When someone says, “Nigeria won’t happen to you,” the appropriate response is to go down on your knees or bow your head and say a thunderous “Amen.” You cannot confidently declare, “It can never be me,” because it can be you, me, or someone beside you. Either way, it will touch you, for the reach of Nigeria’s tumultuous circumstances extends to anyone.

Whether within the hallowed walls of a church or the serene ambience of a mosque, as you pray and suddenly remember Nigeria, instead of praying for good leaders, prosperity, and breakthroughs, an unspoken prayer will reverberate within you. It is a prayer woven from the threads of past experiences, news reports, and the current state of affairs: “Nigeria will not happen to me, my family, and my friends.” Because in this shared destiny, where one is touched, all are touched. This collective understanding binds us all.

My journey of prayer didn’t start recently; it took root when I was in JSS1, thirteen years ago. I remember a Sunday evening, attending a house fellowship — a mandatory ritual in a religious home where your parents believe your Sunday is incomplete without an evening service at one of your church member’s houses generous enough to host every week. I remember feigning a headache to my mother, initially opting to stay back. Yet, the allure of hot egg rolls persuaded me otherwise. I chose Paracetamol over rest.

Towards the service’s closure, a couple was introduced.

“Pastor and Mrs. Goodnews,” the service leader, Elder Bamise, announced.

Pastor Goodnews was a young pastor in one of my church branches who had just been transferred to another branch in the North. People smiled and welcomed them, but when I glimpsed his wife, Mrs. Goodnews — a radiant young woman in her prime — I sensed an undercurrent of fear. That’s what I would call it: a silent prayer echoing her sentiment. And now, when I think of it, it might have been a plea similar to, “Nigeria will not happen to us.”

A year later, my mom, engrossed in an update on Boko Haram and the Chibok girls, voiced her concerns.

“What will happen to this young woman with a baby girl? How will she survive?”

“Who, ma?” I inquired.

“Mrs. Goodnews — Mummy Peace. I spoke with Elder Bamise this morning, and he mentioned it in our conversation about Boko Haram. It took me a while to remember who he was talking about.”

But I remembered him: Mr. Gospel, fair-skinned with an infectious smile. I envisioned him grappling with the decision to deny Jesus for his life to be spared. Yet, regardless of his choice, he didn’t survive. I refrained from delving into conjectures about his final decision. Although I initially dismissed the news as falsehood, I silently prayed never to venture to the North and that a time when Boko Haram would invade other parts of Nigeria would not come. Our collective thoughts mirrored mine; we believed nothing would change, and the terrorists grew more audacious.

At times, I pondered whether our silent prayers bore any influence, or if we were merely self-centred, oblivious to the root causes of our predicaments. We identified our silence as the issue, yet every protest I have heard of did nothing but leave us with a bitter aftertaste.

It has been two years since I graduated from school and three years since I vowed never to contribute to Nigeria’s well-being within its borders. If I had the chance and was granted a visa, I would not return — a commitment I made not only to myself but also to my best friend, who was a victim of Nigeria’s circumstances.

When people say, “Birds of a feather flock together,” I shake my head, contemplating the incongruities between my feathers and those of my friend, Jokotade. I recall how we first met at a childhood friend’s tenth birthday party, where the dress code was pink. I wore a blue gown, but my black shoes featured a pink bowtie — a creative interpretation by my mother.

At the party, I discovered you had to be dressed in pink to qualify for any of the games. Only Tade and I refrained from participating. He, in a black top and jeans with black shoes, savoured his ice cream, unbothered.

“The MC mentioned a dancing competition after the games, just the two of us. Can you dance?” he asked, eyeing his ice cream with a nervous smile plastered on his face.

I remained silent, and later that day, we had a dance competition, which I won. It turned out that was the only feat I could surpass him in.

Never did I anticipate our paths would cross again, but fate had other plans. He became my seat partner during my secondary school entrance examination. I didn’t think he recognized me until he asked for my eraser and if I needed help with my work. Without waiting for my response, he took my answer booklet and shaded the answers with an HB pencil. It was the kindest gesture a stranger had ever shown me.

We became inseparable, transcending our academic disparities. Tade, the brilliant student, and I, the struggling average student, walked and worked together. On discouraging days, he encouraged me, steadfast in his belief in my potential.

“You can do it, Rachel. Maths is not hard; follow the rules,” he would say.

Some days we celebrated our wins, mainly his. Other days we shared our struggles, mainly mine. While he was popular and good at public speaking, I was the shy one who struggled to communicate and put my thoughts into words.

And when a teacher told me I wouldn’t do well in science class, he held my hand and said:

“You can do anything as long as you put your mind and efforts into it. Prove him wrong, Rachel. I know you can.”

“He said my pretty face is perfect for Arts. I want to work in a laboratory, Tade.”

“And I want to be a financial analyst. We will get there one day.”

Tade delved into further mathematics because of me, transitioning from teaching me regular math to further math until I rose to become one of the top students in my class.

Tade gained admission to the University of Ilorin before me, maintaining our communication even through his first year, always supportive and sending materials for post-UTME.

“We have to become who we aspire to be. I want to see you win; I can’t wait to see you win.”

And there were times I was convinced he loved me more than my parents. I didn’t think there was a need for additional friends; he was my only friend.

Tade earned a first-class degree from the University of Ilorin while I was in my second year studying Chemistry.

Initially, we thought the challenges would ease after graduation, but reality soon set in. Despite his academic excellence, Tade faced the harsh truth that a first-class degree alone couldn’t secure his dream job. The job market demanded additional professional certifications or years of experience, prerequisites he lacked.

Having lost his father during his school days, Tade found himself shouldering the responsibility of caring for both himself and his widowed mother. To make ends meet, he took up a teaching job, displaying remarkable resilience despite the weight of his circumstances.

Throughout these struggles, Tade maintained an unwavering optimism. He persistently applied for internships and scholarships, facing rejection but never losing faith. I was intimately acquainted with each step of his journey, aware of his plans and setbacks. My belief in him never wavered.

There came a time when he received an invitation for an interview for an overseas internship. To prepare, Tade borrowed a laptop, dependent on the availability of electricity. Despite achieving a perfect score in the test, the opportunity slipped through his fingers when the power was cut during the crucial interview.

As challenges mounted, Tade took on additional roles, combining his teaching job with a bike business. Amidst the struggles, he diligently saved up for the ICAN professional exams, determined to enhance his qualifications.

The pivotal year remains etched in my memory — 2020, the year of the COVID-19 pandemic. I had moved from Ilorin to Ibadan for my IT when the lockdown unfolded. Tade’s unwavering spirit persisted, and as we clung to hope, the prospect of a significant opportunity brought joy and optimism.

“I have an interview at Chevron next month, my birth month. God is good.”

“I’ve read the email countless times, and it still feels like a dream, Tade. Our dreams are truly valid, and thank God we didn’t stop believing.”

“We didn’t. I just need to work for a few years, then I can travel abroad and never come back.”

“Uncle Chevron, you want to leave me? No way.”

“You’re in your third year; start acquiring other skills that can boost your career. We are leaving this country for good. This country killed my father; it won’t kill us.”

It was a painful truth; Tade’s father had succumbed to high blood pressure after discovering the liquidation of the shares he had invested a significant sum in, resulting in the loss of all his money.

July, Tade’s birth month, brought unexpected challenges. On the first day in Lagos, his phone was stolen in a danfo.

“Something must happen to you as a newbie in Lagos; you can’t escape it. That’s what they say here.”

“Something about being street smart, abi? I’ve heard it from my roommates countless times. Whose phone are you using now?”

“I borrowed someone’s phone. When I get to my uncle’s place, I’ll send you updates.”

I could sense his fatigue and the recurring setbacks, all somehow tied to Nigeria. Despite this, we believed it was his time for a win; that belief was all he held onto.

After the interview, he called to share the good news that it went well, and he was anticipating a positive result.

“I will send my email address to you. I have this feeling you should be the one to check it first; I’m too anxious to do it anyway.”

“When will the mail be sent?”

“A day before my birthday.”

“The best birthday gift ever.”

“I hope so.”

The email didn’t arrive before his birthday, and I received no word from him. Impatiently, I waited until his birthday to make the call. The number I dialled was unreachable, prompting me to contact his uncle instead.

I didn’t receive a response until that afternoon — a delay that struck me as odd, considering Tade would have surely called. Upon dialling his uncle’s number again, he answered on the second ring. There was an unsettling silence before I spoke.

“Hello, sir, this is Rachel, Tade’s friend.”

In a low, broken voice, he responded:

“T-t-ade… he couldn’t move; he is no more.”

“S-s-sir?”

“He died last night, shot by mistake by a police officer. We found his body this morning.”

“Who, sir? I just want to speak with Tade; I want to wish him a happy birth—”

“He is gone.”

His acceptance email arrived that evening — the perfect birthday gift. However, Nigeria had happened to Tade.

I was in denial for weeks, unable to process the tragedy. The struggle to forge your path and avoid becoming a victim is daunting. My friend had tried, and we attempted to seek justice for him, but the culprit couldn’t be identified. Some claimed the police officer was drunk when he pulled the trigger, while others argued it was a heated argument that led to the tragic event. Another version suggested the officer mistook him for a criminal, and in his attempt to deny it, he was shot.

How does one explain the lawlessness in a country that produces thousands of lawyers annually? Or the inhumane behaviour of individuals who have birthed and raised children, hoping they’d achieve greatness? There’s a selfish attitude towards the country’s happenings — if it’s not affecting you directly, then you’re not concerned.

The mentality of “It can never be me” prevails, but in Nigeria, you can never be too religious or overly careful. What we witness daily might just be a glimpse of what’s to come; as Nigerians, we learn every day.

So when I read on Twitter that Oke was killed during the EndSARS protest, I immediately went to the comment section.

“Nigeria happened to Oke.”

“RIP Oke.”

“We lost another creative.”

‘Nigeria will not end me’ was his last tweet. It’s sad that nothing is guaranteed, and life is unpredictable. RIP Oke.”

“He had dreams; how could he be gone like that?”

But one comment reminded me of Tade, taking me back to July 21, 2020, on October 24, 2020:

“There are different stories on how he died, but all point to bad governance. Nigeria happened to Oke and his family. May it not happen to us. Rest in peace, Oke.”

Even if I had the power to stop the flow of tears, I wouldn’t, because I knew Nigeria had happened to me too. And even though I believed our silence over the years was the problem, I realized we were the problem.

We are Nigeria, and whatever caused our problems is a result of the extent to which we can tolerate things — testing our elasticity and concluding that if we’re not directly involved or affected, then it’s fine, and we just have to keep praying.

What happens when we decide to treat people better, put ourselves in their shoes, and call out the wickedness buried in our homes as brothers, sisters, fathers, or cousins? Nigeria doesn’t have to happen to you directly before you see evil for what it is. It happens to a Nigerian, and it has happened to you too.

Today, as I accessed my NYSC portal, a rush of anxiety enveloped me, and a wave of dizziness washed over me. After continuous persuasions from my parents, I eventually chose to serve my fatherland as a patriotic citizen — one who is quick to forget past sufferings and hardships. I subscribed to another shege and harboured no expectations for change. And even if it were to happen, I doubt I’d be present — whether alive or dead, either way.

“Mommy, check my call-up letter for me. I can’t check; my heart is beating too fast.”

She took the phone from me, scrolling through it with an unreadable expression. I struggled to maintain composure, unable to cope with her silence.

“Did you eventually pay a plug?”

“No, I told Daddy not to bother, and I don’t have such an amount to pay on my own, ma.”

Then she shook her head, and a faint smile formed on both corners of her mouth.

“Prayer works, Rachel. You have been posted to Shagamu camp, Ogun State.”

So I laughed hysterically, startling my mom. Anywhere, Nigeria can find you — no matter where.

“If prayer truly works, I want to be out of this country as soon and as far as possible.”