Nwafor Uka
In the grand monument of our modern governance, few performances are as riveting and impactful as that of the entrepreneurial politicians and men of the people—rare species of public servants who, rather than simply serve the public, choose monumental investments in five-star hotels, luxury resorts, and petrol stations. Their entrepreneurial dispositions are laudable and deserve national awards for their life-touching impacts through these investments.
However, when it comes to factories, the story takes an entirely different turn. Factories? Oh no. Factories are for countries with industrial ambitions, not for nations run by visionaries whose greatest achievements are the visible comfort of the resorts and the 24-hour convenience store attached to a fuel pump—a mountain of frustration-empowerment empire for the youths.
Once upon a time, one might have believed that those parliamentarians—those noble guardians of the national interest who dwell in the national treasury—would prioritize industries that create jobs, stimulate exports, and reduce poverty and dependency on foreign goods. But that was perhaps before we witnessed the divine revelation that tourism and the gasoline business are the twin pillars of industrial revolution upon which great economies are built.
Indeed, who needs factories when you can have boutique hotels in every nook and cranny of the city, and a filling station on every other corner? After all, in the minds of these economic visionaries, hospitality and petrol retailing have replaced production as the symbols of progress.
Besides, factories are so noisy, so grimy, and frankly—so old-fashioned and archaic. They require things like skilled labour, electricity, raw materials, and, worst of all, commitment to long-term development. Hotels, on the other hand, need only a ribbon-cutting ceremony in the company of statesmen of substance, a few imported bedsheets, and a social media page proudly declaring, “Your Comfort Is Our Priority.” Gas stations? Even better. These stations run on the irony of our God-given, people-conscious leaders who campaign on energy independence yet profit handsomely from fuel imports.
Furthermore, let’s not forget the job creation aspect. Yes, it’s true that a factory might employ hundreds of workers, train youth in vocational skills, and promote technical innovation. But what are those vocational skills compared to the noble job of a hotel doorman or a petrol pump attendant? Who needs engineers when you can have valet parking? Clearly, none!
When it comes to the economy, the logic continues flawlessly. A country needs a strong service sector, they say. So, while other nations are busy mass-producing cars, electronics, and textiles, ours specializes in room service and unleaded fuel. It’s economic ingenuity, really—an industrial revolution like no other! Why build a factory that exports goods when you can build a hotel that imports tourists or a filling station that sells imported petrol at prices so high they can be felt in the bones? Indeed, Nigerians have always got it right with respect to leadership—but this time, they got it better.
Consequently, we must applaud these trailblazing leaders who have discovered that the real path to national development lies not in assembly lines or manufacturing hubs, but in continental breakfast buffets and luxury en suite bathrooms. We must thank them for their vision—for turning our industrial zones into hospitality havens and replacing the clang of machinery with the soothing hum of air conditioners. They truly deserve national accolades of note!
Of course, let us not question their motives. Surely, their investments in hotels and filling stations have nothing to do with personal profit. No—these are purely philanthropic ventures, carefully crafted to serve the people—by charging them exorbitantly per night or a fortune per litre.
So then, are you suggesting that these development warriors—our economic messiahs—who build not for the future but for the weekend getaway, are not sought-after leaders, God-sent? You must be mistaken. May their hotels always be fully booked, their filling stations forever pumping, and their voters eternally distracted.
Nevertheless, it’s a splendid moment for the youth of this country—especially if you enjoy watching five-star hotels rise like golden towers within the shortest period of time while your dreams as youth sink like stones in a puddle of broken promises. Our parliamentarians, ever wise and visionary, have finally cracked the code to national development: less educational support, empowerment shared among the godfather-politicians and the highly connected, and perhaps more executive suites to ease the pressure from the masses craving for food. They derive pleasure knowing the survival and future of a 25-year-old graduate lie in folding towels and learning how to say “Welcome, sir” with a forced smile.
Meanwhile, the same youths—touted as “leaders of tomorrow”—find themselves trapped in a tragic cycle. You are the leaders of this tomorrow, even the leaders of yesterday’s tomorrow, yet your fathers still occupy the seats and somehow get younger while you, feeding on heaps of neglect, get older. You have become errand boys, professional praise-singers, crowd-fillers, tools for eliminating political adversaries, and campaign choir members. “O nwe weight?” Yeah, o nwe weight!
For your troubles, dear youth, you are only rewarded with branded T-shirts, soggy rice in foil packs, and—if lucky—the opportunity for scraps and peanut for sustenance from your political godfather to keep up the tempo of solidifying the “stomach infrastructure” around your survival.
At this point, one might call it misplaced priority—but no, not at all. These parliamentarian giants grow their egos through praise-singing. That is why they need the youth to constantly fan the embers of their vanity. As a matter of fairness, it’s not that these all-knowing technocrats don’t value the youth. They do. After all, who else will chant their names at rallies, spread propaganda on social media, and intimidate perceived opponents? Unfortunately, once the campaign dust settles and victory is declared, the youth are escorted out of the frame—shoved back to the streets where they belong—like clowns and temporary actors in a tragic drama. Soon after, bulldozers roll in for yet another hotel foundation, laid beyond the reach of the common man.
Evidently, the political gladiators are fully aware that empowering the youth is a risky business. Empowered youths ask questions, demand accountability, and know when they’re being used. No—such youths cannot be empowered.
However, a hungry youth—that’s a different matter. Hungry youths make loyal, stern soldiers. Hungry and used chaffs who can scream a politician’s name for farthings and few scraps—those can be controlled. After all, why empower them with vocational skills when you can give them leftovers for sustenance? Why secure them good jobs or fund their tech dreams when you can offer them temporary roles as “aides on social media noise”? It’s quite a clever system: give them just enough to survive—but never enough to thrive. Thus, they remain dependent on the same political overlords who crippled their aspirations.
Did I hear you say it’s wrought in irony? Perhaps one day, when the last youth standing checks into one of these hotels—not as a guest but as a cleaner courtesy of his benevolent politician—you’ll understand the irony. Isn’t it crystal clear that while the youth fought, danced, and died for those hard-hearted gladiators, the leaders were busy erecting personal empires with public funds? The youth will then realize that the only legacy projects left for them are beds they can’t afford to sleep in and conference halls they’ll never be invited to—especially if they remain faithful in servitude, dependency, and praise-singing. “O nwe weight? O nwe weight! Who say man no dey? Man dey!”
And yet, perhaps hope is not entirely lost. With every hotel that rises into the sky, so does the evidence of our leaders’ true priorities. Factories, vocational skills, and economic-enabling programmes can wait.
After all, sometimes the best way to tear down golden towers is not with bulldozers—but with truth enfolded in laughter.
Nwafor Uka writes from Abakaliki, Ebonyi State’s capital
