There Was a Country: Chinua Achebe’s Testament of Nigeria’s Lost Promise
By George Omagbemi Sylvester
When
Chinua Achebe published There Was a Country in 2012, he did more than write a memoir of the Biafran War. He issued a damning verdict on Nigeria’s descent from promise to peril—a once-hopeful post-colonial state now defined by corruption, ethnic strife, impunity, and the persistent betrayal of its founding ideals. Through a blend of personal recollections, literary reflections, and searing political critique, Achebe chronicled the tragedy of a nation that lost its soul to tribalism, mediocrity, and greed. More than a personal account, his work is a national epitaph and a warning that remains as relevant today as it was over a decade ago.
Achebe begins by reminiscing on Nigeria’s early days, when a generation of dreamers imagined a country that could stand tall among nations. As a young man, he had every reason to be optimistic. Nigeria’s independence in 1960 was greeted with joy and international acclaim. The country was rich in human and natural resources, boasting an educated elite, a vibrant press, and a federal constitution that promised unity in diversity. But Achebe, ever the realist, understood that these were fragile gains. The cracks were already visible in the foundation.
The seeds of Nigeria’s unraveling were planted by colonial rule and hastened by post-independence mismanagement. The British had left behind a deeply divided society: a North shaped by indirect rule and Islamic conservatism; a Western region dominated by Yoruba culture and political sophistication; and an Eastern region led by an industrious, commercially successful Igbo elite. This artificial federation, created for imperial convenience, lacked a cohesive national identity.
Achebe’s Igbo heritage played a central role in There Was a Country. The book reflects the trauma of the Biafran War (1967–1970), during which the Eastern Region attempted to secede from Nigeria following pogroms against the Igbo in the North. Achebe writes of the horror of starvation, the bombing of civilian targets, and the silence of the international community. Over two million people—mostly children—died in the conflict. Achebe, who served as a Biafran diplomat, watched with sorrow as his country turned on its own, driven by what he described as a “failure of leadership.”
Perhaps no phrase in There Was a Country is more enduring than Achebe’s declaration: “The trouble with Nigeria is simply and squarely a failure of leadership.” He argues that the post-independence generation of politicians, many of whom were products of missionary schools and early nationalist movements, quickly abandoned the principles of service and justice. Instead, they embraced tribalism, nepotism, and opportunism. Merit was sacrificed on the altar of mediocrity, and elections became contests of identity, not ideology.
Achebe’s indictment of successive Nigerian governments is unrelenting. He condemns the military coups of 1966 and 1983, the annulment of the June 12, 1993 election won by Chief Moshood Abiola, and the rise of what he called “an ignoble class of millionaires who are neither industrialists nor farmers nor professionals.” He viewed Nigeria’s oil wealth not as a blessing, but as a curse—a source of unimaginable corruption that enriched a few while deepening the poverty of the many.
The relevance of There Was a Country in contemporary Nigeria is sobering. Over a decade since its publication, the problems Achebe decried have only worsened. The country is still grappling with insecurity—terrorism in the North-East, banditry in the North-West, secessionist agitations in the South-East, and kidnapping-for-ransom across the country. Nigeria remains among the top 10 countries with the highest number of out-of-school children. According to the National Bureau of Statistics (2023), over 63% of Nigerians are multidimensionally poor, while youth unemployment hovers around 40%.
Corruption remains endemic. Transparency International’s Corruption Perceptions Index (2024) ranked Nigeria 145th out of 180 countries, reflecting a lack of progress in tackling systemic graft. Public infrastructure has decayed. The power sector still generates less than 5,000 megawatts for over 200 million people. Universities frequently shut down due to strikes, and the health sector has been hollowed out by the exodus of professionals. The Nigerian dream, once luminous, now flickers dimly.
Achebe’s reflections on the civil war also serve as a warning about the dangers of unresolved ethnic tensions. Nigeria has never fully reconciled with its Biafran past. History was removed from school curricula for decades, and official narratives often ignore the suffering of Eastern Nigerians. As Achebe wrote, “A people without knowledge of their history are like a tree without roots.” Today’s South-East youths, many of whom feel excluded from national politics, are increasingly attracted to separatist movements, echoing the unhealed wounds Achebe documented.
Internationally, Nigeria’s image has suffered. Once hailed as the “Giant of Africa,” it now battles negative headlines—ranging from cybercrime to human trafficking. The failure to project soft power, coupled with diplomatic missteps and internal instability, has eroded its regional leadership. Achebe warned of this decline, noting that a country that cannot manage its diversity, reward merit, or provide security, risks becoming irrelevant on the global stage.
Yet, There Was a Country is not a book of despair. Achebe believed in the possibility of redemption. He admired young Nigerians who defied the odds, who built businesses, won scholarships, and used the arts to challenge injustice. He called for a return to core values—honesty, empathy, accountability, and service. For Achebe, the soul of Nigeria could still be reclaimed, but only through courageous and ethical leadership.
His call is more urgent now than ever. As Nigeria prepares for the next round of elections in 2027, Achebe’s words should guide both leaders and voters. The nation must abandon the politics of tribe, money, and manipulation. It must invest in education, rebuild its institutions, and reward competence. Most importantly, it must tell the truth about its past so it can chart an honest course for the future.
Achebe’s legacy is a challenge to all Nigerians—to remember that there was a country, full of promise and possibility. The question is whether there still is, and if so, what must be done to save it. He wrote not as a cynic, but as a patriot who loved his country enough to tell it the truth. As he once said, “One of the truest tests of integrity is its blunt refusal to be compromised.” In a world of compromised ideals and broken promises, Achebe’s voice remains a clarion call to conscience.
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