-By Abdul Mahmud
In the vast country south of the Sahara, where the promise of light had been proclaimed so often that it began to sound like scripture recited at every political gathering, there lived nearly two hundred million citizens whose nights were illuminated not by the national grid but by the stubborn engines of generators. For years, the country’s rulers had spoken confidently about electricity as though it were already flowing generously through every wire. They spoke of megawatts and national grids and the triumph that would surely come when darkness would finally retreat before the brilliance of progress. They convened conferences in shining hotels where the language of electricity flowed like wine. They established agencies and committees and task forces whose names alone were so numerous that the citizens sometimes wondered whether the nation produced more institutions than power. Yet, the citizens knew another reality; a reality measured not in megawatts but in the pull of starter cords, the smell of petrol in the evening air, and the restless growl of machines that had quietly become the true guardians of the nation’s light.
Still, darkness remained faithful.
And the citizens learned to live with it as one lives with an uninvited relative who refuses to leave the house.
Now, it happened in the year of the great election that a new ruler arose and spoke confidently to the citizens about the matter of light. He stood before multitudes and declared that if, within two years of his rule, electricity did not come faithfully to the homes of Nigerians, the citizens should drive him from power when the next election arrived. The crowd listened with the solemn attention that promises about light always receive in a country accustomed to darkness. For the promise of electricity in Nigeria is not merely a technical pledge. It is a prophecy. And the citizens went away pondering the words, some with hope and others with the quiet skepticism born of long experience. The country already possessed a vast arrangement known as the national grid, which the rulers often described as though it were a majestic river of energy flowing through the land. In speeches it appeared strong and dependable, stretching from city to city like a network of glowing arteries.
But the citizens knew the grid differently.
To them it was a fragile creature that collapsed with alarming regularity, sometimes once in a season and sometimes several times in a week, and on certain memorable occasions it fell so often that the citizens began to measure time not by market days but by the frequency of its failure. It was said in the markets and in the motor parks that the national grid possessed the temperament of an elderly man who fainted whenever he attempted to stand upright. So the citizens made preparations of their own. For just as the virgins in the ancient parable carried lamps while waiting for the bridegroom, citizens acquired generators while waiting for electricity. Small generators, the type they call “I-Pass-My-Neighbour” and large generators, generators that rattled like stubborn insects and generators that roared like impatient lions. Some were new and painted brightly, others were patched together with the stubborn creativity of mechanics who refused to surrender to darkness. Thus, every compound became a miniature power station.
Every evening the ritual began. When the sun slipped beneath the horizon and the expected electricity failed to appear, fathers and mothers stepped outside to pull the cords of their machines. Soon the night air trembled with the chorus of engines. Neighbourhoods glowed not with the quiet dignity of public power but with the noisy determination of private survival. It was a peculiar orchestra. Two hundred million citizens waiting for light while generating their own. Meanwhile, the rulers continued to speak of the great transformation that was surely approaching. Committees studied the procurement of turbines. Experts debated transmission lines. Consultants produced reports thick enough to illuminate a small village if only paper could generate electricity. The speeches grew ever more magnificent. The citizens were assured that billions of dollars had been invested in the noble quest for power. Billions were announced with such frequency that the citizens began to imagine that somewhere in their vast country there existed a vast warehouse filled not with turbines but with vanished money humming softly in the dark.
Still the generators continued their nightly labour.
Then one day an interesting revelation reached the citizens’ ears. It was discovered that the great residence of the president, the Aso Rock itself, had withdrawn quietly from the troubled river of the national grid. The palatial Rock had gone off the grid entirely and now drew its illumination from a reliable sun above through the miracles of solar power. The news travelled across the land with the speed of astonishment. The citizens considered the matter carefully. For Aso Rock had discovered a way to escape the darkness, they wondered why the country itself still waited patiently for the return of electricity from a grid that collapsed as often as the promises made about it. Regardless, the rulers spoke calmly of progress, explaining that the transformation of the power sector required patience, committees, investments, and a deep faith in the eventual arrival of light. Citizens waited, as if they were waiting for Godot.
But they did not wait idly. Like the wise virgins of the ancient story who brought oil for their lamps, Nigerians had brought petrol for their generators. Every morning they lined up at filling stations with plastic containers and weary expressions. They purchased the fuel that allowed their private engines to produce the electricity that the public system could not provide. The entire country lived in a curious arrangement.
The government generated speeches.
The people generated power.
And every market day, when the national grid collapsed once more, the generators of the vast country rose again like a mechanical choir singing the same stubborn hymn. There is a lesson hidden in this curious parable. For a country that spends billions seeking electricity but still relies on generators is like a household that distributes lamps while endlessly debating the purchase of oil. The people wait faithfully through the night while committees meet in brightly lit rooms discussing the philosophy of illumination. The night grows longer. Always does. The nights of the vast country continue to unfold in their familiar fashion. The rulers speak of transformation. The experts debate transmission. Committees gather around polished tables to discuss the future of electricity while the present remains stubbornly dark. Reports are written. Budgets are announced. Billions are counted and recounted with ceremonial seriousness. When night returns to the towns and villages, it is not the national grid that awakens but the patient generators of the citizens. The same ritual repeats itself across the country. Doors open. Starter cords are pulled. Engines cough, hesitate, and then roar to life with the weary obedience of servants who know that their labour will again carry the burden of a country that has waited too long for light. The air trembles with their noise. The streets glow faintly from their effort. And families gather beneath their small islands of electricity while the great system designed to power the country lies somewhere in silence.
The vast country has produced a remarkable invention. A country of two hundred million citizens who have become their own power stations. A people who fuel their homes with petrol while their leaders fuel their speeches with promises. A country where the palace quietly secures its electricity from the sun while multitudes below continue to wait for power from a grid that collapses with the reliability of a weekly ritual.
There is therefore a quiet wisdom in the behaviour of the citizens. Like the wise virgins of the ancient story who brought oil for their lamps, they have learned to bring fuel for their generators, for they know that promises cannot power a bulb and speeches cannot turn a turbine. They understand what the managers of the power sector have struggled for decades to admit, which is that light does not come from declarations but from preparation. So the generators continue their nightly sermons. Their message is simple and unchanging. Citizens may wait patiently for electricity from their rulers, but those who wish to see must first provide their own oil.
Perhaps, one day the long promised bridegroom of light will finally arrive and the engines will fall silent across the land. Perhaps, the wires will at last carry the power that has been announced so many times in speeches and budgets. But until that day comes, the two hundred million Nigerians of this parable will continue to live between promise and darkness, pulling the cords of their machines each evening as if ringing a stubborn bell that reminds all, night after night, that a country which cannot provide light will always be forced to listen to the sound of its generators.