There is a strange melancholy haunting the present generation. Across continents, people speak not of ambition but of anxiety. The future, once imagined as a canvas of boundless opportunity, now feels narrower, grayer, and somehow heavier than the past. In towns in northern Europe, in the bustling streets of Lagos, in the sunbaked plazas of South America, the refrain is the same. Tomorrow will be poorer than yesterday. This is not merely an economic observation. It is a social, political, and moral reality.
Globally, the statistics paint a bleak portrait. Surveys conducted in 2025 suggest that barely thirty-seven percent of people expect the coming year to be better than the last. Economists cite rising inflation, stagnating wages, and energy crises. Yet these numbers do not fully capture the erosion of hope. The feeling that tomorrow will be poorer is as much psychological as material. It is a perception shaped by disinformation, political instability, climate change, and the growing sense that the social contract between governments and citizens is fraying.
In Nigeria, this sentiment is both palpable and particular. Once known as Africa’s giant of hope and potential, the country faces deepening economic strain. Prices of essential goods surge while employment opportunities remain limited. For the youth, who represent more than sixty percent of the population, the dream of a prosperous future often feels out of reach. Many are forced to abandon careers they studied for, migrate illegally, or join the swelling ranks of the informal economy. This is not merely poverty; it is the invisibility of opportunity. The future feels poorer because the avenues to achieve it have narrowed.
Yet economics alone cannot explain the widespread despair. Disinformation, propaganda, and political deceit amplify the perception of decline. In an age dominated by social media, citizens are bombarded with half-truths, manipulated narratives, and outright lies. In Nigeria, electoral periods reveal this starkly. Misinformation spreads faster than verified news, shaping perceptions, fueling distrust, and eroding democratic engagement. The result is a vicious cycle. When trust in institutions collapses, hope for a better tomorrow diminishes. Citizens begin to see governance not as a mechanism for progress but as theater for personal gain and corruption.
This erosion of trust is global. In the United States, Europe, and parts of Asia, citizens express frustration with leadership failures. Young voters increasingly question the value of participation, feeling that the systems that once promised mobility and fairness now protect entrenched elites. In Venezuela, decades of economic mismanagement and political manipulation have made entire generations skeptical that tomorrow will ever improve. These are not isolated crises. They are symptoms of a broader global malaise.
Climate change exacerbates this psychological poverty. Rising temperatures, erratic rainfall, and catastrophic flooding undermine not only livelihoods but the very idea of stability. In Nigeria, heat waves and recent floods in Lagos and Kogi States are stark reminders that yesterday’s routines cannot guarantee tomorrow’s security. Farmers watch as crops fail unpredictably. City dwellers face water shortages and rising rents. Coastal communities confront encroaching seas. When nature itself seems to betray human efforts, hope for a brighter future is harder to sustain.
Culturally, this feeling of loss is also a narrative of memory. The past is remembered as fuller, more stable, and more secure. Grandparents speak of communities with mutual trust, of jobs that could sustain a family, of governments that, at least occasionally, delivered on promises. This nostalgia amplifies the sense that the present and the future feel poorer. Yet memory is selective. It is not that the past was perfect but that its imperfections were slower, quieter, and less amplified. Today, with the immediacy of social media, every failure, every betrayal, and every act of greed is broadcast instantly, magnifying anxiety and pessimism.
Still, hope is resilient even when dimmed. Across Nigeria, communities are building adaptive strategies. Local youth initiatives in technology, agriculture, and renewable energy showcase ingenuity. Organizations such as the Carnegie Endowment emphasize strengthening democratic institutions, fighting disinformation, and creating civic spaces where trust can be rebuilt. Globally, countries experimenting with social safety nets, climate adaptation policies, and participatory governance offer models that can mitigate the sense of a poorer tomorrow. These are not mere remedies. They are beacons for reconstructing hope in a fractured world.
But hope requires action, not sentiment. If tomorrow feels poorer, it is because systems designed to safeguard opportunity have faltered. Governments must restore faith in basic services, enforce transparency, and protect citizens from misinformation that manipulates rather than informs. Civil society must nurture critical thinking, community engagement, and collective resilience. Individuals must reclaim agency, transforming anxiety into action and despair into purpose. A society that waits passively for salvation, whether political or spiritual, risks perpetuating the very sense of scarcity it fears.
Nigeria, in particular, stands at a crossroads. The country’s demographic advantage, a youthful population, can either become its greatest asset or its most glaring vulnerability. Education, innovation, and civic responsibility are the levers by which hope can be restored. Yet these require structural change, not cosmetic reform. Leaders must confront corruption boldly, invest in infrastructure strategically, and engage citizens meaningfully. Only then can the perception that tomorrow is poorer begin to reverse.
The erosion of hope also challenges our moral imagination. Philosophers, theologians, and writers have long emphasized the role of narrative in shaping society. When citizens believe that the future is dim, they act accordingly. They hoard, withdraw, and disengage. When they believe in possibility, they innovate, collaborate, and dream. The act of imagining a better tomorrow is itself a radical political and moral act. In a world saturated with evidence of decline, cultivating this imaginative capacity is perhaps the most urgent work of our time.
Ultimately, the sense that the future feels poorer is both a warning and a call to arms. It signals failure: failure of governance, failure of economic stewardship, failure of climate action, and failure of collective moral responsibility. Yet it also signals opportunity: the chance to rebuild trust, to nurture resilience, and to reimagine systems that serve human dignity rather than elite enrichment. The challenge is global. Yet solutions are local. In Lagos, in Idah, in New York, in Berlin, citizens must act not merely as observers but as architects of tomorrow.
History reminds us that despair is never permanent. Societies have risen from war, famine, corruption, and disinformation before. What distinguishes those that endure is not luck but the capacity to restore faith, rebuild institutions, and reclaim the narrative of possibility. Nigeria’s past shows remarkable ingenuity, cultural richness, and resilience. The country’s future will not be poorer if citizens, leaders, and communities dare to imagine it differently and act decisively.
The past may feel richer, but tomorrow can be reclaimed not as a shadow of yesterday but as a promise actively forged. The work is difficult. The stakes are immense, and the path is uncertain. Yet the alternative, passivity, mistrust, and despair, is a guarantee of continued impoverishment, both material and moral. To feel that tomorrow is poorer is to recognize a truth. Hope is fragile. Trust is earned. Prosperity, real, shared, and enduring, requires courage, imagination, and relentless action.
In a world where the future often feels poorer than the past, the essential question is no longer whether hope exists. It is whether we will choose to act to restore it.
– Inah Boniface Ocholi writes from Ayah – Igalamela/Odolu LGA, Kogi state.
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