At 3 a.m., the night refuses me sleep, not because the darkness is kind, but because it mirrors the suffocating void we have become as a country. Bola Tinubu’s speech yesterday was not a policy address; it was a confession. Cold, arrogant and dripping with the mediocrity we have learned to expect, it exposed the man who wears the title of president yet carries no heartbeat for the people he rules. There is no plan for our lives, none for the bread we cannot afford, none for the futures we are watching rot. With shameless pride he once declared himself 100 % heir to Buhari’s despicable legacy, chest puffed, conscience anaesthetised. Yet tomorrow, his hired voices will spin the fairy tale that he arrived to “correct” the very ruin he helped crown. The contradiction is not clever; it is obscene. It is the kind of lie that slaps every suffering face and dares us to call it governance. I am not angry alone, I am afraid. Afraid for my children, for every Nigerian child whose tomorrow has already been auctioned to fund the banquet tables of this government. They have no blueprint except for themselves. No vision except their own survival. And in that naked truth, hope does not flicker. It dies quietly, mercilessly, while the rest of us lie awake wondering how much deeper this grave can still be dug.
