This is my country

INTRODUCTION

It’s easy to speak about your country when things are going well
when the flags are flying, the people are smiling, the streets are safe, and the leaders are serving.
But for some of us, speaking about our country means digging into parts of ourselves we’ve tried to cover with laughter, survival, and fake hope.

This is my country.
I say that not with pride or shame I say it with truth.
And truth isn’t always pretty.

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🇳🇬 A Country That Raised Me With Both Hands and Fire

I was born into a country that both nurtured and neglected me.
Where I grew up, the power went out more than it stayed on.
We learned to read by candlelight, and sleep with one eye open during the heat.
We learned to adapt not because it was brave but because there was no other choice.

This country taught me how to hustle.

Not the Instagram kind.
The real kind the “wake by 5 a.m., fetch water, survive school without textbooks, come home and still help cook” kind.
We were raised in resilience, even though no one ever called it that.

We just called it life.

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When Health Becomes a Privilege

There was a time I watched someone die outside a hospital gate.
Not because there were no doctors but because no one would treat them without a card, without money, without papers.
That was the day I realized: in my country, health isn’t a right. It’s a luxury.

And yet, we survive.
With herbs. With prayers. With neighbors who’ll run to buy Panadol with their last ₦200.

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The Education They Promised

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I went to a school where the walls were cracked and the ceiling leaked.
Where teachers came late or not at all.
Where the only functioning tool was the cane.

Still, we learned.

Not because the system worked but because we wanted more.
More than sitting under mango trees during strike.
More than being told, “This is Nigeria, what do you expect?”

We expected everything.

We wanted a future where our voices would be louder than our pain.
And somehow, some of us are still chasing that.

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Where Justice Depends on Who You Know

Try reporting a crime.
Watch how fast they ask, “Do you know anybody here?”
Try being poor in court.
Watch how quickly your rights dissolve into silence.

Yet we believe in fairness.
We rally online. We protest. We speak.
We know deep down that one day the scales may tip in our favor.

Because if we don’t believe that, what’s left?

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But Then, There's the Other Side

For every hardship, there's still a heartbeat.
You hear it in our music.
You feel it in our food.
You see it in the way we laugh too loudly, too freely even with empty stomachs.

My country gave me pepper soup and pounded yam.
It gave me Afrobeat on hot afternoons.
It gave me neighbors who greet you like family, and street hawkers who can sell you anything with a smile.

My country gave me flavor, even when it couldn’t give me freedom.

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The Politics We Endure

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Every election, they come with bags of rice and promises.
Every four years, they switch colors but keep the same lies.

We queue in the sun. We pray our votes count.
But in the end, it always feels like we’re just watching a rerun of the same bad movie.

Still, we vote.
Still, we hope.

Not because we trust them
But because we trust ourselves to keep showing up until something changes.

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What Keeps Me Here?

Some say, “Why don’t you leave?”

But you see, my roots are here.
My story began here.
My language, my laughter, my scars they all carry this soil.

And even when I’m angry, when I swear I’m done with this place, I find myself defending it when outsiders mock it.
Because only we can talk about our mess.
Only we can fix it or at least try.

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This Is My Country And I’m Still Writing Its Story

I’ve learned that love for a country doesn’t always look like flags and fireworks.
Sometimes, love looks like staying.
Like speaking truth even when it’s dangerous.
Like calling out corruption, but still showing up to vote.

It looks like teaching your kids to be better than the leaders they see.
It looks like opening a small shop during fuel scarcity.
It looks like smiling at strangers, even after a hard day.

My country is broken.
But it’s mine.

And I refuse to only see it for what it lacks
because I’ve lived the part that gives too.

I’ve lived the part that dances during Christmas.
That shares food during Salah.
That cries during national football matches.
That gathers round to watch wedding videos like they’re blockbusters.

There’s a rhythm here.
A pulse.
A fire that won’t die.

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Final Words

So when you ask me,

“What’s your country like?”

I don’t say good or bad.
I say real.

Because this country my country is a blend of tears and triumphs.
Of failures and flavors.
Of pain and persistence.

And as long as I have breath in me,
I’ll keep writing.
I’ll keep building.
I’ll keep loving this place, in my own complicated, hopeful, honest way.

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I invite @ruthjoe @dove11 to take part in this contest