Nigeria has no business with poverty. With our human and material

Host: The sun had long set over Lagos, leaving the city wrapped in a humid twilight, its skyline blinking with uneven lights — some from luxury towers, others from shanty settlements where generators groaned like wounded beasts. The street below the bridge was alive with motion: hawkers calling, buses honking, smoke rising from a roadside grill, the smell of roasted corn and diesel mingling in the air.

Inside a small roadside bar, the ceiling fan wobbled lazily. Posters of old politicians — faces now faded and torn — hung on the walls. Jeeny and Jack sat at a corner table, two bottles of warm beer between them.

Jeeny’s eyes caught the headline of an old newspaper taped near the counter — “Nigeria Has No Business With Poverty — Obasanjo.” She smiled, but it was the kind of smile that hides a wound.

Jeeny: “He said it decades ago, Jack. ‘Nigeria has no business with poverty.’ And yet here we are — a nation of talent, resources, and hope, still fighting to eat.”

Jack: He took a slow sip, his jaw tight. “Yeah. Nigeria has no business with poverty — but poverty has business with Nigeria. Big business. It’s become an industry, Jeeny. A career for the powerful.”

Host: The lights in the bar flickered, and for a moment, the darkness settled, revealing the faint hum of generators outside.

Jeeny: “You’re too cynical, Jack. We can’t just blame the powerful. People are trying. Look at the tech hubs in Yaba, the young entrepreneurs, the women in rural areas starting businesses from nothing. That’s what Obasanjo meant — we can rise. We have what it takes.”

Jack: “And yet most of them still beg the system for electricity, for roads, for a chance. You can’t build on hope alone. Nigeria’s riches have been cursed by greed. Oil should have been a blessing, but it became a trap.”

Jeeny: “So what, then? We just give up? Blame history and keep suffering?”

Jack: “I’m not saying that. I’m saying we need to stop pretending that potential equals progress. Having resources doesn’t mean you’ll use them. Ask the Niger Delta — they’ve been sitting on gold and living in mud.”

Host: A man with tired eyes walked past their table, selling peanuts from a tray. His shirt was torn, his feet bare, his face lined beyond his years. Jeeny watched him, her hands tightening around her bottle.

Jeeny: “You see him, Jack? That man. He’s not lazy, not ignorant. He’s a victim of a system that forgot him. And yet, every morning, he still wakes, still works, still believes tomorrow might be better. That’s the spirit Obasanjo was talking about — the belief that poverty can be erased, not endured.”

Jack: “Belief won’t feed his children. Belief won’t build schools or fix roads. You can’t preach prosperity into existence. Look, Jeeny, I’ve seen too many leaders promise change, only to eat the very change they were supposed to deliver.”

Jeeny: “But you’ve also seen people rise in spite of it. Remember that woman in Kano who built a solar business after losing everything in the floods? Or the students who crowdfunded their own school when the government failed them? Don’t tell me this country can’t fight back.”

Host: Her voice trembled, not with anger, but with the raw emotion of faith. Outside, a group of children ran past, laughing, their feet splashing in puddles. The sound rose into the night, innocent yet defiant.

Jack: “It’s not about whether they can fight, Jeeny. It’s about whether the system will ever let them win. Every time someone rises, something drags them back — corruption, inflation, power cuts, bribes. The game is rigged.”

Jeeny: “Then we change the game.”

Jack: He laughed, low and bitter. “Change the game? You can’t even play when the referee is bought.”

Jeeny: “But that’s exactly why we have to try. Every generation that fails to try only extends the chain. Obasanjo’s words weren’t just politics; they were a challenge — to believe in our own capacity. Nigeria has no business with poverty because we were never meant to be small.”

Host: The wind shifted, carrying the smell of rain and dust through the open doorway. A distant thunder rolled, like a warning or a promise.

Jack: “Then tell me this, Jeeny — if we have everything, why are our graduates selling phone cards? Why are our farmers abandoned while we import rice? Why are our hospitals empty of doctors but full of patients?”

Jeeny: “Because we forgot what it means to serve. Because we stopped seeing each other as citizens and started seeing each other as profits. But that doesn’t mean it’s too late.”

Jack: “You sound like one of those campaign jingles — all hope, no reality.”

Jeeny: “And you sound like one of those disillusioned dreamers who mistake their pain for wisdom. Look, Jack, cynicism isn’t intelligence — it’s wounded faith.”

Host: The words hung between them, heavy and tender, like a truth neither could fully deny. Jack looked away, watching the rain begin to fall again — soft, steady, cleansing.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I am wounded. I’ve just seen too many promises die in the heat of this country. Too many plans that looked good on paper but burned in practice.”

Jeeny: “But maybe that’s the point. Every generation has to bleed a little for the next one to heal. Poverty isn’t a curse; it’s a mirror — it shows us who we really are. And maybe we’re finally ready to see it.”

Host: The bar was now almost empty. The bartender leaned against the counter, half-asleep. The sound of the rain had softened, and the city outside glimmered through the wet glass, alive and aching.

Jack: “So what do you think Obasanjo would say now, if he could see all this?”

Jeeny: “I think he’d still say it — maybe with more pain, but also with more truth. Because even in the worst of times, we still have human and material resources. And as long as we have humans — not just resources — we still have hope.”

Host: Jack smiled, faintly, a rare crack in his usual armor. He reached for his beer, lifted it slightly toward her.

Jack: “To hope, then — the last currency that hasn’t collapsed.”

Jeeny: She laughed, softly. “And the only one that can still buy our future.”

Host: They clinked their bottles, the sound sharp, small, and strangely beautiful against the hum of the rain.

Outside, the city kept moving — buses, voices, thunder, dreams — all intertwined in that restless Nigerian rhythm that refuses to die.

In the reflection of the bar’s window, the poster of Obasanjo fluttered, as if the paper itself was breathing — not a promise, but a reminder:

That a nation with no business in poverty must first dare to do business with its own conscience.