Nigeria in the throes of darkness

God’s first recorded intervention in creation was a command for light. Not merely illumination, but order, direction, and the beginning of productivity. Light separates, clarifies, and empowers. Darkness, by contrast, blurs vision and breeds fear. In Nigeria, darkness has become more than a physical condition; it is a metaphor for a long national affliction that stretches from the era of military rule through privatisation, reforms, and repeated promises of renewal.

From the years of centralised military control to the privatisation experiments under President Olusegun Obasanjo and Vice-President Atiku Abubakar, electricity has remained Nigeria’s most stubborn paradox. Policies have changed, ownership has shifted, and institutions have been renamed, yet the nation still gropes daily for light. The assassination of figures such as Chief Bola Ige—who once bore responsibility in the power sector—stands as a grim reminder of how fraught and contested electricity reform has been, entangled with politics, vested interests, and dangerous opacity.

This national condition echoes the atmosphere of Night, the classic poem by Nobel Laureate Prof. Wole Soyinka written in the 1980s. In that poem, night is not passive; it is a force that presses upon the human spirit, breeds unease, and gives birth to unseen powers. The poet’s darkness is heavy, fertile, and menacing. Nigeria’s darkness functions in much the same way—an environment that does not merely withhold light but actively shapes behaviour, ethics, and destiny.

Today, electricity is rationed into bands—A, B, C, D, and E—an alphabet of inequality that reflects both scarcity and frustration. In urban centres, many middle-class Nigerians openly contemplate how to bypass meters, manipulate bills, or enjoy power without payment. This moral compromise is not born purely of greed but of exhaustion: an erratic supply that bears no resemblance to the charges demanded. In rural communities, communal billing often becomes inflated and opaque, deepening distrust between citizens and distributors. Thus, darkness corrupts not only infrastructure but also civic virtue.

The persistence of blackout culture is inseparable from political will. Nigeria does not lack experts, ideas, or even pilot successes. What is lacking is sustained commitment beyond rhetoric. Many Nigerian Christians entered politics proclaiming a mandate to change the narrative. Figures such as Senate President Godswill Akpabio and FCT Minister Nyesom Wike rose with promises of transformation. Yet for millions, poverty deepened, and the cost of living rose under their watch. The light they promised did not reach the homes of the poor; instead, generators multiplied, fuel costs soared, and noise replaced stability.

The removal of electricity from the Exclusive Legislative List to the Concurrent List was hailed as a breakthrough. In practice, it has delivered limited results. Electricity infrastructure demands colossal investment, technical depth, and long-term planning—resources many states simply do not possess. Abia State Governor Alex Otti’s foray into power reform reflects vision, but even this aligns with earlier proposals by Engr. Nnamdi, a former minister under the Jonathan–Sambo administration. The lesson is sobering: ideas recycle because implementation falters.

Like Soyinka’s night that “bears children and raises forces”, Nigeria’s power outages generate consequences that multiply quietly. Industries shut down or relocate. Youths drift into idleness. Creativity withers under the hum of generators. Consumption replaces production, because it is easier to import than to manufacture in darkness. Education suffers when students read by candlelight, and healthcare falters when power becomes a matter of luck rather than policy.

Ultimately, electricity in Nigeria remains firmly under governmental control—regulated, licensed, and supervised by the state in all its forms. Each collapse of the national grid is therefore not an accident of fate but a reflection of priorities. It suggests a troubling comfort with darkness, a tolerance for secrecy, and an accommodation of dysfunction. In a nation where “secret things of darkness” too often thrive, a blackout becomes both a symptom and signal.

Until Nigeria chooses light—not only as voltage but as vision—the night will continue to weigh heavily on the nation’s brow, just as it once pressed upon the poet’s imagination. And like that poem’s darkness, it will keep shaping lives in ways both seen and unseen.

Obiotika Wilfred Toochukwu; Living Grace Restoration Assembly Inc. Nkono-Ekwulobia, Anambra State

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