Dear Nation: Letters From A Hopeful Heart -By Oluwaleye Adedoyin Grace

They say hope is a dangerous thing, but I choose to take the risk.

In a land where dreams shrink beneath the weight of inflation, and laughter has become something we borrow, not own. I still hope stubbornly, maybe foolishly but sincerely. I write this, not as a writer with the answers, but as a citizen with a broken voice. One that cracks under the pressure of watching too much pain become normal.

I write to you not from a place of plenty but from the hollow of survival where mothers trade pride for a cup of rice, and fathers vanish behind the burden of broken promises. Where the leaders of tomorrow, meant to run through playgrounds, are instead running through traffic, hawking “pure water” and gala on every traffic road.

This is not just an article. It is a letter. Letter not written on paper but etched into skin and on the bodies of mothers who go to bed on an empty stomach so their children can eat once a day. On the faces of fathers whose backs are bent under the load of providing what they can no longer afford. On the voices of youths who speak in silence, because to dream now feels like rebellion.

LETTER TO THE FORGOTTEN
I write to the student who juggles through different types of works like teaching children in the evening and in the midnights, staying up to write projects for others just to earn what will sustain them for two more days. You remember when education was hope. But now, it is a gamble. Students shuffle between street vending and midnight reading, praying that their effort will buy them the ticket out of poverty even though the train rarely stops for people like them anymore. I see you. Nigeria may not, but I do.

I write to many young parents who are finding it increasingly difficult to raise children due to soaring prices of essentials like baby formula, diapers, and food. Some families have resorted to rationing meals and skipping essentials to cope with the economic strain. Over 31 million people already face food insecurity, not just numbers, but neighbors, classmates, and mama Khadijat who sells tomatoes by the road side. My soul bends beneath the burden of Mrs. Njideka Mmaduabuchi of Lagos who has reported that the new mode of survival in her home is skipping meals to survive. She reports that her family sometimes forgoes two meals a day, depending on availability.

Security remains a significant concern, with ongoing threats from militant groups like Boko Haram and the Islamic State West Africa Province. Let’s remember the 23 farmers and fishermen who were killed, and others abducted in an attack by suspected Islamist militants in Borno State. This attack is attributed to Boko Haram and the Islamic State West Africa Province. Don’t forget the Chibok Girls Abduction.

What about the lost souls? My heart breaks with the lifeless body of Amarachi Ugochukwu, a 32-year-old marketing employee at a bank in Ikorodu, Lagos, who tragically ended her life by ingesting a poisonous substance within the bank premises. In her suicide note, she expressed despair over her life’s circumstances, citing low work performance, mental exhaustion, and the deteriorating economy as reasons for her decision. What about Arikekpar Lucky, a 200-level History and Diplomacy student at the Federal University, Otuoke, Bayelsa State who allegedly committed suicide to avoid being labeled a failure by his family due to academic challenges.

What about accommodation and shelter? families still sleep under the bridge. In the scorching sun, they are there. In the raining days, they are there. Let’s remember Liya’u Sa’adu who has spent 30 years living under the Obalende Bridge in Lagos. At 60, he considers himself a guardian for the growing community of over 60 homeless individuals residing there. Many of these residents, unable to afford even the most basic housing, face frequent police raids and must pay up to ₦500 nightly to local hoodlums for “security.”

A LETTER TO THE ONES WHO SERVED, AND WERE LEFT BEHIND

To those who served and were left behind, your labor was not in vain. Though the system may have turned its back, we see you. We remember the sweat you gave, the sacrifices you made, and the dignity with which you served. You built the roads we walk on, taught the minds we now depend on, protected the walls that still stand. You are not forgotten. You are the silent pillars of this nation.

Dear Mama Ruth,

This letter is specifically for you. I saw you today sitting beneath the shade of the mango tree in front of your house, clutching your file like it holds the hope of a lifetime. Your wrapper was worn, your eyes dimmed, but your spirit, still waiting. Still expecting.

They promised you comfort after service. They told you retirement was rest. But where is the rest in standing for hours under the sun? Where is the dignity in begging for what you earned?

Mama, you gave thirty-five years to this country. You woke early, taught in classrooms, cleaned dusty offices, cared for sick patients, signed papers till your fingers ached. Now, you are made to plead for pensions delayed for months, even years. They say the files are missing, or the system is down. But the hunger in your belly is very present.

How did we become a country that forgets those who built her? How did we turn blind eyes to grey hairs and tired bones?

You are not just a number in a queue. You are not just one of many. You are the story of Nigeria’s past. And you deserve better in her present.

I remember you, Mama Ruth. And I write, I speak, we fight until the nation does too.
With all the love in my hopeful heart,
A Voice for the Forgotten

LETTER TO THE FATHER WHO PRETENDS TO BE STRONG

Mr. Lanre, you used to smile. You remember, don’t you?

Before the cost of rice tripled, before landlords evicted families like they were pests, before school fees became a punishment instead of a promise.

You hide it well.

The sigh you let out before you step into the house. The silence at the dinner table. The way you look at your children like you’re apologizing for a life you couldn’t afford to give them even though none of this is your fault.
You wake up before the sun and return when it’s long gone, and still, there’s barely enough to show for it. Rent unpaid. School fees knocking. Your wife asking what the plan is, and all you have are prayers long ones, whispered into clenched fists.

You were told to “man up,” to “provide,” to “never complain.” So you carry it all, the bills, the fear, the shame — like it’s part of your skin. And even when you break, you do it quietly. In the toilet. In the dark. In traffic. In the midnight. Alone.

This letter is for you, the father who measures his worth by the weight of his wallet, who feels like a failure because he can’t afford three square meals, who carries the guilt of a broken economy like it’s a personal sin.
You are not a failure.

You are a man doing his best in a country that keeps moving the goalposts. And even though the world may not see you, I do.

I see the way you fight to stay hopeful, to stay present, to stay alive, not for yourself, but for your children. That is love. That is strength. That is fatherhood.
Hold on. You matter.

LETTER TO THE MOTHER
Chukwuemeka only had fever. Just a fever.
And if life were fair, you would have walked into a hospital and walked out with your baby smiling again. But the hospital asked for deposits you did not have, and they sent you home to watch your child die in your arms not because medicine failed, but because money spoke louder than life. You carry his memory like a wound, not a photo. And no one hears your screams at night when the silence presses too hard.

A cry of Uduak Eyo, a 37-year-old mother from Akwa-ibom, who lost her job at a local eatery due to economic downturns. This loss led to increased domestic abuse from her husband, who blamed her for their financial struggles. The economic hardship has not only strained families financially but also exacerbated gender-based violence in the region.

My heart aches for you, Mama Shade. I see you, with your tired legs, walking through the rain, looking for something, anything to feed your child. The streets are empty, the market is closing, and you have only one thing left to trade: your hope. You trade your dignity, your time, your energy just so that your child won’t go to bed hungry. In a nation where inflation makes it hard to afford food, you do what you can. You go without meals just so your child can eat. I know the system has failed you, Mama Shade. And yet, you are still standing, still fighting, still feeding your child.

My sorrow echoes in the cry of Mrs. Suliyat Abdulrasaq, a 42-year-old widow in Abuja who relies on her pepper-grinding business to support her three children. Due to the economic crisis, she has been unable to send money to her eldest daughter in school and has had to withdraw her younger children from school.
This is not how it should be. And you deserve more.

LETTER TO THE FORGOTTEN YOUTH
You were never born to be a kidnapper.
You spent years to have that MBBS. And more years because of the endless strike and finally you wore a convocation gown. Your mother danced. Your father cried tears of pride. But no job came. And every application you sent became a paper grave. Then someone whispered about quick money. And slowly, you became what you never dreamed. This is not to excuse you. It is to say: our nation failed you. It turned hunger into a motivator, turned crime into a strategy. You, too, are a victim just wearing the face of a villain.

Due to the poor economy, some has given up on education. Let’s remember Michael from OAU who made a decision to drop out due to financial constraints decided to leave school due to the inability to pay increased tuition fees. He had been self-funding his education through menial jobs but found it unsustainable. His mother confirmed the family’s financial struggles, emphasizing the broader issue of educational affordability. Also, Emmanuel Nnamani, a 400-level student at Covenant University, dropped out during his first semester of the fourth year due to financial difficulties. Despite efforts by classmates to raise funds for his return, he declined, citing additional logistical challenges.

LETTER TO THE GOVERNMENT
You come to us when the drums of elections begin to beat. You smile wide, arms open, feet dusty from the market sands. You shake hands with the pepper sellers, you laugh with the tomato women. You visit the orphanage homes, cradle babies in your arms as cameras flash. You go to the prisons, promising freedom, redemption, and hope. You speak of good roads, steady electricity, affordable shelter. You say all the right words. You paint the future with golden strokes.
And we believe you.
But once the ballots are counted, and the seats are warmed, you vanish.
The laughter fades. The markets you once walked become strangers to your steps. The orphans wait for your return. The prisoners remember your promises. We remember. And we wait.

But all we are left with are broken words, like ashes in our mouths. You promised us heaven, but gave us silence. You pledged us light, but left us in darkness. You said you’d come back, but your footsteps have long gone cold.
You left us desolate with nothing but the fragile hope that maybe, someday, you will remember us. That maybe, someday, your promises will become more than wind.

Dear government, do you see us?
Not during elections. No, we see the branded rice and dancing campaigns. We’re asking if you see us now on days when the sun burns and the road eats our feet. Do you hear the market women whisper to each other, “Just buy crayfish and use maggi, that’s all we can do today”? Do you hear the tears of a family that lost its breadwinner to stroke because he could not afford ₦2,000 for drugs?

Do you feel the frustration of Alhaji Musa who can’t provide for his families because the price of fuel has tripled? Do you hear the cry of Mrs. Teresa who lost her only child after 15 years of childlessness due to unavailability of quality infrastructure in the hospital? do you see the pain of children battling with sicknesses because their parent could not afford the high medical expenses? Do you see the tears of the students struggling to stay in school and at the same time, trying to make mama proud?

CONCLUSION
This is not a story of a few isolated incidents; it is the daily reality for millions. Yet, within this struggle, there is an unyielding spirit that refuses to be broken. We are a nation of survivors, but survival is not enough anymore.
I write these letters not only to mourn what has been lost but to ignite a spark of hope that can light the way forward. Because hope is not naive-it is courageous.
I dream because giving up is too expensive.
I write because silence has never healed a wound.

To every mother, father, student, and youth: your fight is seen, your pain acknowledged, and your dreams valid. To our leaders: the time to listen, to act, and to heal is now.

Dear nation, I won’t romanticize your wounds. I will tell them, and name them until you are forced to heal. I will keep writing these letters until they stop being cries and become blueprints. Until every line becomes a law, every paragraph a policy, and every word a whisper of justice.

Because the dream is tired… but not dead.

Yours in Hope,

Oluwaleye Adedoyin Grace.
Ahmadu Bello University, Zaria.
Email: oluwaleyeadedoyingrace@gmail.com
Phone: 08106289069