When Leaders Keep The Antelope’s Flesh And Serve The People Intestines -By Isaac Asabor

There is an enduring lesson in African folklore about leadership, generosity and justice. It is the story of a hunter who returns from the forest after successfully killing a fat antelope. The entire village celebrates his fortune because, in many African communities, a successful hunt is not merely a private achievement; it is a communal blessing. The expectation is that the hunter will share the bounty, especially with neighbours, elders and the less fortunate.

But this particular hunter has a different idea. He carefully separates the choicest parts of the animal, the succulent thighs, the ribs, the liver and the tender flesh, and keeps them for himself and his family. When neighbours gather in anticipation of sharing in the harvest, he hands them only the intestines and expects them to be grateful. The villagers return home disappointed, not because intestines are worthless, but because the hunter has exposed his selfishness. He has enjoyed the best while asking others to be content with what is left. The foregoing timeless story has become a fitting metaphor for governance in contemporary Nigeria.

It also offers perhaps the clearest lens through which to understand the public outrage that greeted First Lady Remi Tinubu’s suggestion that Nigerians should consider earning a living through small businesses such as frying akara, roasting corn and making kuli-kuli.

The backlash was immediate and intense. Social media erupted with criticism. Political commentators questioned the sensitivity of the remarks. Market conversations reflected frustration rather than appreciation. To some observers, the reaction appeared excessive. After all, what is wrong with encouraging entrepreneurship? The answer is simple. Nothing is wrong with entrepreneurship.

However, everything is wrong with asking people to celebrate survival when they expected prosperity. That is why the controversy was never really about akara. It was about the widening gulf between the lived realities of ordinary Nigerians and the perceived comfort enjoyed by those who govern them.

Nigeria is a nation whose people have never been afraid of hard work. Across cities and villages, millions earn honest livelihoods through petty trading, farming, tailoring, transportation, food vending, hairdressing, vulcanising and countless other informal businesses. Akara sellers, roasted corn vendors and kuli-kuli producers deserve admiration, not ridicule. Their resilience keeps families alive and communities functioning.

Indeed, many of Nigeria’s most successful entrepreneurs began with little more than determination, a modest capital base and a willingness to work. Therefore, the criticism that followed the First Lady’s comments should never be mistaken as contempt for small-scale enterprise.

Rather, it reflected growing public discomfort with a political culture that often appears to reserve the rewards of governance for the few while asking the majority to lower their expectations.

This is where the hunter’s story becomes especially instructive. The problem was never the intestines. The problem was that the hunter kept the flesh.

Across Nigeria today, many citizens increasingly feel that they are constantly being asked to bear the burden of economic adjustment while the political elite continue to enjoy privileges that remain untouched by the hardship confronting the rest of society.

Citizens are urged to tighten their belts. Government expenditures often appear anything but restrained. Workers are encouraged to endure.

Political officeholders continue to travel in large convoys. Families struggle with rising school fees. Public officials often educate their children abroad.

Patients queue endlessly in poorly equipped hospitals. Political leaders frequently seek medical treatment overseas. Businesses battle soaring electricity costs and unreliable power supply.

Government offices remain powered. These contrasts shape public perception far more than speeches ever can. Leadership is not judged solely by policy announcements. It is judged by visible fairness.

People willingly endure sacrifice when they believe that everyone, including those at the top, is sharing in it.

History repeatedly demonstrates this truth. During moments of national crisis, citizens have accepted painful reforms when leaders first reduced their own privileges. When governments cut waste, reduce extravagance and visibly embrace austerity before demanding sacrifices from the public, they earn credibility. Citizens may still grumble, but they recognize sincerity. The opposite also holds true.

Calls for sacrifice lose moral authority when they come from those who appear insulated from the consequences of their own policies. That explains why Remi Tinubu’s remarks generated far more resentment than encouragement.

To many Nigerians, the advice sounded less like empowerment and more like resignation. It conveyed, however unintentionally, the impression that government was asking citizens to permanently adjust to an economy where survival has become the highest aspiration. Yet no society develops by lowering the dreams of its people.

The purpose of government is not merely to teach citizens how to survive difficult conditions. Its responsibility is to create conditions under which people can genuinely prosper. There is an enormous difference between entrepreneurship born of opportunity and entrepreneurship born of desperation.

A young graduate who establishes a food processing business because affordable loans, reliable electricity and supportive government policies exist is pursuing opportunity. Another graduate who turns to roadside trading because every formal avenue has collapsed is responding to desperation.

Both may become successful, but the circumstances are fundamentally different. Government should strive to create the first scenario rather than normalize the second. This distinction is critical because language shapes national expectations.

When leaders repeatedly speak the language of coping instead of the language of transformation, citizens begin to wonder whether their government has quietly abandoned the ambition of building an economy capable of providing decent jobs, quality infrastructure and rising living standards.

The hunter who keeps the flesh while distributing only the intestines eventually loses something more valuable than meat. He loses trust. Neighbours stop celebrating his success because they no longer believe they share in it. His generosity is viewed as an insult rather than kindness.

His prosperity becomes a symbol of exclusion instead of communal achievement. Governments face precisely the same danger. Trust is built not merely through promises but through fairness.

Citizens closely observe whether public resources are managed with restraint, whether leaders demonstrate empathy and whether the burdens of difficult reforms are fairly distributed. No amount of public relations efforts can compensate for the absence of visible equity. That is why symbolism matters in politics. Every official statement carries weight far beyond its literal meaning. Words that might sound harmless in periods of prosperity can become deeply offensive during economic hardship. An encouragement intended to inspire may instead reinforce feelings of abandonment. This is particularly true in societies experiencing prolonged economic distress.

Nigeria today is confronting one of its most challenging economic moments in decades. Inflation has significantly reduced purchasing power. Food prices continue to rise. Businesses struggle with operating costs. Youth unemployment remains stubbornly high. Many households now spend most of their income simply feeding themselves.

In such an environment, citizens naturally expect reassurance that government is addressing the structural causes of their hardship.

They expect discussions about expanding economic opportunities, reducing the cost of doing business, improving electricity supply, strengthening education, supporting agriculture, enhancing industrial productivity and attracting investment.

When public discourse instead appears to focus on adapting to hardship, disappointment is inevitable. The lesson from the hunter’s tale is therefore not merely about sharing meat.

It is about the moral obligation of leadership. A good leader does not reserve abundance for a privileged few while asking everyone else to celebrate scarcity. A good leader ensures that opportunity is widely shared.

He understands that respect cannot be demanded; it must be earned through fairness. He recognizes that citizens are not merely listening to speeches, they are comparing those speeches with lived reality.

This is the enduring message that the Remi Tinubu controversy should teach Nigeria’s political class. Public communication requires empathy. Empathy requires perspective.

And perspective requires leaders to constantly ask how their words will sound to people whose daily realities differ dramatically from their own.

At this juncture, it is germane to opine that no Nigerian despises akara sellers, no Nigerian mocks roasted corn vendors and no Nigerian looks down on kuli-kuli producers. Rather, what Nigerians reject is the growing perception that while those entrusted with governing the nation continue to enjoy the flesh of the antelope, the people are repeatedly encouraged to be grateful for the intestines. That perception, whether accurate or exaggerated, is dangerous because trust is the currency upon which effective governance depends.

The old African hunter eventually learns that keeping the flesh while distributing the intestines may fill his family’s stomach for a day, but it empties the community’s respect for him for years. Nigeria’s leaders should heed that ancient wisdom. In fact, a nation prospers not when a privileged few feasts on the best portions, but when every citizen has a fair chance to taste the flesh of the antelope.