by Abigail Anaba

Perhaps we can celebrate that we are learning to walk again and we have confidence that he who walks will run.

Once upon a time, in a land in faraway West Africa, a child was born, a Prince. As legend would have it, the Prince was to grow to be a mighty warrior and in time would lead his people and make them great.

The parents were happy about the child’s birth. Everything had been done to ensure that this child had a bright future. The child was surrounding with enormous wealth. He would soon grow and become the envy of his contemporaries. What is more, the gods had blessed the child with gold. All he had to do was find it buried in the earth when he needed it. Satisfied that they had done their bit, the parents left the child and went on a trip from which they would not return.

The child learnt to crawl and then staggered onto his feet and began to walk. Soon onlookers began to realize that maybe there were a few things the parents had taken for granted.  Perhaps, they were too fast to have weaned the child. They probably should have waited a little longer before they embarked on their journey. While onlookers were busy contemplating these things, tragedy struck.

Enemies, posing as friends, had taken actions that caused the child a serious malady, he was barely six. For the next ten years, the child suffered further incursions that only made him sicker. At a point his immune system grew so weak that his body even started warring against himself. When the parents got to hear it, they hastened and spoke to allies and asked that the boy might be healed. In time the boy began to get better.

He began to sit up in bed and long to go out in the fields. His care givers would sometimes wheel him out to the terrace to allow him catch a glimpse of his Kingdom. Finally he got off the wheel chair and started slowly learning to walk again. First he used clutches and then just as he was about to begin to walk without aid, another tragedy struck this time worse than the first tragedy. Where the first sickness had given him joint pains, the second left him sores that spread like gangrene. The doctors said the only cure was to amputate his legs but the boy refused. He believed that he would one day be healed.

The doctors did not want to go against his wishes. They could only hope and pray that the boy would not allow his stubbornness cause him serious harm. The boy at 23 had again be reduced to a cripple and for another 15 years he suffered in the hands of the enemy. Sometimes there were glimmers of hope that he would be healed but then they were squashed. Even his parents had given up hope but the boy simply refused to die.

And then one day, another miracle occurred. The impossible happened and the child again rose.

Since 1999, when Nigeria rose from her deathbed, many have been disillusioned. They have hoped that her recovery would be faster. 14 years on, the recovery seems to have slowed to a stop. The same issues that the young child was fighting at six before the first blow, he still seems to be battling with. Basic amenities like good roads, adequate healthcare, clean water, power supply, and housing are still part of electioneering promises. Neighbouring, African countries seem to be thriving and getting things right, while we drag our diseased feet and still claim big brother status.

We seem to watch in awe, knowing we could heal faster but getting frustrated at our body’s inability to respond to us. Our mind is strong, but our body is weak, leaving us sorely agitated.

Is there really then, any cause to celebrate?

Perhaps, we can celebrate the fact that our collective mind has not given up that even though we limp and stumble, we have not fallen altogether and refuse to rise

Perhaps we can celebrate that at this point more and more people are getting interested in project Nigeria. That even if we disagree over who should lead, we agree that there should be leadership and we know what direction it should go.

Perhaps, yes, perhaps, we need to give ourselves a little more credit than we are already. We are a 53 year old man who has been crippled for over half his existence.

Perhaps we can celebrate that we are learning to walk again and we have confidence that he who walks will run.

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Op-ed pieces and contributions are the opinions of the writers only and do not represent the opinions of Y!/YNaija.