I often tell people, when we discuss the chaos that Nigeria is, that we have a people problem.

I grew up with a deep sense of pride in being Nigerian, being Yoruba. So much so that when someone I used to know told me I had acted like the average Nigerian when we had a disagreement, I did not understand what they were getting at.

The average Nigerian is bold, smart, ambitious, confident, talented, hardworking. Where’s the slur? I wondered.

Then adulthood kicked in — I stopped living my sheltered life and entered the streets. Then I understood what that person meant and came to the conclusion that they had insulted me.

Not to take away from the myriad of great Nigerians — those who fit my definition of the average Nigerian are plenty.

They are in their various industries, diligent with their work and dedicated to their purpose. They are in the marketplace, on the tarmacs, in our hospitals, in the private and public sectors, in the entertainment industry, leading religious organizations, making differences in other people’s lives and being the bright spots, the periodic calm in the storm.

They seem to be grossly outnumbered, however, by the other extreme.

Those who believe money controls how much respect a man should get. The sycophancy warriors. The street lords who believe a man can be beaten to death in the middle of a busy road because their godfathers own the city. The young girl who thinks smoking meth is nothing. The young lady with no sense of self, only a deep focus on what’s trending. The young man whose idea of being “smart” is duping his neighbor. The driver who throws plastic smack in the middle of the express. The oppressive nature of day-to-day interactions between the haves and the have-nots. The politicians who embezzle with no conscience and consequences. The people’s obsession with money and status.

The excuse of bad behavior due to tribal affiliations, and personal interests. The bullies in the civil service offices, the ones who insist on being “shown love” before your file can move to the right tables. Well, unless you seem influential — then the sycophancy kicks in.

The market people who’d rather pile trash in the middle of the road than pay for it to be cleared. The chaos that we are is astounding.

Even more so because none of these is done by strangers. The civil servant is someone’s “best mom in the world”, a title she rightly earned because she is a phenomenal mother. The driver who throws plastic on the road insists his own home is kept spotless.

We are not two nations, the diligent and the deplorable, at disagreement. We are a people that have stopped identifying the lines of basic morals.

This is why that person’s assertion comes to my mind sometimes. Now I realize: I later found the statement insulting because I believe I am part of the diligents. Yet when I think of the times I have capitalized on the cracks in the system to get better outcomes, I realize I am also a part of the problem.

Our failure is not strictly with leadership. Leaders are not imported. They are a representation of the type of people we have given permission to seize power. We cannot govern our way out of a national character problem, out of a dystopia we assembled by granting permission to bad behavior.

The good thing is, a thing that is assembled can also be taken apart. Can we, as a collective, do the work?

Love can be one of two things;

1.An incomparable high,

The type that raises you up to the clouds,

And leaves you floating in waves of euphoria that never end, almost.

2.An incomparable low,

The type that wraps itself around your neck,

And leaves you gasping,

Praying to the First cause for relief and amnesia.

I feel a deep chill in the air, it's almost freezing. A part of my subconscious registers how strange that is -it's February, the weather should feel like it's boiling hot and I usually wake up in a pool of my own sweat whenever there's power outage, which is often.

This past week, best case scenario is me waking up covered in a thin coat of sweat in a humid room that feels almost airless. And that's when the standing fan gets power to blow some tepid air my way, otherwise it's pure hell. One in which Morpheus does not visit.

I try to burrow deeper into my bed, half awake and half dreaming about running from the police in a warehouse. It's a strange dream but I hang on desperately because I want to see how it ends. I try to stay in character but the harder I try, the faster I lose my hold.

Finally, I give up trying and open one eye while lying face down on the bed - it's the best way to conserve heat.

I am not awake, I must be having one of those dreams where you think you're awake but you're only dreaming about something else. But the chill in the air feels real enough for my teeth to start to chatter, a strange sensation because I've never been cold enough to experience it.

I process the sensation and quickly decide it's not one I like. It's a reaction to an extreme stimulus, one strong enough to kill. No, thank you very much.

The view from my bed is beautiful and I quickly decide this is still a dream, a most unusual one as it feels so real. There are tall mountains all around me and just above me, icicles are stuck on the mountain my bed is fixed to with some chain.

It is the first time I'll ever see them and I wonder how they made their way into my dream. They're interesting to look at and I wonder if they can be used as a weapon in a thriller.

I pull at the bed sheet and an emotion I could not identify creeped into my consciousness. This is my bed sheet, I made it myself after hunting for its particular texture for hours in Gbagi market. It's the first time I'll pay so much attention to the little details in my dreams, I wonder if I'll remember in the morning.

I lift the sheet away and peep at the white mattress underneath. This is my bed but this is definitely not my room. I shift to sit up and the chain creaks, swinging the bed slightly. I freeze, this feels too real. Slowly I roll on my back and stare into the sky. The white asbestos I usually wake up to is gone, in its place I see light rays spreading out of the horizon as the sun starts to rise. The chill is seeping into my bones now, the duvet I wrap around my body is useless against the cold.

I love the view but I have to wake up now. This is not a dream, it's a nightmare. But no matter how hard I pinch myself, my eyes don't open into a new reality. Slowly, I recognize the emotion seeping into my consciousness and now I feel it saturate my essence, it is fear.

This. is. not. a. dream.

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