In social discourse, we often come across the expression, “the average Nigerian.” But who exactly is this “average Nigerian”? Is “it” male, female, neither, or both? Most social commentators hardly help matters, as they make very scant effort to define the term. What we do know, however, is that the “average Nigerian” is neither a sociological nor a determinate demographic category. Even as a statistical expression, the average Nigerian does not exist in reality. It is, therefore, safe to assume that the “average Nigerian” is a nebulous catch-all phrase for describing, in representational form, the ordinary people — the masses who wield little or no palpable influence in the affairs of the nation, even as they may exercise some notional power through the ballot every four years, at least.
For the purpose of this article, we will accept the “average Nigerian” as a synonym for the masses, the ordinary, or everyday people (another interesting phrase). We will borrow the expression in the hope that the reader can relate to it.
That said, the average Nigerian is often vilified for what they do or fail to do. Some writers have accused them of being docile in the face of oppression. Some commentators have even sought to problematise the adjective “resilient,” which is often used to describe their long-suffering. To such analysts, the term describes the penchant of Nigerians to endure the unendurable and their failure to hold their leaders accountable.
Worse still, perhaps, the average Nigerian has been accused of suffering from a debilitating case of Stockholm Syndrome — that incredible situation in which the captive develops an emotional connection with their captor. To substantiate their argument, the accusers of the average Nigerian point to the often vociferous defence of government policies by those who bear a disproportionate burden of the pain those policies cause. They also point to the readiness of the average Nigerian to sell their vote for a pittance, enabling their oppressors to remain in power.
It is the considered opinion of this writer that the accusers of the average Nigerian may be missing the point, as the reality is a lot more complex than they may admit. Truth be told, the average Nigerian is a person of order, and everything they do is rooted in a deep value for a systematic approach to life.
They believe in what we generally call “turn by turn.” When Asiwaju Bola Ahmed Tinubu (now President), in the heat of the campaign leading up to the 2023 elections, made that famous declaration, “E mi l’okan!” (It is my turn), many people with a limited understanding of what he meant rose in arms. I kept wondering what the hoopla was all about. Did he say anything wrong? To my mind, he was being honest, even if brutally so. Deconstructing that statement simply indicates that the Asiwaju believed he had contributed so much to the project called “Nigeria” that it was now his turn to be in charge. And, indeed, who can deny that it was his turn? Did he not succeed in mounting the saddle?
People should learn to wait for their turn! The average Nigerian has learnt well. They will always wait patiently for their turn. That is why, when you drive past the average Nigerian in your luxury (or not-so-luxury) car and splash muddy water on them, they simply clean the mess off their clothes and continue on their way, hoping that one day it will be their turn to splash dirty water on others.
They generally will not abuse you. Even if they do, it will be under their breath. Only the most frustrated would throw a tantrum over such a simple matter. They know you have “worked hard” to be where you are, and they hope to join you someday.
In the same vein, when some panjandrum from a little-known government agency — or even a self-important moneybag — comes along in a siren-blaring convoy, everyone vacates the road in deference. The average Nigerian does not begrudge them their siren fortune. They only pray for the time when they, too, will have the opportunity to ride in a cosy car, with the howling siren, police escorts, and all the panoply of officialdom.
And talking about officialdom, you must have heard that in government offices, if a junior officer thinks they now know enough to question their superior’s decision, the standard advice is usually “wait for your turn.”
Climbing the bureaucratic ladder is not always easy, you know. It takes years of patient waiting, slow promotions, and, sometimes, no promotions at all. When you eventually become an “oga at the top,” you certainly will not brook any oppression from a subordinate who does not understand how much your own superiors oppressed you in the line of duty before you finally made it.
So, for all their patience, the average Nigerian is an “oppressor” in waiting. Deep in their hearts, they are also very competitive. They want to get ahead of the pack. They want to be the cynosure at every event. When they arrive, they want you to know they have arrived. If you doubt this, a visit to Facebook or Instagram will convince you.
Have you noticed how many people take pictures with expensive cars that do not belong to them? Do you notice how many people (remember to) post their pictures on Facebook or Instagram only when they visit posh hotels or apartments? That is the way of the average Nigerian. That is their oppressor mentality at work – subliminally and waiting to exhale. That mentality drives fierce competition and, paradoxically, the turn-by-turn syndrome.
Put differently, the average Nigerian is an easy-going “emilokanist.” Most times, they are just waiting for their turn to shine — and to oppress.
When the average Nigerian and many other average Nigerians line the street, under the sun or in a heavy downpour, waiting for the arrival of a governor or the president, they do not feel hard done by. They are simply having a taste of what other people will, one day, do for them when their own “turn” to oppress arrives. Truly, waiting for your turn is a delicate task that requires studied patience.
Of course, sometimes the average Nigerian grows impatient while waiting. They start thinking of shortcuts, and there are many. One shortcut appears to be activism. Another is the labour movement. If the average Nigerian gets really impatient, they become an activist or a labour leader. That way, the public will notice them fast and help fast-track their turn in the hope that, ultimately, this average Nigerian will always be on the side of the average Nigerian.
Alas, things don’t always work out that way. The average Nigerian who becomes an activist or a labour leader might make an unexpected turn in their quest for their turn. They might even get “settled,” as we say. (Believe me, I don’t like to put it so crassly, but I hear this is the expression most readers will understand.) Somehow, the average Nigerian could also end up becoming a legislator, a minister, or a special assistant. Then, by some inexplicable sleight of fate, they recant or go mute.
Suddenly, the average Nigerian who used to condemn jumbo pay for legislators goes mute upon joining the ranks of legislators whose monthly remuneration would require a bullion van were it converted to cash. And other average Nigerians gasp and gape as they continue waiting for their turn!
And, believe me, there is nothing wrong with waiting for your turn. After all, isn’t almost everyone waiting for their turn at one thing or another?
The deputy managing director is waiting for their turn to become the managing director. An assistant manager is waiting for their turn to become a manager. Pastors wait for their turn to become senior pastors and, hopefully, General Overseers (GOs). Even footballers wait for their turn to become team captain. The average Nigerian knows this. No one should blame them for dreaming of their turn or enjoying it when it arrives.
To conclude, here’s my honest piece of advice to myself and all other average Nigerians out there: Stop groaning if someone you thought stood with you turns around to stand against you when it is their “turn.” The fault is not theirs. You need not blame yourself for thinking they were standing with you all along. It was all in your imagination. They were waiting for their turn; you merely assumed they were waiting with you. You never truly know where the average Nigerian stands until it is their turn.
And, just in case anyone thinks they are not the average Nigerian, I agree. They are not. This defence is not for them. Not everyone is average, after all.
About the author:
Dr. Allwell Nwankwo writes from Lagos.
