My unborn grandchildren,
Before your first cry splits the silence of a yet-unseen tomorrow, I write to you from a land once revered as the Giant of Africa — now mocked, bruised, and branded a disgrace. When Donald Trump spat those words — “Nigeria is a disgrace” — many called it arrogance. Yet, I see in his provocation a mirror we’ve long refused to face. For what else do you call a nation that has lost its moral marrow, its conscience corroded, its leaders feeding on the carcass of its people?
Nigeria, my beloved homeland, has become a paradox — rich in soil, poor in soul; vast in land, but vanquished in leadership. We export brilliance and import shame. We celebrate thieves and crucify truth-tellers. Our streets hum with prayers, yet reek of corruption. Our leaders quote Scripture in daylight but dine with demons at dusk. This — my dear descendants — is the tragedy of a people who mistake religion for righteousness and ethnicity for identity.
Trump’s words, though caustic, sting with accuracy. We are a nation that prays for light yet worships darkness. We vote for saviors who turn into devourers. Our democracy has decayed into an auction where the highest bidder buys destiny. The blood of the innocent — from Kaduna to Jos, from the creeks of the Niger Delta to the forests of Zamfara — cries louder than our national anthem.
If you ever ask what genocide looks like, look not only to the killings by terrorists, but to the silent extermination of hope. Every hungry child denied education is a casualty. Every youth wasted by unemployment is a victim. Every mother dying on a hospital floor is a martyr of systemic neglect. This is not just misrule — it is organized moral genocide.
My unborn grandchildren, do not inherit our cowardice. Rise as architects of conscience. Let your pens become swords, your faith a fortress, and your voice a revolution. Rebuild the Nigeria we destroyed with apathy and silence. Let your generation refuse to kneel before the golden calves of tribalism and religious deceit.
Remember this: nations do not fall by bullets alone — they fall by blindness. Trump’s insult will remain prophecy fulfilled unless your era turns disgrace into dignity.
So, when history asks, “Where were they when Nigeria bled?” let your generation answer, “We were the healers.”
– Inah Boniface Ocholi writes from Ayah – Igalamela/Odolu LGA, Kogi state.
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