Growing up in Kaduna in the early 70s, Independence Day Celebration was a story in itself. It was fun. Check out the starch of uniforms, the shine of sandals, the straight lines of children marching into Murtala Square, and always, the October rain, falling like God’s own blessing upon a young nation.
Watching wide-eyed, the Military Administrator of the State, as it was then, would take the salute, as schools and organisations marched proudly, each one battling for the soul of victory in the parade.
And when the dust of the march-past had settled, the celebrations often culminated in an Independence party hosted by the Wife of the Military Administrator, a grand affair that gave us, young and eager, our first glimpse into the splendour of Government House. Independence Day was not just a date. It was a feeling. A belonging. A promise.
The year that carved its mark upon my heart was 1972. It was a Sunday; 1st October. While drums rolled across the nation, my sister gave life to a blue-eyed girl, so fair, she seemed almost foreign. They called her Ladi, for Sunday-born daughters bear that name in Hausa. That year, the rains came in their torrent; so heavy that the parades and march-pasts were shifted to the following day. But still, the heavens opened again, drenching uniforms and banners, as though to remind us that rain and independence were inseparable companions. Ladi grew radiant, wise, beautiful and industrious, but, at 33 in 2006, her laughter was silenced by the inevitable call of all. Still, her memory lingers like the sound of the rains that ushered in her birth, her boisterous nature echoes in songs once sung by her, as bright as the flags that once danced in Kaduna’s rain. We miss that cordiality, which only Ladi radiated.
Fast forward, hmmmm, adulthood has a way of reshaping joy. Responsibilities tug at every side; children, family, work, dependants. In this, I saw Nigeria mirrored: the woman with a child strapped to her back, selling food to keep hunger away; the family that gives everything to raise children of pride; the government that strives in plenty and in want; the economist who rationalises, the activist who reminds, the religious leaders praying, all voices blending into the rhythm of a country still learning how to stand.
Yes, Nigeria is 65. Her journey has not been without wounds. She has known the sting of coups and counter-coups, the long shadows of military rule, the abrupt silencing of democratic voices, and the massive suffering that follows each power struggle. She has endured hunger, inflation, and seasons where hope itself seemed rationed.
In the North, the shadow of insurgency and kidnapping still lingers, haunting schools, scattering children from classrooms.
In the South-South, oil spills have blackened waters, farmlands poisoned, though wealth lies beneath the soil, giving rise to violent demands for resource control.
In the South-East, agitations and silence on Mondays have stolen commerce and learning.
In the South-West, the swelling tide of urban poverty and land struggles cry for redress.
In the Middle Belt, farmer and herder collide, and blood stains the earth meant for harvest.
And all across Nigeria, tales of kidnapping, disasters; natural and man-made floods, fires, explosions, and crashes have tested the people’s patience.
Malnutrition weighs on children, schools lose their daughters, and too many dreams hang fragile in the balance.
Yet, here she stands. Nigeria is a paradox, a wonder, a miracle that defies human logic. By every calculation, she should have fractured, for prophets of doom declared she would not live beyond 2014. But here she is, scarred, yet standing tall; weary, yet unbroken; a nation carrying the weight of prophecy and the grace of survival.
Nigeria is favoured by God. Her soil holds riches; oil, gas, gold, minerals uncounted. Her rivers feed, her forests breathe, her land stretches wide with promise. But, her greatest treasure is not in the earth. It is in her people. A young, vibrant demography; men and women with dreams larger than borders, children with brilliance that can light the world. And her women; industrious, resourceful, unyielding, are the silent pillars who hold the nation upright, feeding families, shaping futures, and now stepping boldly into the halls of power.
I see hope. Hope in the Renewed Hope Agenda of President Bola Ahmed Tinubu, GCFR. Hope of a nation bright and blue; where other nations will want to share in her success. Hope, where women will rise, not in hundreds, not in thousands, but in millions; not only raising children, but funding communities, building institutions, shaping leaders without borders.
At 65, Nigeria is not just surviving. She is alive. She is becoming. Like the eagle on her coat of arms, she soars above storms, eyes fixed on the horizon of destiny. Like the colours of her flag of green-white-green; she carries a story of abundance, purity, and renewal. Green for her fertile soil and endless promise. White for peace that must anchor her progress. Green again for the hope that refuses to die.
Nigeria at 65 is resilience. Nigeria at 65 is pride. Nigeria at 65 is an indomitable spirit, rising, resisting, rejoicing; a nation favoured by God, a people unbreakable, a giant that still walks tall.
God bless my country, Nigeria. No where like home. Happy Independence Day Celebration to all my Family, Friends and Associates.
The Author of this piece Princess Dr. Joan Jummai Idonije, JP, is a Gender Policy Analyst, Advocate, Trainer, a Speech Writer, a Community Mobilizer, Child Development Expert and Author.