2027—And They Will Deceive Us Again -By Prince Charles Dickson Ph.D

The road into State X, Local Government Y, Community Z is not a road. It is a long, angry paragraph written in the handwriting of neglect. Every sentence is a pothole. Every comma is a gully. Every full stop is an erosion crater daring your shock absorbers to fear God. We did 10 kilometres in more than an hour, crawling like penitents on pilgrimage. At some point our vehicle began to ask philosophical questions about destiny: “What exactly did I do to deserve this combustion-engine wickedness?”

By the time we arrived, we were no longer human beings. We had turned into red-dust sculptures; our black car had converted to fire-brick brown. Even the Toyota logo on the grille seemed to whisper, “Now you understand why politicians love Hilux. See your life.”

But this is not just about bad roads. It is about a broken covenant between leaders and the led. It is 2Baba’s lament unfolding in real-time, in real dust, before real people who deserve better.

Because, truly: “E be like say dem wan tell us wetin we never hear before…”

Community Z has no water. Not that the water is poor. It is nonexistent. The sun sits on their heads like a tax collector. Climate change is not a conference term here; it is a daily bully. You can see it etched into the cracked earth, the exhausted farmlands, the choking harmattan haze, and the children’s eyes.

And the children; my God, the children are not in school. They trek to the minefields instead, those treacherous places where hope and hazard sleep on the same mat. Once upon a time, those were pits for minerals. Today, they are also killing fields, swallowing boys whose names will never make a headline.

Yet, by some strange twist of fate, someone once remembered this place and dropped a crumb of development; a rural solar electrification point blinking like a lonely firefly refusing to die. That is the only thing in Z that glows with dignity.

Z has a primary school. A former governor attended it. You would weep to see it now. The windows are shattered, the classrooms wounded, the desks look like they are calling for last rites. It is the kind of place where if you go in with a headache, you will come out with malaria, depression, and an unsolicited PhD in hopelessness.

Local Government Y has produced a two-term governor, a two-term senator, a House of Representatives member, a state assembly member, a commissioner, councillors, and plenty of “we are working” public office holders sprinkled across MDAs.

Yet, you cannot find one single one-star hospital in the entire space. Not even a clinic with dignity. The one we saw had window blinds broken like the promises of their politicians.

And hotels? The one that stood by the roadside looked like it was built by angels on suspension. Just reading the signboard felt like suicidal ideation. Even your shadow will tell you, “My guy, let’s sleep inside the car.”

This is leadership in Y: they don’t live among their people. They orbit around city centres like migrating birds and only return when the monthly federal allocation arrives. They come home the way masquerades come out during festivals—briefly, ceremonially, and never for service.

And meanwhile the billions keep coming.

As we navigated this tragic topography, 2Baba kept echoing in my mind like a prophet who warned Nigerians but Nigerians did not listen: “E be like say dem wan act another movie again oh…”

Because every election cycle, they wear new agbada, rehearse old speeches, dust their village names, invoke ancestors they abandoned, swallow saliva with artificial humility, and promise the same transformation they never delivered.

And we—sentimental, forgiving, hopeful citizens—sometimes allow ourselves to believe their stories again. Even when they are clearly bad actors performing the same script we have watched since 1999.

2Baba said it sharply:

“The power is nothing if your people cannot get quality education.”

“The power is nothing if your people keep on dying of disease and starvation.”

“The power is nothing if your people have no peace.”

In Z, power is nothing. Influence is nothing. Representation is nothing. Governance is nothing. All that exists is the evidence of abandonment.

It is the kind of place that makes you whisper, “If Jesus was born here, even the wise men would have turned back.”

Another election year will come.

They will descend from their city mansions like benevolent conquerors.

They will hold children whose names they will forget in five minutes.

They will sit under mango trees for photo ops.

They will shake hands with elders they never call back.

They will dance galala with hired drummers.

They will tell stories again.

They will code another coding again.

They will act another movie again.

They will borrow our suffering for the campaign, then return it after victory.

And the cycle will continue because the system is engineered to recycle neglect.

Somewhere between the dust and despair, I found myself laughing. Not because anything was funny, but because sometimes humor is the last surviving muscle of sanity. When your car is praying for deliverance, the hotel is auditioning for “Most Haunted Building,” and the clinic blinds look like they fought Boko Haram and lost, what else can you do?

A villager even told me, “Oga, if una wan stay for hotel, better sleep for motor. Na advice I dey give you.” Wisdom from the trenches.

But beneath the laughter is a truth made of granite: Nigeria should not be like this. Z should not be like this. Our people should not be like this.

And yet, unless something shifts in our collective spine, in our civic memory, in our refusal to be manipulated.

They will deceive us again.

And again.

And again.

Until we decide that dust roads and broken schools are not our destiny—May Nigeria win!