To meet the expectations of the majority of our people, and to

Host:
The night had just fallen over Lagos, the city shimmering under a blanket of humid air and neon lights. The streets were still alive — vendors calling, cars honking, laughter spilling from bars, and somewhere in the distance, a radio played a speech from a bygone era — the voice of a leader who once dreamed of a committed Nigeria.

Inside a quiet rooftop bar, Jack and Jeeny sat opposite each other, the city’s light reflecting on their faces. Jack leaned back, cigarette glowing faintly between his fingers, while Jeeny sat upright, her eyes like embers, burning with hope and frustration.

A soft breeze carried the smell of fried plantain and diesel. The conversation began — low, deliberate, like drums before a storm.

Jeeny: “You know, Jack, I was listening to that old speech from Ibrahim Babangida — ‘To meet the expectations of the majority of our people... there must be a truly committed leadership in a democratic Nigeria.’ It still gives me chills. Imagine how different things could be if that dream had taken root.”

Jack: smirks, exhaling smoke into the dim light. “Dreams don’t feed people, Jeeny. Commitments fade. Democracies stumble. You talk about committed leadership like it’s a seed you can just plant and water. Nigeria’s been watering that soil for decades — nothing grows but weeds.”

Jeeny: “That’s because we’ve been planting in poisoned ground. The seed isn’t the problem, Jack — it’s the gardener. Commitment isn’t a slogan; it’s sacrifice. Look at Mandela, or even Thomas Sankara — men who led with their lives on the line. They weren’t perfect, but they believed.”

Host: The wind picked up, lifting a paper from the table. Jack caught it midair, his eyes sharp, his jaw tense. The night hummed with traffic, the city’s pulse like a heartbeat that refused to rest.

Jack: “Belief doesn’t build infrastructure. You can’t believe your way into working electricity or clean water. Mandela had a unified people. Sankara had idealists. Here? We’ve got survivors — everyone just trying to get through the day.”

Jeeny: “That’s exactly why leadership matters! When people survive long enough without vision, they stop dreaming. A committed leader gives direction. Do you think Singapore would be where it is without Lee Kuan Yew’s stubborn dedication? Or that Ghana’s progress under Nkrumah was an accident?”

Jack: “Singapore isn’t Nigeria, Jeeny. Different soil, different history. You can’t export integrity like palm oil. Leadership in a democracy isn’t about messiahs; it’s about systems. The system is broken — that’s the disease, not the men in the seats.”

Jeeny: leans forward, her voice trembling but fierce. “And who builds systems, Jack? Ghosts? Machines? No. People do. People with conviction. Every revolution began with one person who refused to accept rot as destiny.”

Host: Jeeny’s words hung in the humid air, the buzz of a neon sign flickering above them. Jack looked away, his expression unreadable. Somewhere below, a street preacher was shouting about redemption, his voice carried up through the city’s layers of noise.

Jack: “Conviction doesn’t pay salaries. Let’s be real. A leader can mean well, but if corruption is woven into the fabric, his good intentions become just another headline. Nigeria’s problem isn’t leadership; it’s the architecture of greed. Everyone’s waiting for their turn at the table.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe we need to break the table.”

Jack: pauses, a faint grin crossing his face. “That’s poetic, Jeeny. But tell me, who will build the new one? You think the masses, hungry and tired, have the luxury to care about ideals? They’ll sell that new table before it’s even built.”

Jeeny: “Not if someone teaches them the value of ownership — of belonging. Democracy isn’t just voting every four years; it’s daily participation. A committed leader reminds people of their power. Babangida’s words weren’t empty — they were a challenge. To stand a fair chance in one lifetime. Don’t you see how human that is?”

Host: A silence fell. The city below seemed to pause, the air thick with reflection. Jack looked at Jeeny, and for a moment, his grey eyes softened — a glimpse of something buried, perhaps belief, perhaps regret.

Jack: “You speak like you still believe change is possible. I used to. Until I saw men promise reform by day and steal by night. Until I saw communities left in darkness while leaders celebrated ‘progress’ under chandeliers. Commitment sounds noble, but power corrupts faster than light travels.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe the answer isn’t power, but purpose. Commitment isn’t about perfection, Jack — it’s persistence. Even if one leader falls, another must rise. Every nation that grew had its share of betrayal and rebirth.”

Jack: “Purpose can’t survive without accountability. Look around — how do you hold leaders accountable when people trade their conscience for rice and cash at election time?”

Jeeny: “You start by changing the story they believe about themselves. You don’t shout at a drowning man for gasping — you pull him up. People have been drowning here for too long, and leaders keep promising boats they never build. Maybe it’s time someone swam alongside them.”

Host: Jeeny’s voice was almost a whisper, but it cut through the noise like steel through silk. Jack’s hand stilled above his glass, the ice inside it slowly melting into clarity. The moonlight touched their faces, and for the first time, they both looked like believers — in something fragile, but real.

Jack: “You really think one leader could ignite all that?”

Jeeny: “Not one leader — one generation of them. Committed, democratic, imperfect but determined. Leadership isn’t magic; it’s mentorship. It’s planting trees you’ll never sit under.”

Jack: sighs, nodding slowly. “That line — I heard it once. Maybe from an old professor. He said nations die when men stop planting those trees.”

Jeeny: “Then let’s start planting again.”

Host: The bar’s lights flickered, a generator sputtered, then hummed back to life. The city below roared again — a beast both beautiful and broken, yet still breathing.

Jack stood, looking out over the rooftop, his expression a mixture of weariness and awakening. Jeeny joined him, their shadows merging against the faint glow of the skyline.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right, Jeeny. Maybe leadership isn’t just about the ones in power — maybe it’s about the ones who refuse to give up on them.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Leadership begins where cynicism ends. A truly committed Nigeria doesn’t start in the State House — it starts in hearts like ours.”

Host: And so they stood, two silhouettes against a restless city, their conversation now folded into the sound of waves, horns, and hope. The quote that began as rhetoric had become prayer — not for a leader, but for a generation willing to believe again.

As the first light of dawn touched the edges of the sky, the world below continued — imperfect, flawed, but still alive, still possible.

And in that moment, Jack and Jeeny realized: commitment wasn’t about governments, or even leaders. It was about people — who still choose to care, even after hope had been burned and rebuilt, again and again.

Host: The sun rose, slow and tender, over the city, as if forgiving it for its failures. And somewhere, between the light and the dust, the dream of a democratic, committed, Nigeria breathed — quietly, stubbornly, like the heartbeat of a people not yet defeated.