By Margareth Yinka Ayinmiro
There is a question that has been troubling me for a long time, and I believe it is a question many ordinary Nigerians would also like answered:
Mr. President, are our voices truly reaching you?
I ask this question not out of disrespect, political affiliation, or hostility toward the government. I ask it as an ordinary Nigerian who is increasingly concerned about the growing insecurity across our country and the apparent distance between the suffering of citizens and the highest office in the land.
Recently, I took time to visit the official Facebook page of President Bola Ahmed Tinubu. As of the time of writing this open letter, I carefully went through the posts available on the page.
What I found was not surprising, yet it left me deeply unsettled.
The page was filled with photographs of diplomatic engagements, official meetings, handshakes with local and foreign dignitaries, signing of documents, state visits, congratulatory messages, religious celebrations, national celebrations, and various ceremonial activities associated with the office of the President.
There is absolutely nothing wrong with these activities. They are part of governance and statecraft.
However, as I continued scrolling through the page, I found myself searching for something else.
I searched for messages directly addressing the insecurity that has claimed countless Nigerian lives.
I searched for posts expressing solidarity with communities devastated by attacks.
I searched for visits to affected communities.
I searched for words that would reassure grieving families that their President sees their pain and shares in their sorrow.
Yet compared to the volume of ceremonial and official posts, such messages appeared noticeably scarce.
That observation led me to a troubling question:
Does the Presidency fully understand the emotional burden ordinary Nigerians carry every day?
Or perhaps an even bigger question:
Does the President receive the full picture of what citizens are saying, feeling, and enduring?
Every day, Nigerians flood social media with stories of grief, frustration, fear, and desperation. Families share photographs of loved ones lost to violence. Communities cry for help. Citizens appeal for intervention.
But one cannot help wondering whether those voices are truly reaching the President himself.
Could it be that the people managing official communication channels are not adequately conveying the depth of public concern? Could it be that reports are reaching the President without carrying the human emotions attached to them? Could it be that the cries of ordinary Nigerians are being filtered into statistics and briefings, stripped of the pain behind them? Or is the President fully aware, but chooses not to communicate these concerns publicly?
These are not accusations. They are sincere questions from citizens who want to feel heard.
A few days ago, I came across a statement by former United States President Barack Obama that immediately caught my attention.
He wrote:
“As President, I would read ten letters a day sent to me by ordinary Americans. It was a way to understand the issues they were worried about, celebrate their joys, hear their frustrations, and do what I could to help.”
But what struck me even more was what I saw beneath the post.
The comment section was filled with people sharing personal experiences and testimonies. Many recounted how letters sent to the White House were acknowledged, read, and in some cases received direct responses. Some described the surprise of receiving replies. Others spoke about how their concerns were heard at a time when they felt invisible. Whether one agrees with Obama’s politics or not is beside the point. The point is that countless ordinary citizens believed they had a channel through which their voices could reach their President.
This is not about the fact that America is a developed country. Rather, it was the willingness of a President to deliberately create time for ordinary citizens.
Despite overseeing one of the world’s most powerful nations, he still believed there was value in listening directly to everyday people.
The value of such communication is not merely in receiving a response. It is in giving citizens confidence that their voices matter.
When people believe their leaders are listening, they develop hope. When they believe their concerns are reaching those in authority, they develop trust. And when they believe their pain is acknowledged, they feel less abandoned.
That realization stayed with me.
It made me wonder how many ordinary Nigerians feel the same way today.
Can a farmer in a remote village write to the President and believe his concerns will be heard? Can a grieving mother who has lost a child to insecurity feel confident that her pain will reach the nation’s highest office? Can an ordinary citizen raise concerns and believe that someone, somewhere within the Presidency, is listening?
How often do the voices of ordinary Nigerians reach the President of Nigeria directly? How often does he hear from farmers, market women, students, artisans, widows, teachers, unemployed youths, and villagers whose lives are affected by insecurity?
How often does he hear from those who are neither politicians nor government officials like Governors, Ministers, Senators, Traditional rulers, Business leaders, or Political allies but ordinary Nigerians? How often does he hear from people whose names may never appear in newspapers but whose lives are shaped daily by government decisions?
These questions matter because insecurity is no longer a distant problem affecting only a few communities. For many Nigerians, insecurity has become a daily reality. Farmers struggle to access their farmlands. Traders fear traveling on certain roads. Parents send their children to school with anxiety. Communities live with uncertainty.
Worshippers gather with fear. Families sleep not knowing what the night may bring. In many places, the sound of bullets has replaced the sound of music. Fear has become a companion. Trauma has become normal. And mourning has become routine.
Perhaps the most painful aspect of this reality is how familiar it has become.
When I was growing up, the death of a child was a tragedy that shook entire communities. Today, stories of children being killed by bandits and terrorists appear so frequently that many people are becoming emotionally exhausted by the endless cycle of loss. That should never be normal. No society should become accustomed to the deaths of its children. No nation should accept fear as a permanent condition of daily life.
Another concern shared by many citizens is the recurring pattern that follows major attacks.
An attack occurs, Lives are lost. Condolences are offered. A statement is issued assuring citizens that action will be taken. The public is urged to remain calm. Then gradually the issue fades from public attention until another tragedy occurs.
For many Nigerians, it feels as though promises often melt away like a block of ice under the afternoon sun. Meanwhile, ordinary citizens continue to bear the consequences.
Many can no longer farm safely. Many cannot trade safely. Many cannot worship safely. Many cannot travel safely. Many cannot even sleep peacefully in their own homes. This reality naturally leads to questions about national security resources.
Nigeria possesses military assets that many citizens believe should significantly strengthen the fight against insecurity. We hear of Tanks, Armored vehicles, Fighter aircraft, Towed Artillery systems, Self-propelled Artillery systems, Rocket Artillery platforms, and numerous other military resources acquired over the years. Yet ordinary Nigerians continue to ask: Are these resources being deployed as effectively as possible? Are there challenges involving intelligence gathering, logistics, coordination, maintenance, or manpower that citizens do not understand? Are there limitations the public is unaware of? Or is there something else preventing the full use of available capabilities?
These questions arise not because Nigerians hate their country. They arise because Nigerians love their country and want to see lives protected.
Every life lost matters. Every village abandoned matters. Every child killed matters. Every family displaced matters.
Beyond insecurity itself, another issue deserves attention. Why do many Nigerians feel that criticism of government actions is increasingly viewed with suspicion? Why are citizens who question policies or express dissatisfaction often perceived as enemies rather than stakeholders? Freedom of expression should not be mistaken for rebellion. Questioning government decisions should not be treated as hostility. Constructive criticism is not an attack on democracy.
In fact, it is one of democracy’s greatest strengths. Citizens should be able to speak honestly about their pain without fear of being misunderstood. Governments become stronger when they listen. Nations become stronger when leaders hear uncomfortable truths. And trust grows when citizens feel that their voices matter.
Perhaps the President is already aware of many of these concerns. Perhaps his advisers are providing accurate reports. Perhaps efforts are being made behind the scenes that the public does not fully see.
That is possible. But perception matters. Communication matters. Empathy matters. Visible engagement matters.
Sometimes people simply want reassurance that their pain is seen and their voices are heard.
Nigerians do not expect perfection. They understand that governing a country as large and complex as Nigeria is not an easy task. But they do expect empathy. They expect responsiveness. They expect leadership that acknowledges their fears and addresses their concerns openly. Most importantly, they expect to be heard.
Mr. President, if there is one message I hope this letter conveys, it is this:
Nigerians are tired of mourning. They are tired of burying their loved ones. They are tired of living in fear. They are tired of waking up to reports of fresh killings, kidnappings, and attacks. They simply want to live. They want to farm. They want to trade. They want to worship. They want to raise their children in peace. And above all, they want to know that their voices are reaching the people entrusted with leading the nation.
Because if the voices of ordinary Nigerians are no longer reaching their leaders, then that may be one of the greatest challenges facing the country today.
– Margareth Yinka Ayinmiro writes from Abuja.
