By OBIOTIKA WILFRED TOOCHUKWU

It’s an open-secret and very obvious for those who have lived abroad long enough to recognize the sting of discrimination. In the United Kingdom, the polite racism that trails many African immigrants hides behind bureaucratic smiles. In the United States, even among Black communities, African newcomers are sometimes treated as outsiders, a painful reminder that prejudice wears many faces. Yet none of those experiences prepared me for the sharper, more familiar wound that cuts across my own country—Nigeria’s tribal and religious divisions. Recently, the U.S. State Department listed Nigeria as a “country of pressing concerns.” It was not only a diplomatic phrase; it was an indictment. It confirmed what Nigerians already know: that the giant of Africa has been crippled not merely by corruption or bad policy but by a deep, inherited hostility among its own peoples. More than six decades after independence, Nigeria’s greatest enemy is not foreign aggression but internal distrust. Every national debate is filtered through tribe, faith, and region. The Igbo are still viewed by many power brokers as a group to be contained rather than included. This unspoken bias shapes appointments, resource distribution, and even the tone of public discourse. It explains why rebuilding the South-East’s infrastructure or creating genuine federal equality has remained a reluctant conversation.

Tribal suspicion has replaced merit as the measure of leadership. The country moves in circles, dragged back each time by the invisible hands of ethnic arithmetic. We argue over which region produces the president, while unemployment and insecurity continue to rise. The hatred once expressed with bullets during the civil war now travels through policies and silence. The Muslim–Muslim ticket that emerged in the 2023 elections was not, in itself, unconstitutional. But it revealed a troubling confidence that public outrage no longer matters. In a plural nation whose founding principle was balance, the decision signaled that Nigeria’s leaders are comfortable ignoring the fears of millions who do not share their faith or region. Religion, instead of serving as moral compass, has become a badge of dominance. Behind this lies a deeper design: a northern political class that has learned to convert spiritual identity into political permanence. By occupying the seats of power and the levers of security, the elite maintain a structure that resists accountability. It is not the faith of Islam that threatens national cohesion—it is the manipulation of faith for control. Hardship is no longer an accident of poor governance; it has become a method of control. When citizens must fight for food, fuel, or safety, they have little strength left for resistance. Insecurity keeps the people divided and desperate, while subsidies, palliatives, and ethnic rhetoric keep them docile. This quiet strategy allows a small circle of oligarchs—both northern and southern—to trade blame while sharing power.

The tragedy is that ordinary Nigerians, who have no tribal armies or offshore accounts, suffer most. Farmers in Benue, traders in Onitsha, students in Kaduna—all bleed under the same system that sets them against one another. The United States and its allies issue reports about democracy and human rights, but their concern rarely crosses from words to action. Washington’s interests lie in stability and oil, not necessarily justice. Under Donald Trump, and even since, America’s foreign policy has tilted toward self-protection, not intervention. No Western cavalry is coming to rescue Nigerians from their own leaders. The burden of redemption lies within. Movements that challenge the system—whether calls for restructuring or regional self-determination—are quickly branded as threats. The case of Mazi Nnamdi Kanu and the agitation led by IPOB should compel sober reflection. One does not have to agree with every method to recognize the underlying cry for fairness. His imprisonment and the broader repression of dissent show a government more comfortable silencing grievances than solving them. Yet silenced voices do not disappear; they deepen into resentment.

Nigeria must learn to confront its injustices without waiting for collapse. True unity will not be built by slogans but by justice—by creating a federation where no region fears erasure and no tribe must beg for belonging. Nigeria’s designation as a country of pressing concerns should not be treated as a foreign insult but as a national mirror. We have become a people at war with ourselves. Yet every generation is given one sacred opportunity—to either perpetuate inherited divisions or to heal them. If Nigeria must survive, it must learn to treat every tribe as sacred and every citizen as human. The alternative is a slow disintegration that no foreign ally can prevent. The world may label us, but only we can redeem ourselves—from hatred, from fear, and from the rulers who profit by keeping both alive.

•Obiotika Wilfred Toochukwu writes from Living Grace Restoration Assembly Inc., Nkono-Ekwulobia Anambra State.