Dear God,
I have always found the story of Belshazzar strangely uncomfortable. Not because there was a feast. Heaven knows we Nigerians know how to celebrate. Give us a reason (or sometimes no reason at all) and somebody will bring out the jollof rice, arrange the chairs, hire a speaker, and before you know it, we forget all our worries and have ourselves some good time.
King Belshazzar was having his own celebration. A thousand nobles were gathered around him. There was wine, music, laughter and loads of arrogance and then the wall spoke. A human hand appeared and wrote: Mene, Mene, Tekel, Upharsin.
The king’s laughter disappeared. Daniel was eventually brought in, and the message was interpreted as: the days of the kingdom had been numbered; the king had been weighed in the balance; and the kingdom would be divided.
What strikes me, Dad, is that the handwriting did not appear because Babylon was having a good time. It appeared because something deeper had gone wrong.
Babylon had confused power with permission. It had mistaken wealth for invincibility and authority for immunity. It had taken what was sacred and treated it casually. And suddenly, the wall reminded the king that a throne may elevate a man above the crowd, but it does not elevate him above accountability.
My Father, as I look at Nigeria today, I do not want to use the story of King Belshazzar to condemn anything. I think we have had enough condemnation as it is. I would rather use it as a mirror.
Nigeria became independent on October 1, 1960, carrying the enormous hope of a young nation that had finally taken responsibility for its own destiny. There was possibility in that beginning. There was diversity. There was energy. There was a sense that Nigeria could become something extraordinary. And perhaps we still can. That is the part I do not want us to forget. Because sometimes, when we talk about Nigeria, we sound like people attending the funeral of a country that is actually still alive.
We discuss our problems with such enthusiasm that one might think complaining has become a national industry. But Nigeria is not dead. Nigeria is wounded……Yes, complicated…… (you can bet your life on that), noisy……. (even our tonality is loud), resilient…. (Bring it on), talented…… (Add Proud…. You dey play?) and still becoming…… (Unstoppable).
And perhaps that is why the lesson of Babylon matters now.
As we move from the reflections of our 66th independence anniversary toward the 2027 elections, Nigeria is facing familiar pressures: economic hardship, insecurity, political tension and the persistent temptation to place ethnic or regional identity above the larger national story.
These are not small matters. But neither are they the handwriting of hopelessness. Our elections are scheduled again and suddenly; I hear the walls again. Not announcing doom…… No, just asking questions.
Mene…! What are we numbering? Our years? Our opportunities? The years we have spent promising the next generation a better Nigeria? A nation should occasionally ask itself how much time it has spent discussing its problems and how much time it has spent solving them.
Tekel…! What are we weighing? Not only our leaders, but ourselves. What kind of citizens are we? We complain about corruption and then ask for preferential treatment. We complain about tribalism and then become uncomfortable when competence comes from another ethnic group.
We demand good governance but sometimes treat public property as though it belongs to nobody. We complain about political manipulation and then forward the most provocative message in our WhatsApp group without checking whether it is true.
Ah, Dad. Sometimes the wall is not pointing at the palace. Sometimes it is pointing at the mirror. A nation cannot build tomorrow with citizens who want accountability for everyone except themselves.
Upharsin…! What are we allowing to be divided? Nigeria? North and South? Christian and Muslim? Ethnic group against ethnic group? Rich against poor? Party against party? Generation against generation?
Perhaps our greatest danger is not that we are different. Our greatest danger is that we keep allowing our differences to become weapons. A tree with a thousand leaves still draws nourishment from one root. Nigeria has many languages, cultures, religions and traditions, but we share one national future.
And there is an old wisdom that says, when brothers quarrel over the ownership of the house, the roof suffers from the rain.
My God, perhaps this is the season to stop asking only, “Who is my own person?” Or “What party do you support?” Perhaps we should begin asking, “What kind of Nigeria will my decision leave for my children?” Because elections should not be tribal coronations. They should be moments for national stewardship.
Leadership should not be about who can shout the loudest, insult the best, manipulate fear or gather the largest crowd. Leadership is stewardship. Power is temporary. Office is temporary. Popularity is temporary. Even nations, history teaches us, are temporary. But what we build with our time can outlive us.
Belshazzar’s mistake was not simply that he was a king. It was that he forgot that being king did not make him the owner of the kingdom. Perhaps that is the lesson Nigeria needs to carry into this next chapter. Our deepest hope:
To our leaders: govern with humility. To our citizens: participate with wisdom.
To our political parties: remember that Nigeria must survive every election.
To our young people: do not allow anybody to convince you that another Nigerian is your enemy simply because he speaks another language or comes from another part of the country.
To all of us: let us stop behaving as though Nigeria belongs to whichever group currently occupies the palace. It belongs to all of us.
And Dad, please, if there is handwriting on Nigeria’s wall, may we have the courage to read it before history is forced to read it for us.
May Mene remind us that time is precious.
May Tekel remind us that leadership must be weighed by integrity, justice, service and humanity.
May Upharsin remind us that division is expensive, while unity multiplies strength.
And above all, may the lesson not be a prophecy of destruction but an invitation to correction. Because perhaps the most beautiful thing about a warning is that it arrives before the end.
The writing on Babylon’s wall announced an ending. But Nigeria’s wall may yet carry a different message.
Not “your days are numbered,” but “your future can be renewed.”
Not “you have been found wanting,” but “return to the path of wisdom.”
Not “your kingdom shall be divided,” but “be united and prosper.”
For there is a proverb that says, “The best time to plant a tree was twenty years ago; the second-best time is now.”
Nigeria cannot change yesterday. But she can choose tomorrow. There is still time. Time to repair. Time to reconcile. Time to govern better. Time to vote wisely. Time to choose character over convenience. Time to remember that our neighbour’s child is also Nigeria’s child.
Dad, please and please, do not let us become so accustomed to the cracks in the wall that we stop repairing the house. And when the handwriting appears, give us the humility to read it. Not with fear. Not with anger. But with wisdom.
Because Nigeria does not need another generation to simply inherit her problems. She needs a generation courageous enough to inherit the responsibility of fixing them.
May Nigeria never wait for writing on the wall before listening to Your voice.
May we learn before crisis teaches us.
May we unite before division wounds us.
May we repent before consequences humble us.
This is your daughter, Lord, I am simply checking in.
