Where a life doesn’t matter

The generator was coughing again. No electricity. Of course not. Never long enough to matter.

The heat pressed down on us, reminding everyone that the day had started without waiting. Then someone shouted from the next compound. I didn’t need to ask why. My phone lit up with another familiar headline. Numbers without names. Faces too far away. Words like tragic and unfortunate, standing in for the care that never comes.

Another attack. Another death. Another life gone.

My mother turned up the radio, as though volume might turn information into concern. The presenter’s voice was calm and practiced. The same phrases he always uses. By the time the segment ended, the station had moved on to traffic and music. Life continued. It always does.

In Nigeria, death rarely matters unless it disrupts someone with power. It arrives loudly, but it leaves quietly. Hospitals run out of beds and medicines. Clinics charge for care that should never have been a question. Ambulances arrive late, if they arrive at all. The dead are not mourned for long. They are recorded.

By tomorrow, another headline will replace this one. Another crisis. Another number. The names will fade. They will live only in reports read by people who could have acted and chose not to.

So, we learn to grieve quietly.

I think about the people who woke up that morning expecting an ordinary day. Someone laughed over breakfast. Someone argued with a neighbour. Someone sent a message. Someone made plans they would never keep. Their lives were full. And still, fullness doesn’t protect you here.

Insecurity is not an event, but daily life. You move carefully. You watch strangers. You question every knock at the door. You learn to calculate risk without realising you’re doing it. Because the state does not protect you. Because those meant to do so treat your life as expendable.

Later, a government official appeared on television. Well dressed. Well lit. Speaking from somewhere air-conditioned. He offered condolences. Said the situation was being monitored. Said appropriate measures would be taken. He did not say when. He did not say how. He did not say their names.

Do you know what it feels like to live somewhere your life does not matter? To watch those responsible for your safety behave as though your death were an inconvenience?

That is what it feels like to live here.

So we adjust. We lower our expectations. We become our own government, providing only what we can afford. We buy fuel for generators we should not need. We move carefully. We keep going. Making noise changes very little. Accountability rarely shows up. Justice feels optional.

By evening, social media has already moved on. By tomorrow, the story will be buried.

This is the truth. A Nigerian life is cheap to those in power. Not because it is unloved. Not because it is empty. But because it does not demand their attention. And still, we live. Not because we agree with the system. Not because we are untouched by it. But because stopping has never been an option.

So we carry it. The anger. The grief. The disbelief.

Even when it is heavy.

Even when it should never have been ours to carry.

Even when we are tired of watching them fail.

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Diane