship among Nigerians. Not the hardship itself – God forbid – but the perception. You see, it’s not the suffering that bothers the powers-that-be; it’s your stubborn insistence on acknowledging it publicly.

The hall was well-lit, powered by a generator humming with the quiet arrogance of diesel privilege. Rows of brown plastic chairs lined the room, filled with tired reporters clutching notepads and hope. At the far end of the room stood the podium – shiny, smug, and flanked by roll-up banners bearing the slogan: “Renewed Promises, Recycled Policies.”

  The Minister stepped up. His agbada flowed like economic promises – grand, colourful, and empty inside. He adjusted his glasses and smiled, that peculiar brand of smile found only among public officials and retired club chairmen.

 “We are here,” he began, “to correct certain misconceptions about the so-called hardship in the country.”

A hush fell over the room. Even the air-conditioning paused to listen. He continued:

“Yes, the price of rice has gone up. But is that not a sign of prosperity? More demand! More ambition! Nigerians are no longer content with small dreams – they want basmati!”

In the back row, Hunger shifted uncomfortably in its seat. Thin, pale, and quietly enraged, Hunger had been making the rounds in every home, every office, every buka. It had become the uninvited guest at breakfast, lunch, and dinner – only, there was rarely any of those. Now, to hear that its presence was simply a sign of elevated taste was… offensive.

“Let me state categorically,” the Minister thundered, “Nigerians are not hungry. They are merely adjusting their appetite!”

Poverty, seated next to Hunger, chuckled dryly. It was the kind of laugh that didn’t move the diaphragm – just a soft exhale of disbelief. Inflation, dressed in a well-pressed agbada, leaned forward and whispered, “They’re going to love this on social media.”

A journalist raised her hand, voice trembling: “But sir, how do you respond to market women saying a basket of tomatoes now costs as much as minimum wage?”

The Minister adjusted his cap and leaned forward. “You know, Nigerians exaggerate. I bought tomatoes yesterday – ₦3,000 for half a basket. That’s just a little over $2 at official rate.”

At this point, Confusion walked into the room. It was not on the guest list, but neither was it ever absent from governance. Another reporter asked, “Sir, can the average Nigerian survive on ₦30,000 per month in this economy?”

“Of course!” the Minister replied. “If they remove Netflix, reduce data usage, and stop buying shawarma at midnight, they can live comfortably.”

Hope, once the government’s spokesperson, sat quietly in the corner, eyes dull. She had resigned sometime last year, without notice. No press release. No farewell cake. Just a gentle fading into irrelevance. Now, she only appeared occasionally, like power supply or genuine reform.

The press conference continued. “We have launched multiple palliative schemes,” the Minister declared. “₦25,000 for 15 million Nigerians for three months! That is ₦75,000 total – more than enough to start a small business or relocate to Ghana.”

Laughter broke out – not from the journalists, but from Reality, who had sneaked in through the service door. It leaned against the wall, arms folded, whispering, “Tell them about the disappearing rice bags. The ghost palliatives. The biometric registration that requires a laptop, electricity, internet – and the patience of a monk.”

“We’re on course!” the Minister exclaimed. Indeed, they are. A steady course – toward deeper debt, higher taxes, and the quiet normalisation of madness. The same course that saw over ₦121 trillion in public debt without corresponding infrastructure. The same course that raised fuel prices, devalued the naira, taxed digital content, and then offered soft loans for Keke NAPEP as compensation.

A journalist dared to ask about insecurity. The Minister waved it off with practiced ease. “You know, these are isolated cases. Just a few bad eggs.”

Eggs, Hunger muttered, now cost more than chicken used to. As the briefing drew to a close, a state-controlled broadcaster asked the final question: “What’s your message to Nigerians right now?”

The Minister smiled again. “We urge Nigerians to be patient. Sacrifice is the price of greatness. Rome wasn’t built in a day.”  That was true, of course. But Rome didn’t build itself on empty stomachs while emperors feasted.

As journalists filed out with full notebooks and empty bellies, Poverty shook hands with Hunger, and they agreed to move in together – again. Outside, Reality lit a cigarette and murmured, “Same time next quarter?”

Yes, next quarter. When another fiscal fantasy will be unwrapped, another economic pep talk delivered, and another statistic massaged into meaninglessness. In the meantime, Nigerians will adjust, adapt, and absorb – because they always do.

But here’s the thing with pressure: it builds. It is no longer enough to dismiss public pain with phrases like “global inflation,” “economic restructuring,” or “be patient.” People have been patient since SAP, adjusted through SURE-P, and endured fuel subsidy removal like a recurring nightmare. How long can we eat grammar and speeches?

The real danger is not even the inflation or insecurity – it’s the slow erosion of belief. The kind of erosion that makes people tune out, drop out, and give up. When truth becomes theatre, and government becomes content creation, you don’t just lose trust. You lose citizens.

So yes, the government may hold more press briefings. They may wear newer agbadas and commission more signposts. But one day, sooner than they think, Hunger may grab the mic. Not just as metaphor, but as movement. And this time, it won’t be asking questions – it will be demanding answers.