At one point or another, almost every Nigerian I know has paused to ask themselves: “Do I still believe in this country?” For some, it slips out in a moment of deep frustration, maybe while sweating in a fuel queue that stretches endlessly, or after hearing yet another recycled promise from politicians. For others, the question arrives quietly at night, lying awake and wondering if all the hard work, all the effort, will ever amount to something in this land.
Belief in Nigeria today is not what it used to be. It is no longer the blind patriotism of chanting slogans or cheering whenever NEPA restores light. What we carry now is a belief mixed with weariness, a fragile hope that clings to the possibility that things might still get better. Nigerians still believe, yes, but it is a belief that has been stretched thin, tested repeatedly.
And yet, there is something about us, a kind of stubborn resilience. We refuse to give up completely. The system might disappoint us daily, but the people refuse to stop shining. We are the Nigerians creating startups from scratch in Yaba, the ones taking Afrobeats from Lagos streets to world stages, the athletes, scholars, and innovators raising the flag abroad. With little or no support, people still manage to make the impossible possible. That does not look like disbelief. That looks like people holding on, in their own way, to the idea that Nigeria can still rise.
But belief without evidence becomes heavy. For decades, Nigerians have carried this country on their shoulders, waiting for proof that their faith is not wasted. Our generation especially struggles with this tension, wanting to love Nigeria yet constantly feeling let down by it. Every graduate roaming the streets without work, every farmer sleeping with fear of insecurity, every parent watching schools crumble, all these moments chip away at the thin thread of faith binding us to the nation.
Do we still believe? Yes, but differently. Our parents’ belief was built on promises, the hope of an independent nation, the excitement of oil wealth, and the idea that Nigeria’s best days were ahead. Our own belief is cautious. It comes with skepticism, but it is not gone. We don’t trust because the government tells us to; we trust because we see ourselves doing remarkable things despite the odds.
Still, no nation can rely on the resilience of its people alone forever. A country that asks for loyalty must also give its citizens reasons to remain loyal. Nigerians are not looking for miracles; we are asking for the basics: schools that work, hospitals that heal, safe roads, leaders who mean what they say. These are not luxuries; they are the foundation of any functioning nation.
So, do Nigerians still believe in Nigeria? I would say yes, but with caution. It is the belief of someone saying, “I won’t give up yet, but I need to see something change soon.” You find it in the young graduate building a business out of nothing, in the farmer who rises before dawn to feed communities, in the diaspora Nigerian who keeps sending money home because, no matter the distance, home still matters.
Nigeria is bending but not broken. Our belief is battered, but alive. And maybe that, in itself, is proof of something remarkable, that after everything, we are still here, still trying, dreaming.
The question now is: how long can citizens carry faith alone before the nation itself finally rises to meet them?
Written by: Miracle Chinwendu Amadi
