By Israel Adebiyi
When a man stays too long where he passes excreta, different kinds of flies will visit him. This Yoruba adage carries deep metaphorical meaning about the dangers of overstaying or remaining in an undesirable, corrupt, or degrading situation. It teaches that there is wisdom in knowing when to leave a place, position, or situation. Staying too long in an unpleasant or unproductive environment can bring unnecessary troubles, shame, or ridicule. Just as flies gather where filth remains, prolonged presence in one spot, especially one associated with decay or negativity, can attract unwanted attention, gossip, or enemies. Donal Trump, the “gun blazing” U.S President has hit this home, setting the Nigerian public sphere on fire.
Nigeria’s long, unending bromance with insecurity and the reign of non-state actors breathing down the necks of innocent citizens has finally caught global attention, and not in a flattering way. For years, the most populous black nation sat comfortably amid filth – moral, economic, and political. We normalized insecurity, institutional decay, and leadership failure, as though chaos were a national identity. Now, the flies have arrived, from within and without, and this time, the buzzing comes from the White House.
For those who may have forgotten, back in 2018 in his first term in office, Trump had branded African countries a “shithole”. A subsequent meeting with late President Muhammadu Buhari that same year dwelled largely on the compelling reasons that earn Nigeria that label – killing of Christians in the Middle Belt.
These were his exact words about seven years ago: “We have had very serious problems with Christians who are being murdered in Nigeria. We are going to be working on that problem very, very hard because we cannot allow that to happen.”
Seven years down the line, the same allegations have resurfaced. In a statement that shocked the global diplomatic community, Trump, in his usual unfiltered bravado branded Nigeria “that shameful country” and threatened possible military invasion over what he called “the ongoing Christian genocide in Nigeria.” His words have sparked outrage, debate, and even admiration among some Nigerians. But behind the drama lies a hard truth: a nation that refuses to manage its rot will one day become a playground for the flies of ridicule.
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Let’s not deceive ourselves, Trump’s language was offensive, reckless, and imperialistic. Yet, what moral high ground does Nigeria currently occupy to push back convincingly? Since Boko Haram’s rise in 2009, the country has spiraled from insurgency to banditry, terrorism, kidnapping, and armed robbery. From Chibok to Dapchi, from Southern Kaduna to Benue, and from the Northwest to the Middle Belt, blood has flowed too freely.
Almost two decades later, the question is no longer whether the government can protect its people, it is whether it even knows how to try.
Billions of dollars have vanished into so-called counter-terrorism operations, yet terrorists still move with ease, sometimes better armed than the troops sent to confront them. Villages are erased overnight. Farmlands are deserted. IDP camps have become permanent homes for millions. And in the midst of all this, politicians trade blames, hold thanksgiving services, and prepare for the next election cycle, while Nigerians bury their dead in silence.
It is this silence that the world now interprets as complicity.
And when a nation appears complicit in its own tragedy, it loses the moral right to indignation.
Trump’s threat should offend every Nigerian, but it should not surprise anyone. Nations that fail to fix themselves invite pity, and sometimes, predation. We have built a global reputation as a land of endless potential and endless failure. The “Giant of Africa” now stands on the frail legs of corruption, insecurity, and poverty.
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It is this contradiction that emboldens the likes of Trump to hurl insults and contemplate intervention.
For a country so rich in natural resources, human capital, and spiritual fervor, Nigeria’s misery index is a paradox too glaring to ignore. Inflation sits above 30 percent, the naira gasps at ₦1,600 to a dollar, and youth unemployment continues to rise. When leadership turns failure into culture, ridicule becomes inevitable.
The greater tragedy, however, is not Trump’s words but Nigeria’s weakness that made them plausible. For years, our leaders have slept through crises. The insurgency grew under their watch. Banditry expanded under their silence. Farmers abandoned their fields. Schools became abduction zones. The economy bled, and they responded with propaganda and prayer breakfasts.
We have been a country at war without admitting it. And because we have refused to confront our internal decay, our tragedy has become global gossip.
The #EndSARS protest of 2020 was a warning shot, a generation’s cry against oppression and bad governance. Yet, five years later, nothing has changed. The same impunity that dehumanized young protesters at Lekki Tollgate now governs our security architecture. The same arrogance that dismissed public outrage then, dismisses international concern now.
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What is perhaps more disturbing than Trump’s arrogance is the chorus of applause from some Nigerians, Christians and non-Christians alike, who celebrated his threat as divine justice. They cheer an outsider’s insult as though humiliation were a cure.
But as the Yoruba proverb warns: “Omo ale lo n fi owo osi juwe ile baba re.” Only a bastard points to his father’s house with the left hand.
Criticizing one’s country is noble when done in the spirit of correction, but applauding its shaming is folly. A foreign bomb will not discriminate between the guilty and the innocent. Trump’s rhetoric is not motivated by love for Nigeria’s Christians, it is driven by the old Western savior complex, where Africa is the backdrop for another man’s ego and another nation’s geopolitical theater.
If history has taught us anything, it is that America does not invade to save, it invades to reshape. Ask Iraq. Ask Libya. Ask Afghanistan. They all began with the language of “liberation” and ended in ruins.
We are a people living dangerously on the brink, between pride and paralysis.
Trump’s verbal assault should not drive us to defensive anger; it should drive us to national introspection. This moment calls for leadership that listens, acts, and reforms with courage.
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Nigeria must rebuild faith in governance, starting with security sector reforms. We need intelligence-driven operations, proper welfare for troops, and an end to political interference in military command. Every attack on a community should prompt accountability, not recycled condolences.
Equally vital is rebuilding trust between the government and citizens. We must stop treating civic outrage as rebellion. Democracy thrives on the people’s voice, not their silence. When government disconnects from public pain, even sympathy from abroad becomes weaponized.
Finally, leadership must abandon propaganda and embrace truth. Nigerians are not asking for miracles; they are asking for sincerity.
America’s saber-rattling may fade, but the insult will linger if we fail to change. The way out is not to fight Washington’s words, it is to fix Abuja’s reality. A nation that works will not need to plead for respect. The flies will leave when we clean our house.
Nigeria remains a great country, wounded, weary, yet still standing. But greatness is not measured by slogans or population; it is measured by justice, accountability, and the value we place on human life.
If our leaders will finally lead, if our citizens will rise above apathy, and if our institutions will choose integrity over indulgence, then maybe, just maybe, the story will change.
And at that time, when the world looks our way again, it will not be with contempt or pity, but with admiration. Until then, we must keep asking:
When will Nigeria stop attracting flies and start commanding respect?
