By Prince Charles Dickson Ph.D.
One dies according to one’s weight; the robin does not die and make a resounding noise “on hitting the ground.” (One acts according to one’s worth.)
Once upon a time, in the great and blessed land of Naija, where crude oil flowed like palm wine but the people still struggled to buy kerosene, there came a curious policy—one that would change the way Nigerians saw breakfast forever. It was the year 2012, and the government, in its infinite wisdom, decided that the future of the nation lay in cassava bread.
Now, Naija was a land of many riches. There was crude oil, gold, vast fertile land, and, most importantly, cassava—plenty of cassava. If you asked the big men in Abuja, they would tell you that cassava was the answer to all our problems. Hunger? Eat cassava. Poverty? Export cassava. Bad roads? Well, maybe cassava could even fix that. The people of Nigeria, however, knew better.
The president, a gentleman from the creeks, stood before the nation and declared, with all the seriousness of a man about to change history, that cassava bread was the future. It was a patriotic duty, a revolutionary move. Nigerians must embrace cassava as their daily bread. They called it economic transformation. The people called it another government comedy skit.
Now, let me tell you about the Budget of Cassava. That year, the government released its financial plans with plenty of big grammar and economic jargon that would confuse even the spirits of our ancestors. The budget was in trillions—yes, trillions of naira. But when you looked closely, 52% of it was just to pay salaries, allowances, and the luxury lifestyles of those in power.
Security got a fat chunk—19%. Yet, armed robbers and kidnappers were working overtime. Power, the same power that had refused to improve since the days of NEPA, got a pitiful 3.4%. Transportation got a disgraceful 1.2%, and agriculture—the same agriculture they were shouting about—got a miserable 1.7%. Even water, which was supposed to help us swallow the cassava bread, received a shameful 0.8%.
“Dem no dey shame?” the people asked.
But as always, Naija leaders had no shame.
When the president announced his cassava revolution, Nigerians did not protest. Instead, they watched—because Naija people had seen many things. The question was simple: where were the cassava bakeries?
Mr. President had assured Nigerians that cassava bread was the way forward. So, people expected to see bakeries springing up across the country, employing workers, producing affordable bread, and strengthening the economy. But, like many government promises before it, cassava bread remained an idea—one that only existed in budget proposals and policy documents.
If you went to the bakery in your neighborhood and asked for cassava bread, the baker would look at you like you had just asked for a spaceship. Nobody was making cassava bread, but somehow, the government was still spending money on it.
Meanwhile, in Aso Rock—the fortress of power—things were different. There, food was not a problem. While the ordinary Nigerian struggled to afford a loaf of bread, Aso Rock was spending N205 million on food. That was enough to buy almost 30,000 bags of rice.
At a time when millions of Nigerians could barely afford two meals a day, the leaders were feasting like kings. While the common man chewed on dreams, the elite dined on reality. And when they were not eating, they were spending millions of naira on reading glasses—because their eyes had started failing them. Maybe that was why they couldn’t see the suffering of the people.
Every year, Nigerians hear the same old story. “We will fix the power sector,” they said. “We will improve education,” they promised. “We will build roads,” they swore. But the more money they budgeted, the worse things got.
In those days, if you traveled on a Nigerian highway, you had to pray. Not just because of armed robbers and bad roads, but because if you were lucky enough to escape those two, a trailer with no brakes could end your journey permanently.
Yet, every year, trillions were allocated to “road construction.” If you asked where the roads were, you would be directed to a paper document in a government office—because in reality, the roads only existed in budgets, not in real life.
Electricity? Ah, my brother, let’s not even go there.
The education sector was another tragedy. Every year, billions were allocated. But if you looked at the schools, you would wonder where the money went. Universities were always on strike. Students spent more time at home than in class. ASUU—the lecturers’ union—was always fighting with the government, like a married couple in a never-ending quarrel.
Laboratories had no equipment. Classrooms had no chairs. But the leaders’ children? Ah, they were studying abroad, where the schools were functioning. After all, who wanted their child to attend a school where lecturers went on strike every six months?
Then there was the case of the missing medals. In 2011, the government had given awards to some Nigerians—both deserving and undeserving. There was a grand ceremony, speeches, and photo sessions. But one month later, many of the honorees still had not received their medals or certificates.
The Secretary to the Government of the Federation (SGF), Pius Anyim, had promised that the awards would be delivered “in one week.” But like everything else in government, one week turned into months.
If a government could not even distribute 355 medals properly, how could it manage trillions of naira?
Back to cassava bread. Nigerians watched as the government pushed its agenda. But where was the cassava bread? Where were the factories? The bakeries? The jobs?
If Mr. President truly believed in cassava bread, where was the evidence? Could he point to 15 bakeries in 15 states that made only cassava bread and were profitable? Did they have a stable power supply? Good road networks? Workers earning good wages?
The answer, of course, was no.
And so, as the days passed, the great cassava revolution faded into memory, just like many other government projects before it.
The bitter irony of Nigeria was this: the more money the country made, the more the people suffered. The government had turned the economy into a circus, where promises were made for entertainment and budgets were designed to deceive.
A wise man once said, “If dem give you cassava bread, chop am. If tomorrow dem say na yam bread, chop am. If e finish, na hunger go teach you lesson.” Nigerians had learned not to expect much.
And so, the great cassava revolution became another chapter in the never-ending book of Nigeria’s Comedy of Errors. The government had spoken, the people had suffered, and in the end, as always, time would tell
