Bespectacled

He was my hero—until he wasn’t.

As a child, there was nothing I anticipated more than hearing him speak on television. He wasn’t just another politician; he was the heartbeat of our state. I lived in the most developed state in the country, and it was all thanks to this bespectacled figure.

I would sit on my father’s lap in front of the TV, eyes wide, trying to absorb his every word, even though I was just five years old. This bespectacled figure didn’t just talk about change—he delivered it. The roads were smooth, new schools were built, and the markets had an air of renewal. His presence was everywhere; his name was on the lips of every household. He was doing what no other leader seemed capable of. The streets of ‘Gidi’ buzzed with energy, and it felt like we were living in a bubble of progress.

Every speech by my hero governor felt like a message of renewed hope, and for the longest time, he was everything I wanted to be in life. But it was a difficult task for him. The sitting president at the time, distant and disinterested in our state’s success, had chosen to withhold our federal allocations for years. Even at my young age, I understood that this man in Abuja, whose ugly demeanor my youthful mind couldn’t forgive, was the reason for the challenges we faced. But my hero wouldn’t be stopped; he was relentless. His efficient brain found ways to keep the state steady, creating new revenue streams and launching projects every market day. He discarded the belief that we needed federal allocations to run our state, believing we were all we needed to thrive. And we were.

Young and shiny-eyed, I saw that as the mark of true leadership—finding solutions where others only saw obstacles. I idolized him for that. The bespectacled governor wasn’t just a man; he was a symbol of hope, of what Nigeria could be.

It’s been 20 years. He’s now the president.

When he launched his campaign for the presidency, I was skeptical. I wanted to believe in him again, but the man I saw during his campaign seemed unfamiliar. He reeked of ambition—the type that consumes. So convinced of his impending victory, he refused to participate in any presidential debates, dodging questions and avoiding the public eye except when necessary. Where was the man I once watched so eagerly on television? Where was the visionary who transformed a state? He had become something else entirely—a man consumed by the hunger for power. When he eventually won, I was certain that the victory wasn’t just hollow for the country; it was hollow for him too.

The day he was sworn in as president was the last time I could bring myself to watch him speak. I saw no light in his eyes, no conviction in his words. My childhood hero had become a stranger. As the country fell deeper into chaos, he seemed more disconnected than ever—just a man whose lifelong ambition was to complete the cycle of power and become president.

Watching him speak for the last time during his inauguration, I felt a heavy weight in my chest. The fire that once ignited hope had dimmed, replaced by something that felt more like resignation than longing. The African Giant, once vibrant with potential, now feels like a shadow of its former self, grappling with challenges that seem insurmountable.

He is no longer a symbol of hope; he is now a symbol of everything that plagues this great nation. The ‘giant of Africa’ has become a skeleton of its former self, and my bespectacled hero sits atop it all, with a gleaming new Cadillac Escalade as his prize.

The reason for this unwarranted show of opulence amidst our suffering is unknown, but ‘the hero’ has fallen. The expectations were low, but holy…