Dancing in Kaduna, Mourning in Sokoto: A tale of two Nigerias, by Hassan Ahmad
Nigeria has become a land of contradictions—where joy and sorrow, hope and despair, coexist side by side most painfully and shamefully. Just days ago, the political class and elite of this country gathered in Kaduna, adorning themselves in expensive fabrics and basking in glamour, to celebrate the marriage of the children of a former governor and serving senator. The images of jubilation—cheerful faces, flashing lights, luxurious banquets—flooded social media.
But at the very same moment, in Sokoto, Kebbi, Zamfara, and Katsina States, ordinary citizens were not gathering for ceremonies or celebrations. They were gathering for burials. They were carrying the lifeless bodies of their brothers, sisters, and children killed by bandits, wrapping them in simple white shrouds, and lowering them into shallow graves. For them, there were no music bands, no laughter, no photographs—only tears, anguish, and the hollow cries of helpless communities that have become familiar with the sting of violence and the silence of government.
This tragic irony captures, in one frame, the true story of Nigeria today: a nation of two realities. One Nigeria where the privileged live in affluence, insulated from the dangers that consume the masses, and another Nigeria where the poor struggle daily for survival under the weight of insecurity, poverty, and abandonment.
How can our political leaders rejoice so openly when their people are grieving? How can they raise toasts and exchange pleasantries while entire villages are being erased by banditry in the North-West? The contrast is not just shameful—it is morally unacceptable. Leadership is not merely about winning elections, holding offices, or distributing contracts. Leadership is about empathy, about being in touch with the pains of the people, and about standing with the oppressed, not dancing away from them.
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Unfortunately, the Nigerian political elite have mastered the art of celebrating amid sorrow. They seem to exist in a parallel world where national tragedies do not interrupt their personal pleasures. From Abuja to Lagos, from Kaduna to Port Harcourt, they obscenely display wealth, even when their citizens are trapped in hunger, displacement, and insecurity. They hire musicians to sing their praises while their people wail in the night, chased from their homes by the gunshots of terrorists.
In the North-West, the reality is different. In Sokoto, Kebbi, Zamfara, and Katsina, families are still struggling to reconcile with the deaths of loved ones. Mothers cry over the fresh graves of their children, farmers abandon their lands out of fear, and traders cannot move freely without the risk of being kidnapped. For these citizens, life has become a daily gamble—uncertain, fragile, and threatened.
Yet, their leaders, who swore oaths to protect lives and property, do not share in this pain. Instead of solidarity with the victims, they choose spectacles of luxury. Instead of convening emergency meetings to confront insecurity, they gather in halls decorated with flowers and chandeliers. Instead of mourning with the people, they laugh with one another over fine wines and delicacies.
This dangerous disconnection between leaders and citizens is what has deepened the crisis of governance in Nigeria. It shows a class that is not only detached from reality but also insensitive to the plight of those who elected them. It shows a leadership that has normalised insecurity, that no longer feels the urgency to act, and that sees no contradiction in celebrating weddings while funerals multiply across the land.
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The consequence of this widening gulf is mistrust. When citizens see their leaders dancing while they bury their loved ones, they lose faith in the state. When government officials appear more interested in celebrations than in solving insecurity, people conclude that they are on their own. And when this perception takes root, it becomes the breeding ground for chaos, anarchy, and disunity.
Nigeria cannot continue like this. We cannot remain a country where leaders and citizens live in two separate worlds—one of comfort and one of agony. Our leaders must understand that leadership is a sacred trust. It is about responsibility, sacrifice, and service, not personal enjoyment. True leaders pause their celebrations when their people are grieving. True leaders mourn with those who mourn and act swiftly to restore hope.
This is not to say that weddings should not be celebrated, or that politicians should not have private lives. But timing, empathy, and sensitivity matter. A leader who celebrates while his people are dying sends a message—whether intended or not—that the lives of ordinary citizens do not matter. That is a message too dangerous for a fragile country like Nigeria, where unity is already stretched thin and where insecurity has turned entire regions into killing fields.
The North, in particular, needs leaders who feel the pain of its people. It needs men and women who will not only visit bereaved families for photo opportunities but who will fight tirelessly to end the bloodshed. It needs leaders who will prioritise security over luxury, who will spend more on intelligence gathering than on lavish ceremonies, and who will stand firmly on the side of the masses rather than on the dance floors of privilege.
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Nigeria is bleeding. Our villages are emptying, our youth are perishing, and our mothers are weeping. This is no time for luxury weddings and empty celebrations. It is a time for sober reflection, collective action, and decisive leadership. Until our political class realises this, Nigeria will remain a country where weddings and burials happen on the same soil, but in two completely different worlds.
And that is the greatest tragedy of all.
Hassan Ahmad writes from Wuse, Abuja.
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