An average Nigerian can be described as a survivor: someone who copes in every circumstance and has grown used to the words "hardship" and "managing" as part of daily life.
I often say, half in jest, that every Nigerian has a PhD in managing, because regardless of what is thrown at us, we always find a way to cope.
Last week, a fellow corps member and I were lamenting how quickly our N77,000 allowance disappears. She told me she had spent half of hers stocking up on groceries, only to end up throwing everything away.
Her area had been without power for over a week, and with no fuel to run a generator, everything in her freezer spoiled. She was understandably devastated and could not stop venting about the loss.
Over the years, we have held on to the hope of a better Nigeria, but it often feels as though every time we wish for improvement, things worsen. Abnormalities have become the norm: a struggling healthcare system, government hospitals frequently on strike, private hospitals charging exorbitant fees, and skilled doctors leaving the country in droves.
The lack of stable electricity and the steady rise in fuel prices have made it increasingly difficult for people to move around and sustain their businesses. Yet, despite these challenges, Nigerians keep surviving, "suffering and smiling," as we say.
We sometimes look back at 2016 with a strange sense of nostalgia. When fuel prices rose from N87 to N145 per litre, it felt like the world was ending.
There was outrage everywhere. People parked their cars, buses became scarce, and many resorted to trekking to work. If someone had told us that less than a decade later, we would be buying fuel for N1,300 per litre, we would have dismissed it as absurd. Today, the ripple effect is everywhere: a commuter who once paid N800 for a bus ride from Obalende to CMS now pays between N1,000 and N1,500 for the same journey.
The struggle is further compounded by a national grid that appears to be in a constant state of collapse. We go days, weeks, sometimes months without electricity. For the "common man," the impact is devastating.
The barber who can no longer afford fuel to power his clippers, the tailor forced to abandon her electric machine for a manual one in the sweltering heat, the cold-drink seller who has pivoted to selling gala and popcorn because ice has become a luxury, these are the quiet casualties of Nigeria's power crisis.
Families can no longer rely on freezers and are forced to cook in small portions, dismantling the bulk-buying culture that once helped low-income households manage costs. In many ways, we are paying for darkness, literally through estimated bills and figuratively through lost opportunities.
Perhaps, the most painful reality of this economic struggle is the mathematics of the minimum wage. Currently set at N70,000 per month, it barely covers a week's worth of basic feeding for a small family. It feels less like a salary and more like an afterthought.
In the 1990s, the University College Hospital, Ibadan, was among the best in the country, attracting patients from abroad. Today, that same institution has faced disruptions due to poor power supply, at times forcing the discharge of patients, including those in critical condition. Imagine a father being told to take his daughter home while she is still on a drip, given just enough to last a few hours, even though the journey home is much longer.
For the average citizen, healthcare has become a luxury. Public hospitals, once the last hope for the masses, are either on strike or lack basic equipment and drugs. I recently heard the story of a woman who lost her husband, not because his illness was untreatable, but because of the distance between their home and a functional hospital.
"We went to three different hospitals. The first was on strike. The second had no oxygen. By the time we reached the third, he was gone. He didn't die from his illness; he died from the distance between us and a working hospital," she said.
Hospitals should be places where people go to get better. In our reality, staying healthy has become a struggle. When those in authority turn a blind eye, the result is not just poor governance, but a trail of avoidable loss.
Life in Nigeria is not easy. The hardship is unfair and exhausting. Yet, through it all, we refuse to break. Colleagues share one car to save fuel, neighbours run generators in turns, and strangers come together to crowdfund medical bills.
We send N1,000, N2,000, N5,000 through WhatsApp groups and community associations. This is the "suffering and smiling" that Fela sang about. This is the Nigerian spirit, shaken but standing, bruised but unbroken.
The hustle continues. We find ways to cope and to support one another. But we should not have to manage forever; we deserve to thrive. Real change is necessary. It begins with us, supporting local businesses, holding leaders accountable, and refusing to normalise suffering.
While we wait for institutions to function as they should, we will keep hustling, sharing and, yes, smiling through the pain, not because we are content, but because we are resilient. And perhaps, sooner than we think, the hope we have held onto will finally yield results.
Until then, Nigerians will keep managing and surviving. The future depends on our ability to stay united and refuse to let hardship break our spirit.
Layi-Balogun, a corps member, can be reached via [email protected].