Nigeria is a country full of contradictions. One moment, you’re hearing that the government is flat broke, begging the World Bank for a fresh $21bn loan. The next, you’re seeing grand announcements of $100,000 cash gifts, plots of land, and brand-new homes for female football players. Not policy reforms. Not sector investments. Straight-up gifts.

It’s not about hating on the Super Falcons. They played their hearts out. But how do you explain gifting each player a house — conservatively worth ?50 million — in a country where primary school kids are still dragging broken chairs, and chalkboards are replaced by empty walls? How do you justify such spending while hospitals across the country can’t afford gloves, and thousands of civil servants are owed months of salaries?

I’ve moved through Nigeria, not just in boardrooms and air-conditioned SUVs. In the past year alone, I’ve been to Abuja, Oyo, Ogun, Osun, and Lagos. I’ve taken keke, Uber, even molue — not because I had to, but because I wanted to see what life is like at the ground level. The mood is not just frustration — it’s fatigue. People are tired of promises and policies that only live on paper. No one wants to hear about GDP or “improved economic outlook” when they can’t afford yams.

A few weeks ago, a wealthy friend — one of those who rarely complains — called me, worried. He said things are getting unsustainable. He’s not the type to rant. But this time, he sounded genuinely shaken. “How are average people surviving?” he asked. And it’s a valid question.

Meanwhile, back in the U.S., Donald Trump — for all his noise — has changed his tune too. These days, when he talks about progress, it’s no longer about the stock market. He talks about falling gas prices. Groceries. Eggs. Gas that once cost $6 per gallon now sells for under $4. A crate of eggs that used to be $8 is now less than $4. That’s what real people feel. And that’s where real leadership is measured — not in bonds or indices, but in what ordinary families take home and take to the market.

That’s why, until Nigeria can guarantee 24/7 electricity and everyone — rich or poor—pays the same electricity tariff, there’s no reason to celebrate economic performance. Until schools are fully functional, food is affordable, and minimum wage can buy more than just a bag of rice, no one should be pointing to the stock market as a badge of success.

Because right now, we’re borrowing money to fund ceremonies. We’re rewarding excellence with fanfare, while the system that produced that excellence continues to rot. It’s not sustainable. It’s not sensible. And it certainly isn’t progress.