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This is the final part of Between Ages: A Conversation That Connects – a reflection that began with the hope of bridging generations and now ends with the sobering truth of a nation at the edge of itself.
In this series, each voice adds a new thread to the fabric of our shared story, and in this part, that voice belongs to Joy Ezekwem, a young writer whose keen observations uncover the moral fractures within our national life. Her reflection, titled “It Is Mine, It Is Mine: When the Children’s Quarrel Mirrors a Nation’s Crisis,” draws from a simple childhood fable to reveal the deeper truth of a country torn by greed and entitlement. Through the innocent echo of those words “It is mine!” she invites us to confront the selfishness that has eaten into the soul of our politics, our institutions, and even our daily lives. Like a mirror held before the nation, her piece reminds us that the problem is not only in our leaders but also in our collective conscience. Between ages, the conversation continues – not in accusation, but in awakening.
It is mine, it is mine: When the children’s quarrel mirrows A nation’s crisis
By Joy Ezekwem
Many years ago, as a child, I read a simple story in our Macmillan English textbook titled “It Is Mine, It Is Mine.” It was about a group of children who found a bright red ball in the schoolyard. Two of them grabbed it and both shouted, “It is mine!”
No one let go, they fought, tugged, and in their struggle the ball burst. In the end, nobody had it. Their teacher asked: now, after all that, is it still anybody’s? Her lesson: selfishness destroys; sharing builds friendship and hope. That parable “It Is Mine, It Is Mine” once an innocent tale of childhood quarrels now stands as a haunting metaphor for Nigeria’s present condition. The children’s struggle over a simple red ball mirrors the nation’s endless fight over power, privilege, and
possession. Everyone wants a share, yet no one wants to let go. And in that struggle, the very thing we claim to love – our country – is bursting at the seams.
Across government offices, boardrooms, and communities, the chorus has not changed. The words “It is mine” echo through every corridor of power, distorting public service into private profit. Every political office, every national resource, every appointment seems claimed in the name of self-interest. The result is a slow, painful unraveling of the nation, a land rich in talent and potential, yet crippled by greed.
In the story, the children lose sight of community because each one wants to possess everything. There is no cooperation, no shared vision – only the blind hunger of ownership. Nigeria’s modern politics mirrors this same moral failure. From the presidency to local councils, power is rarely treated as stewardship. Instead, it has become a form of personal inheritance – a trophy to be guarded, not a trust to be served. When politicians say “my ministry,” “my constituency,” or “my budget,” the possessive pronoun reveals the sickness of our political culture.
The Nigerian sociologist Jibrin Ibrahim once noted that “public office in Nigeria is viewed as an entitlement, not a responsibility.” That mindset has transformed democracy into a scramble not for the good of all, but for the enrichment of a few.
In 2024, Transparency International ranked Nigeria 145th out of 180 countries in its Corruption Perception Index. Billions vanish every year in inflated contracts, ghost projects, and “constituency funds” that never reach their destination. Ministries are allocated vast budgets for education, health, or infrastructure, yet classrooms collapse, hospitals lack drugs, and roads remain death traps. A World Bank report from the same year estimated that over $400 billion has been lost to corruption since independence a figure greater than the GDP of some African nations combined.
Still, the cycle continues. A new administration takes office promising reform, but soon the same story unfolds: appointments distributed as political rewards, budgets padded with hidden allocations, and policies designed to benefit cronies. The cry is the same as in the fable “It is mine, it is mine!” And when those in power feast on the nation’s wealth, what remains for the rest? Just crumbs trickling down slowly, unevenly, to a population whose patience has worn thin.
What makes It Is Mine, It Is Mine such a powerful metaphor for Nigeria is that it exposes how greed – not just as a moral flaw, but as a force of collapse. When everyone takes without giving, the community disintegrates. Nigeria is already showing those cracks. According to the National Bureau of Statistics, over 133 million Nigerians now live in multidimensional poverty lacking access to food, healthcare, or education. The naira continues to weaken; unemployment remains stubbornly high. Public institutions from the power grid to the judiciary are eroding under the weight of inefficiency and corruption.
The 2023 Academic Staff Union of Universities (ASUU) report lamented that tertiary education has become “a hostage of budgetary neglect and political interference.” A similar pattern is evident in healthcare: doctors leave en masse for better conditions abroad, while state hospitals deteriorate. In each of these failures lies the echo of the same selfish cry “It is mine.” My budget. My cut. My time to eat.
The late Chinua Achebe, in The Trouble with Nigeria (1983), wrote that “the trouble with Nigeria is simply and squarely a failure of leadership.” Decades later, his words still cut deep. But perhaps the problem now is deeper a failure of collective conscience. From the top to the grassroots, greed has become normalized. When a contractor diverts project funds, when a police officer demands a bribe, when a civil servant inflates an invoice each act whispers the same incantation: “It is mine.”
The culture of entitlement has seeped so deep that even the moral outrage once common in communities has been replaced by resignation. “Everyone is corrupt,” people say, as though it were a law of nature. But corruption is not fate. It is a choice repeated often enough to become habit, and habit repeated long enough to become identity. And that identity has turned Nigeria into what many analysts now describe as a failing state.
When a nation’s leaders consume more than they create, failure becomes inevitable.
Political scientists call this the road to a failed state.” In political science, a “failed state” is one that can no longer provide basic services or maintain law and order.
Nigeria has not officially collapsed, but the signs are unsettling. Insecurity spreads across regions from kidnappings in the North-West to cult violence in the South-
South. Economic instability deepens, with inflation pushing food prices beyond the reach of ordinary families. Public confidence in institutions is at an all-time low.
The International Crisis Group, in a 2024 report, warned that “Nigeria risks sliding into systemic instability if governance does not shift from self-interest to public accountability.” And yet, every effort at reform faces the same obstacle: those who benefit from the status quo refuse to change it. Like the children in the Macmillan story, the leaders cling tighter to their share of the meat, even as the house burns around them.
Colonialism once exploited Africa’s wealth through foreign masters. Now, a new form of colonization thrives internal colonization where the colonizers are local elites. Oil revenues, once described as the blessing of the Niger Delta, have become a curse. Communities that host the nation’s wealth live in degradation and poverty, while politicians build mansions abroad. Every sector from power generation to transport has been turned into a feeding trough. Projects are announced, committees are formed, but nothing moves unless someone gets a share. “National interest” has become a phrase without substance. This internal colonization is more insidious than the external one because it hides behind the flag and anthem, claiming patriotism while devouring the people it claims to serve.
At the end of It Is Mine, It Is Mine, the children lose everything. The story ends not with victory, but with silence; a silence of regret. Nigeria is approaching that silence.
The infrastructure is collapsing, public trust is broken, and young people are fleeing abroad in record numbers. The 2025 National Migration Report revealed that over 73% of Nigerian youths would leave the country if given the opportunity. When the young abandon hope, it is not just an economic loss it is a sign of moral exhaustion.
We are becoming a country devouring its own children.
The cure for greed is not another speech or slogan. It is a rebirth of moral responsibility from citizens and leaders alike. We must begin by dismantling the culture of ownership and replacing it with stewardship. Power, position, and privilege must be seen as responsibilities, not rewards. Anti-corruption laws must not stop at low-level officers; they must reach the top, where impunity thrives. Civic education must return to our schools, reminding the next generation that integrity is not a weakness. The media must continue to expose wrongdoing, while the judiciary must act without fear or favor. Most importantly, Nigerians themselves must stop feeding the system of greed by refusing to pay bribes, by voting conscientiously, by holding leaders accountable. The fight to save the nation cannot be outsourced; it must be owned by all. Because the truth is simple: when everyone shouts “It is mine,” there will be nothing left for anyone.
If Macmillan were to rewrite It Is Mine, It Is Mine today for Nigeria, perhaps the moral would end differently. Maybe one of the children would step forward and say, “No, it is ours.” That single shift from mine to ours is what Nigeria needs. It is the difference between a country that survives and one that fails. Until we learn that lesson, we will remain trapped in the same tragic circle – the story of a great nation that could have been, but was eaten alive by its own hands.
