By Prof. MarkAnthony Nze

From Dancing While Nigeria Drowns

In Nigeria, poverty is not a crisis. It’s an asset—filed under “development opportunities,” padded into budget proposals, and converted into per diem on the way to yet another anti-poverty summit held in a five-star hotel. Here, starvation is not an emergency; it’s a line item.

This is a country where hunger is manufactured like cement and distributed like campaign flyers. Where suffering is not accidental, but strategic—calculated in spreadsheets, repackaged in infographics, and used to unlock foreign aid that disappears faster than power supply during NEPA hour.

Visit any rural community and you will encounter the same recurring scene—like a Nollywood rerun with no director’s cut: barefoot children with bellies swollen from more parasites than nutrients; women stirring empty pots like the steam alone might feed the future; men sitting on plastic chairs, eyes glazed with resignation, waiting for Jesus or JAMB—whichever comes first. The government calls them “empowered.” NGOs label them “success stories.” Politicians prefer “photo background.”

They are not citizens. They are evidence—posed in annual reports, pixelated on campaign billboards, immortalized in blurry photos beneath banners reading “We Care.”

Meanwhile, overhead, the engine of irony roars—a senator in a chartered helicopter, gliding over the very roads his constituency budget failed to repair. Too holy to touch the ground, he surveys the poverty like a safari tourist, occasionally waving down with benevolence from 5,000 feet.

He lands, eventually—not near the people, but at a private airstrip airbrushed with impunity. There, flanked by security personnel who earn more in allowances than a village teacher sees in years, he delivers a keynote address titled “Ending Inequality in Emerging Economies.” He quotes Thomas Piketty—badly. He misuses “marginal utility.” He mangles “socioeconomic.” He concludes, without irony, “We are committed to eradicating poverty.”

Then he boards another chopper to a golf resort.

The poor, meanwhile, remain beautifully weaponized. Campaign season? They are statistical goldmines. Post-election? They are instantly forgotten—until the next scandal requires a humanitarian distraction.

In Nigeria, hunger is not misfortune—it’s a masterpiece.

Fuel subsidies are removed with surgical precision, like a limb being amputated by a blindfolded butcher. Inflation is worshipped like a deity—unpredictable, untouchable, and always someone else’s fault. Market prices skyrocket like prayers from the desperate, while local farmers sell produce at prices that cannot buy the rope they’ll one day hang their debts with.

Ah yes, the rice pyramids—erected with national pride and televised like ancient wonders. Stacked with ceremonial zeal, they stand before an audience fed on propaganda. Behind them? Imported rice in silos. Because in Nigeria, even optics must be outsourced.

And when hunger finally screams too loudly to ignore, what do we get? A press release. A press conference. A governor in oversized agbada distributing two cups of rice, flanked by media houses and lies. A billboard that says “Better Days Ahead” while a malnourished child collapses beneath it from the unkind weight of nothingness.

Meanwhile, the elite are on a different diet—one seasoned with detachment and served with side dishes of foreign escape.

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Their taste buds live abroad. Their children speak with accents nurtured in boarding schools far from the reach of WAEC strikes. Their homes are guarded fortresses. Their food arrives pre-taxed and pre-approved by Swiss chefs. When bread triples in price, they send someone to check if croissants are still available.

When minimum wage becomes comedic, they offer motivational quotes. They urge the masses to “tighten their belts,” while theirs—leather, Italian, custom-fitted—expand under the pressure of imported beef flown in from Johannesburg at 2 a.m.

You see, in Nigeria, economics is not a science. It’s theatre. A magician stands at the podium in a poorly tailored suit, announcing policies that would make even a voodoo priest nervous. He says, “We are restructuring.” Translation: You’re on your own. He says, “This is a necessary sacrifice.” Translation: We’re about to eat your future.

And when the hunger bites, he’ll smile. “You are resilient,” he’ll say. “This is patriotism.”

No. This is planned misery.

Let us speak plainly: A country that cannot feed its people is not developing. It is decaying. It is not a nation—it is a plantation. A place where the few fly in helicopters while the many crawl in hunger. Where the masses bleed for headlines, and the powerful toast to “economic transformation” with Moët and muffled laughter.

This is the Nigeria of hunger and helicopters. Of fake reforms and real funerals. A place where suffering is monetized, hunger is televised, and the poor remain perpetually posed—for the next campaign, for the next fund, for the next lie.

We are not in a republic. We are in a reality show. And the hunger is real.

Professor MarkAnthony Ujunwa Nze is a distinguished Nigerian-born investigative journalist, public intellectual, and global governance analyst, whose work spans critical intersections of media, law, and policy. His expertise extends across strategic management, leadership, and international business law, where he brings a nuanced understanding of institutional dynamics, cross-border legal frameworks, and executive decision-making in complex global environments.

Currently based in New York, Professor Nze serves as a full tenured professor at the New York Centre for Advanced Research. There, he spearheads interdisciplinary research at the forefront of governance innovation, corporate strategy, and geopolitical risk. Widely respected for his intellectual rigor and principled advocacy, he remains a vital voice in shaping ethical leadership and sustainable governance across emerging and established democracies.

Africa Today News, New York