The Analogy
Imagine a massive vessel adrift in the middle of the Pacific
Ocean: no land in sight, no horizon promising rescue. On this vessel are more
than 200 million souls: men and women, children and elders, believers of every
faith, speakers of every tongue, carriers of every culture. The ship glides
with the confidence of human brilliance, its steel ribs humming with the pride
of a nation that once dreamed boldly.
Then, without warning, a rupture tears open at the keel.
Water begins to seep in, quietly at first, then insistently.
The alarm is raised. The passengers are told the truth: the vessel will sink
in twelve hours, but land is twenty-four hours away. A cold fear grips
every heart. Panic spreads like wildfire. The air thickens with dread. Yet in
this moment of crisis, something remarkable happens.
The Many Hands on Deck
Every profession, every tribe, every creed springs into
action.
- Engineers
rush to the
belly of the ship, tools in hand, wrestling with steel and seawater.
- Architects
unroll the
vessel’s blueprints, tracing lines with trembling fingers, searching for
solutions.
- Captains
and pilots
gather, pooling decades of experience to chart impossible alternatives.
- Doctors,
nurses, and paramedics move through the chaos, tending to the fainting, the panicked, the
wounded.
- Traders
and businesspeople take inventory of supplies: food, water, fuel calculating what can
be stretched, what can be spared.
- Physicists,
chemists, and scientists model scenarios, predicting how long the vessel can
resist the ocean’s hunger.
- Ordinary
men and women
hold one another, pray together, steady one another.
But one group stands apart.
The Politicians
They pace the deck in embroidered garments, their shoes
polished, their titles heavy on their tongues. They issue statements, not
solutions. They pose for relevance, not responsibility. They chase the wind,
not the work. While others sweat, they preen. While others labour, they
calculate. While others cry, they rehearse speeches. And the water keeps
rising.
The Final Hour
With one hour left before the vessel is swallowed, a terrible
silence falls. The passengers understand: their end is near. No
helicopter can reach them. No ship can arrive in time. No miracle seems
forthcoming.
With one minute left, people begin to give away everything: money,
jewellery, possessions realizing too late that none of it floats.
But the politicians cling to their titles as if titles can
breathe underwater:
- “I am His Excellency!”
- “I am Honourable!”
- “I am Senator!”
- “I am Governor!”
- “I am President!”
- “I am Speaker!”
- “I am Councillor!”
Their voices echo across the doomed vessel. Then, from the
depths of the ocean, a voice rises: ancient, thunderous, unignorable.
The Question
“What GOOD have you done for Nigeria lately: Mr Honourable?
Mr Speaker? Mr Senator? Mr President? Mr Governor? Mr Councillor?”
The voice does not stop there. It turns to the people: every
tribe, every class, every profession, every age:
What GOOD have you done for Nigeria lately?
You child.
You boy, you girl.
You youth.
You adult.
You mother.
You father.
You parent.
You man.
You woman.
You architect.
You doctor.
You engineer.
You mason.
You foreman.
You teacher.
You principal.
You commissioner.
You minister.
You student.
You cab driver.
You mortician.
You cobbler.
You trader.
And all of you.
The Mirror We Avoid
Because the truth is simple: A nation does not sink because
of one hole. A nation sinks because too many people stand around the hole doing
nothing.
Nigeria is that vessel. The hole is widening. And the
question is no longer for “leaders” alone. It is for every one of us.
The Call
What good have you done for Nigeria lately, not in speeches,
not in complaints, not in hashtags, but in actions, in integrity, in courage,
in service?
What good have you done:
- in your home,
- in your street,
- in your school,
- in your office,
- in your market,
- in your profession,
- in your daily choices?
Because nations are not saved by titles. They are saved by people. And the vessel is still taking water.
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