News Editor
A Nigeria that works for everyone is the dream of every citizen. However, the prospect of achieving such a noble vision has become more illusory by the day, as the material conditions of most Nigerians remain desperate. Change, it is often said, is the only permanent feature of human existence. Yet change, as a concept, is neither inherently good nor bad; it is essentially a neutral phenomenon whose meaning depends on its consequences, and what leadership makes of it.
Change can be social, political, economic, technological, or physical in nature. More importantly, it can be either constructive or destructive, depending on whose interests it advances or whose rights it undermines. In Nigeria – since the collapse of the first Republic – the odds have progressively been stuck against the citizens.
Governance, in its ideal form, exists to guarantee citizens opportunities for self-fulfilment, security, and the pursuit of happiness. The state is meant to create an enabling environment where individuals can pursue livelihoods, develop their talents, and contribute meaningfully to society in a sustainable manner. Scholars such as Charles Tilly and Samuel Huntington have provided lucid definitions of political change in relation to the people. Tilly (1978) sees political change as a people-driven phenomenon—a process in which social movements and collective action shape political outcomes. Huntington, on the other hand, views change largely as a result of institutional shifts (Huntington, 1968). In a country like Nigeria, where institutions have become compromised, the hope for meaningful change in material conditions and security may ultimately rest with the people themselves. They can replace underperforming leaders through the ballot box or the street. In such circumstances, the people themselves become the agents of change.
However, for citizens to effectively play this noble role, certain conditions must exist. Political scientists often argue that meaningful civic participation requires a minimum level of political awareness, education, and economic security. Citizens must be sufficiently enlightened to understand their rights and responsibilities. They must also possess the capacity to make independent political choices free from coercion or desperation, and to ensure that their votes count.
This is where the question of poverty becomes critical. In social science literature, poverty is commonly defined as the condition in which individuals lack the resources necessary to meet basic human needs such as food, clothing, shelter, healthcare, and education. The World Bank describes extreme poverty as living below a minimum income threshold necessary for survival, while sociologists broaden the concept to include relative deprivation—a condition in which individuals lack the resources needed to participate meaningfully in the social and economic life of their society.
Poverty in Nigeria does more than limit material wellbeing; it also constrains agency. Individuals trapped in chronic poverty often prioritise immediate survival over long-term political considerations. Their vulnerability makes them susceptible to manipulation, patronage, and vote-buying. Many become unsure of themselves and begin to perceive their rights as favours rather than entitlements. As a consequence, they are easily mobilised through divide-and-rule tactics. Political choices therefore become transactional—Indomie, rice, cash inducement, and other primordial appeals—rather than ideological. Their immediate concern is survival, often described in local political parlance as “stomach infrastructure.”
In such circumstances, the poor rarely assert themselves as instruments of systemic change. Their energies are largely consumed by the daily struggle to survive. This reality raises a troubling question in the Nigerian context. If a significant proportion of the population is poor—various studies suggest that over 60 percent of Nigerians live in multidimensional poverty (133 million in 2021, 139 million in 2025), according to the World Bank’s October 2025 report—how can meaningful democratic change occur? If the poor lack the capacity to act as effective agents of transformation, where then does the impetus for change originate? Studies in political sociology and revolutionary theory offer an interesting insight: while poverty alone rarely produces organised change, anger often does.
Anger, from a psychological standpoint, is defined as an emotional response to perceived injustice, threat, or violation of rights and expectations. Social psychologists describe anger as a mobilising emotion—one capable of motivating individuals and groups toward action, particularly when they believe established systems have failed them.
In political contexts, anger becomes a powerful force when it combines with awareness, identity, and a sense of injustice. Unlike the chronically poor, who struggle primarily with survival, the angry citizen often possesses a clearer sense of rights and expectations. Anger frequently emerges when individuals or groups believe they are being denied opportunities, dignity, or fairness that they legitimately deserve.
Such individuals are more likely to organise, protest, mobilise politically, or challenge authority. The angry citizen therefore differs from the poor in critical ways. Anger is often accompanied by awareness, a sense of dignity, and a vision worth defending. In this sense, anger can become a catalyst for political transformation. The 1993 NADECO-inspired protests against the annulment of the June 12 elections; the Arab Spring across North Africa and the Middle East (2010–2012); and the #EndSARS 2020 revolts in Nigeria all bore the hallmark of mobilised anger rather than the quiet resignation of the impoverished.
This distinction is important in understanding societies undergoing political strain. Nigeria today presents a peculiar situation where poverty is widespread while anger is steadily rising, alongside a government many perceive as more concerned with retaining power than responding to public sensibilities. Under such conditions, the potential agents of change may not necessarily emerge from the ranks of the poorest citizens but from the expanding Nigerian community of the aggrieved.
These include angry teachers and lecturers whose salaries and working conditions undermine their dignity; unemployed youths whose aspirations are trapped in an economy unable to absorb their talents; industrialists forced out of business by crippling access costs; farmers unable to access inputs or secure their harvests; politicians who believe electoral outcomes are manipulated; and even security personnel whose welfare is diverted into private pockets.
Other aggrieved groups include Berom farmers who cannot till their potato and acha farms, and Tiv yam farmers who are unable to cultivate their lands because of armed herdsmen. Rural dwellers in states such as Zamfara, Sokoto, Katsina, Niger, Kogi, Kwara, Kaduna, and Kebbi often cannot go to their farms due to insecurity and are sometimes forced to pay taxes or levies to bandits and insurgents. The Boko Haram/ISWAP-terrorised communities of Borno, Yobe, and Adamawa are equally angry. These crises have pushed an estimated 3.7 million people into IDP camps, aside from tens of thousands who have lost their lives (IOM, 2025).
The same frustration is felt by the ordinary traderv in the South-East who has been compelled to observe weekly sit-at-home orders enforced by IPOB. Likewise, communities in the oil-polluted environments of the Niger Delta continue to express deep resentment.
Beyond these growing pockets of anger are moral questions surrounding what many perceive as government insensitivity in national appointments. The rehabilitation of former critics—the Daniel Bwalas, Femi Fani-Kayodes, Reno Omokris, and others—and rewarding them with “plump” appointments sends a troubling signal that “verbal terrorism” pays. Such patronage ultimately erodes public trust in governance. There is nothing wrong in rehabilitating “repentant” foes in politics, but that should not qualify them for undue patronage.
It is okay to appreciate some of the related political wisdom out there, but with a caveat. One says, “you should keep your friends close, but your enemies closer.” Another maintains that “it is better to keep the enemy inside for him to direct his urination outside than to keep him outside for him to urinate inside.” Both adages are meant to facilitate closer monitoring and do not suggest that they should be given either access to the family wardrobe or the key to its safe.
The same concern arises in the case of individuals who are yet to clear serious allegations in court. The retention of the former governor of Zamfara State, now Minister of State for Defence, Bello Matawalle, is one example. More recently, the nomination of Hon. Jimoh Ibrahim as Nigeria’s Permanent Representative to the UN in New York has also generated controversy. Ibrahim has for years faced allegations involving corruption and commercial disputes, including unresolved claims reportedly running into tens of billions of naira involving AMCON. Some say to the tune of N69.4 billion!
Added to the growing pattern of perceived nepotistic federal appointments, such developments help explain why many citizens question the sincerity of the government’s reform agenda and its campaign against insecurity. The perception of ethnic bias in appointments continues to deepen public distrust. Even among many fair-minded South-Westerners, discomfort is growing over the extent to which the Presidency appears willing to pursue what critics describe as an ethnic agenda. Some argue that if earlier governments were criticised for similar tendencies, this administration had an opportunity to demonstrate a higher standard of national leadership.
Nigeria today is gradually producing a formidable population of angry citizens. They may not yet rival the size of the poor, but their numbers are growing steadily. History shows that when anger accumulates in societies without credible institutional outlets for redress, it often manifests in destabilising ways. Some citizens can bottle up their anger for a long while before venting them out. Others, however, resort to more dangerous paths. For those overwhelmed by frustration, criminality sometimes becomes both a form of protest and a desperate means of survival; a trend that could lead to a “state failure.”
Political scientists describe a “failing state” as a country whose government has lost the capacity or struggles to maintain security, enforce laws, provide basic services, control corruption, and command the confidence of their citizens. When these conditions persist, the state gradually loses its monopoly on authority, and non-state actors—criminal gangs, militias, insurgents—begin to fill the vacuum.
Today, none of Nigeria’s six geopolitical zones is entirely free of security flashpoints. Only a handful of the thirty-six states can confidently claim relative safety. The implication is clear: the state’s capacity to guarantee security and justice is being severely tested. This is precisely how states drift toward fragility.
Nigeria still has a window of opportunity to reverse course by restoring the rule of law, rebuilding public institutions, and expanding economic opportunity for all to calm the rising tide of frustration.
But that window will not remain open indefinitely. If those entrusted with power fail to act decisively, the growing nation of angry citizens may eventually impose change in ways that no one can predict or control. And when change comes in that manner, history shows that it rarely asks for permission. As for the poor, the hungry, and the angry in Nigeria, the task is to keep believing that “people’s power” resides within them—and that they can harness this collective strength to hold leaders at all levels accountable. Enough of endless lamentation; it is time to demand good governance.
A.G. Abubakar