This is the first of a four-part reflection born from A Conversation That Connects between Ages – where the echoes of the past meet the questions of the present, and where childhood memories collide with the realities of nationhood.
In just eight weeks, I will turn 88. For eight years, week after week I have written this column, publishing more than 500 articles across national, local, and online platforms. Along the way, I discovered something remarkable that the majority of my readers, admirers, and even my fiercest critics are young people. That realization has inspired me to open this space even wider to invite more young men and women to join me in conversation, to write, to question, and to dream alongside me. This column has never been about one voice; it has always been about generations listening to each other.
My deepest thanks go to those who have walked this path with me: Akin Olukirun, writing from London; Onuorah Aligbe from Atlanta, USA; Dr. Dike Okwulum from Asaba; and my daughter, Edith Jibunoh, from New York. Their contributions have been invaluable adding new texture and depth to this ongoing dialogue.
As I look back on my journey through my 30s, 40s, 50s, and 60s, I see a life shaped by storms and seasons: by the course of a nation still finding itself. I have lived through the colonial years, the civil war, the military regimes, and the endless experiments of democracy. Through it all, one question continues to trouble me: What kind of country are we, the elders, leaving behind for those coming after us? Some of the young have been bold enough to ask me directly if the Nigeria they will inherit will be better than the one we had. My honest answer, sadly, is “NO”. We have slid backward in almost every measure of progress – social, economic, and moral. Yet, I do not despair completely. I have found partial comfort in small acts of hope, in moments of activism, and in the courage to keep believing that change is still possible – especially when generations decide to build it together.
Over the years, I have written many articles that sought to engage with the younger generation; to question, to challenge, and to encourage them. A few of those pieces remain close to my heart – among them “The Young Shall Grow.” In that article, I had reflected on the failures of our leadership and the troubling reality that not only have our leaders failed, but the followership – and indeed the young generation – have also faltered. It was a call for self-examination, a reminder that before we become unable to govern and ungovernable, there must be an honest conversation between ages.
In “The Young Shall Grow,” I borrowed the operational name of a popular transport company that plies major routes across Nigeria. The name struck me deeply because it carried both a promise and a warning. Across the East and West, transport companies often bear names filled with meaning and philosophy: “No Condition is Permanent,” “The Sea Never Dry,” “We Shall Return.” Some believe that the name you give your vehicle can influence the safety or success of your journey. Though this may sound superstitious, it speaks to how Nigerians often connect hope to destiny. To further drive home my point, I am reminded of a joke that was told to me by Professor Iweala, the husband of Professor Ngozi Okonjo-Iweala, at his residence in Washington DC. My daughter and I were invited to dinner and after we were treated to some delicious Nigerian cuisine and fine wine, he told a joke that went like this:
The average young Igbo trader transiting from apprenticeship to leadership position travels to Lagos on a regular basis to purchase his commodities for sale or distribution to consumers. Some of these commodities might be on the banned list, but hoping to reach Lagos safely, he travels with ‘THE YOUNG SHALL GROW’ transport company because it guarantees him the safety of the money he’s carrying and, on his return, he patronizes ‘OSONDE’ transport. Osonde in Igbo means ‘run for your life’ and, coincidentally, the Osonde transport system has a way of transporting the young Igbo trader to their territories without being harassed by security agents at checkpoints. When the young Igbo trader arrives safely in his territory, he will then patronize services of ‘EKENE DILI CHUKWU’ Transport Company, which translates to ‘Glory be to God’. Finally, when he crosses the River Niger to his home territory, he boards the ‘IFESINACHI’ bus, which means ‘God is Good’ in Igbo.”
It was a humorous story, but it carried profound lessons about life’s journey from youth to maturity, from learning to leadership. There was a time in our society when succession was a culture, when the young were mentored, guided, and prepared to take over from the old. That tradition is disappearing. Today, too many of the young want to skip the process, while too many of the old refuse to pass the torch.
True leadership is tested by succession, by leaving behind a path that others can tread and improve upon. That, to me, is the real definition of success. It was that same conviction that inspired my environmental work and expeditions across Africa. After my third expedition, which included young participants, we decided that the fourth should take a new form. We transformed it into a reality TV show called “Desert Warrior,” where 44 young men and women joined me in crossing the desert to Agadez, Niger Republic. The aim was to test endurance, teamwork, and awareness about the environment. It became a boot camp for courage, resilience, and purpose.
The contestants worked hard, waking early, training daily, planting trees, reclaiming land, and engaging in community service. Some of the tasks were so difficult they had to be modified, but the lessons were immense. Many of those young people went on to launch environmental initiatives of their own. My dear friend, Kabiyesi Kosoko, even opened a museum in Ikorodu where he preserves relics from the desert. Others pursued careers in environmental advocacy.
Not all continued, of course; some joined only for the thrill and adventure – but the experience left a mark. It reminded me that while the young shall indeed grow, growth is not automatic. It requires humility, patience, discipline, and the courage to learn. Many young people today aspire to lead, to build businesses, or to inspire others, but few are willing to go through the process of learning. Before the student becomes the master, he must first learn to listen, to serve, and to endure. How can you teach if you have not learned? How can you walk if you have not crawled?
To Be Continued….