By Usman My. Shehu
“No Condition Is Permanent” is the title of a chapter in Martin Meredith’s The State of Africa. Meredith took the phrase from the words routinely painted on the bodies and flanks of vehicles across Africa. It is a familiar expression, much like seeing an African football fan wearing an oversized jersey bearing the name of a favourite footballer.
This is, in some ways, who we are and what we sometimes do: we turn even difficult circumstances into jokes, humour, slogans, or expressions of endurance. Sometimes, we laugh at dire situations not because they are funny, but because laughter is one of the ways we survive them.
Yet this piece is ultimately about hope, as the proverb suggests: no condition is permanent.
It is shocking to read and learn that, in Nigeria, it can be so difficult to find something to be optimistic about—something hopeful enough to cling to while trying to escape the cauldron of despair. At times, finding hope in my dear country feels like looking for a black cat in a dark room. But as long as we continue searching for that cat, there remains a possibility that we will eventually find it.
So we keep hope alive. Please do so, abeg.
Meredith’s book was written more than a decade ago, yet many of the problems he described remain painfully familiar, despite pockets of progress here and there. What we continue to hear are grand economic phrases and complicated macroeconomic arguments that can sometimes feel difficult to digest, especially on an empty stomach.
One paragraph in the book deserves particular mention:
«“…the economy was derelict; public services were chronically inefficient; schools and hospitals were decaying; higher education had virtually collapsed; roads were pitted with potholes; the telephone system hardly functioned. There were frequent power cuts; even shortages of domestic petroleum supplies…”»
Reading those words today is uncomfortable because, although Nigeria has undoubtedly changed in many respects, some of the underlying frustrations remain recognisable. We have made progress in certain areas, but progress has often been uneven, fragile, or insufficient to transform the everyday experience of ordinary people.
And then there are the tragedies that make the proverb “no condition is permanent” painfully difficult to apply.
How does “no condition is permanent” become a source of hope for the families of the young men who reportedly died a day after their detention in NSCDC custody? Reports alleged that a chemical substance was sprayed into the cell where they had been detained and that they subsequently suffocated.
Their families may continue to hope for answers, accountability, and justice. But for the deceased, there is no return to the life that was taken from them. Their condition is, tragically, permanent.
Still, their relatives must not be condemned to die a little every day with their grief. If justice is pursued thoroughly and transparently, perhaps the loss can at least become a catalyst for accountability and institutional reform. Their case, if the allegations are established through proper investigation, would be a salutary reminder of what happens when institutions fail in their most basic responsibility: protecting human life.
Unemployment and underemployment are almost as old as the rocks. Our leaders know these problems—perhaps better than they know the backs of their own hands.
Yet recruitment into public institutions continues to generate concerns about nepotism, ethnicity, regional balancing, and the inconsistent application of merit. The constitutional principle of federal character was designed, among other things, to promote a sense of inclusion and equitable representation, but its implementation remains contentious.
And then there is the familiar Nigerian reality: knowing someone can sometimes matter as much as—or even more than—what you know.
In both the public and private sectors, networks and connections can influence opportunities, though the problem is particularly frustrating when access to public employment is perceived to depend on patronage rather than transparent processes. In such an environment, a person can know all the books in the world and still find the door to employment firmly closed.
Insecurity has also become a recurring feature of our daily news. As I write this on September 29, 2026, Daily Trust carries the headline: “2 weeks after, abducted Zamfara imams yet to be released.”
That is only one report among many.
Nigerians have endured abductions, killings, displacement, and prolonged uncertainty, while armed groups continue to operate in parts of the country. Behind every statistic is a family waiting for a loved one to return, a community trying to rebuild, or a child whose understanding of normal life has been permanently altered.
The natural consequence of many of these problems is multidimensional poverty. For millions of Nigerians, the question is not an abstract debate about poverty rates or macroeconomic indicators. It is whether there is enough food on the table today. It is whether a farmer can reach the farm safely. It is whether a child can remain in school. It is whether a family can afford transport to another city, pay medical bills, or simply survive the month without borrowing.
Statistics from the World Bank, the IMF, the National Bureau of Statistics, and other institutions have their place. They help us understand the scale and direction of economic problems.
But statistics should not obscure lived experience.
A person who goes to bed hungry does not experience inflation as a percentage; they experience it as an empty plate. A parent who cannot afford school fees does not experience unemployment as a labour-market indicator; they experience it as a closed door for their child.
Our circumstances are sufficiently serious that the major sectors of national life deserve sustained, urgent attention. Education, healthcare, security, infrastructure, electricity, employment, and food security cannot be treated as peripheral matters. They are the foundation upon which a functioning society rests.
The government often tells Nigerians that reforms take time. That may be true: structural reforms rarely produce their full benefits overnight, and some necessary changes are inevitably painful before their effects become visible.
But there is another truth that cannot be ignored: a hungry person cannot eat promises of future prosperity.
Reforms must therefore be judged not only by their intentions but also by their implementation, their distributional effects, and the extent to which ordinary Nigerians can actually feel improvements in their lives. Patience becomes difficult to demand from people who are already struggling to survive.
Still, no condition is permanent.
That phrase should not become an excuse for complacency, nor should it be used to ask Nigerians to endure suffering indefinitely. It should instead be a reminder that circumstances can change—and that human beings have a responsibility to help change them.
Nigeria has endured worse moments and survived them. We have seen institutions improve, businesses emerge, communities organise, individuals overcome extraordinary circumstances, and citizens continue to create possibilities in places where the state has sometimes fallen short.
Hope, therefore, should not mean pretending that everything is fine.
Hope is the decision to believe that things can be better—and to participate in making them better.
Nigerians deserve better. We deserve better.
And perhaps the most important part of the proverb is not merely that no condition is permanent, but that the conditions we refuse to accept do not have to remain unchanged forever.
Usman M. Shehu writes from Kano and he can be reached via usmanmujtabashehu@gmail.com.
