Hunger, governance failure, and Nigeria’s struggle for dignity: Are we born insatiable? (I)

At 88, I still return each week to this column – a journey that began decades ago as a way of sharing my travels across Nigeria and beyond. Over time, it has become something deeper: a space for reflection, questioning, and the hope that words, when honestly offered, can touch lives and make a difference. In writing, I have sought not only to document experiences, but to leave the world – however modestly- a better place than I met it.

What has given me the greatest joy over the years is the readership, particularly among younger Nigerians. They read closely. They ask questions. They demand clarity, courage, and continuity. Their engagement has made it clear that this conversation must outlive me that ideas must be passed on, not preserved in isolation. It is in that spirit that I have opened this space to a small circle of students and young writers who share this vision. Writing alongside me, they are helping to build a living bridge between generations, ensuring that thought, inquiry, and responsibility continue into the future. This article is presented in two parts, written by Chidera Melissa Onyia.

We often believe that hunger is simple – a matter of empty stomachs, a lack of food, or a passing need. We are taught to see deprivation as weakness and desire as greed. But hunger is more than a physical condition. It is a reflection of what is missing in our lives, in our communities, and in our nations. It is the voice of what we are owed by nature, by society, and by those entrusted with leadership. Hunger is not always visible. Sometimes it whispers, sometimes it shouts, and sometimes it is masked behind ambition, authority, or silence. It is both human and political. It is the unfulfilled promise of life itself. And in Nigeria today, hunger – both the hunger of the people and the hunger of power defines the fault lines of our society.

Before we rush to answer that question, let us remember a small boy who once looked up with hollow eyes and whispered, “Please sir, I want some more.” Most people know the simplified version of Oliver Twist – the version that presents Oliver as a boy who was never satisfied. But when we strip away the pop-culture summary and confront the truth of his circumstances, a very different picture emerges. Oliver was not insatiable. Oliver was hungry. He was deprived of his most basic human needs and punished for daring to ask for what every human being deserves by default. His story was never a lesson about greed; it was a lesson about deprivation. And that lesson speaks directly to our own reality today, especially in Nigeria. Human beings are born with natural needs: food, safety, shelter, love, dignity, opportunity. These are not luxuries and not privileges. They are the minimum requirements for a meaningful life. In societies that function well, these needs are met so routinely that people barely notice them. But when governance fails, these needs become visible, political, and contested. They become protests, complaints, and accusations of entitlement. In Nigeria today, hunger is no longer only about food. It is economic, institutional, and deeply psychological. It is the anxiety of not knowing whether tomorrow will be harder than today. It is the fear of watching money lose value while wages remain stagnant. It is the quiet panic of families who plan less and survive more. When a currency weakens relentlessly and inflation erodes purchasing power, people do not ask for more because they are greedy. They ask because delay becomes dangerous. Saving feels foolish. Patience feels like punishment. Under such conditions, consumption, hoarding, and desperation are not moral failures; they are rational responses to instability. Asking for “more” becomes another way of asking to breathe. Yet instead of confronting the roots of this instability, society often turns its frustration on the hungry themselves. Citizens who demand jobs are told to be patient. Those who complain about the cost of food are accused of exaggeration. People who ask for safety are told to endure. Just like Oliver, Nigerians are scolded for wanting what should never have been absent. The truth is uncomfortable: when governance fails, natural needs begin to look like rebellion. Basic rights start to sound like entitlement. And dignity begins to feel like a favor. This is how deprivation is normalized and hunger is moralized.

The real insatiability in Nigeria does not belong to the poor. It belongs elsewhere. It lies in the endless appetite for power without accountability, wealth without production, and privilege without responsibility. It lies in public systems that extract sacrifice from citizens while offering excuses in return. It lies in policies that demand resilience from the masses while insulating the few from consequence. If Oliver Twist were Nigerian today, he would not only be hungry. He would be unemployed or underemployed. He would live in a country rich in resources yet poor in outcomes, abundant in talent yet scarce in opportunity. He would ask for electricity and be told to buy a generator. He would ask for clean water and be told to drill a borehole. He would ask for security and be told to hire private guards or pray harder. Survival would be privatized, and failure would be personalized. This is how governance failure disguises itself as personal weakness. A functioning state does not outsource survival to its citizens and then accuse them of complaining. It disciplines power before it disciplines hunger. It understands that security is not a luxury, justice is not optional, and economic stability is not abstract. These are the foundations of productivity, investment, and national cohesion. When people fear for their lives, markets shrink. When justice is selective, trust collapses. When education fails, innovation dies. Nigeria’s insecurity today is not only a humanitarian crisis; it is an economic one. Farmers displaced by violence cannot grow food. Traders afraid of highways cannot move goods. Investors uneasy about stability cannot commit capital. Every attack, every kidnapping, every unresolved injustice weakens the economy further. Safety is not just a social good; it is economic infrastructure.

And yet, citizens are told to manage fear, manage inflation, manage unemployment, and manage failure. But fear is not something that can be managed like a schedule. Fear must be removed. And removing fear is the first responsibility of governance. Still, in the face of systemic failure, Nigerians continue to demonstrate remarkable courage. People install solar panels because the power grid has failed them. Entrepreneurs create businesses because formal employment cannot absorb them. Communities organize themselves where institutions are absent. These acts of resilience are inspiring, but they are also indictments. A society cannot endlessly rely on individual courage to compensate for institutional collapse. Courage should build nations, not merely help people survive them. So we return to the question: are we born insatiable? No. We are born needing. And when those needs are ignored, we begin to ask. When asking fails, we begin to demand. When demands are dismissed, we begin to shout. And when shouting is silenced, we begin to starve. This is not rebellion. It is biology. It is humanity. A child who cries for food is not greedy. A citizen who asks for safety is not entitled. A population that demands dignity is not insatiable. It is responding to deprivation. The real danger is not that Nigerians want too much. The real danger is that deprivation has lasted so long that hunger now feels abnormal only to those who are never hungry.