There is a quiet but deeply rooted sickness in Nigeria that poisons relationships, stifles ambition and fuels bitterness in even the most ordinary settings. It is envy. Not just the common type, but a dangerous variety that turns people into gatekeepers of misery, determined to punish anyone who refuses to suffer with them. I have encountered this bitterness in many places, and I have never made the mistake of confusing it for anything else.
During my national youth service, I was once driving from Lagos to New Bussa with my brother and friend, Dawood Yusuf. Somewhere outside Jebba, a Road Safety officer flagged us down. He looked angry the moment he saw us. I introduced myself as a corps member, thinking that might ease things. It did not. Instead, he looked at me like I had committed a crime and asked, "Who bought you a car?" I did not think he deserved an answer. Dawood told him it was my father. That only made him angrier. He decided he would issue me a ticket for an expired fire extinguisher, adding with bitterness that I should give the ticket to the same father who bought me the car.
I collected the ticket, paid the fine a few days later, and moved on. But the experience stayed with me. Not because of the money or the inconvenience, but because of what it revealed. That man was not enforcing the law. He was offended by the idea that someone like me, young and in uniform, had something he probably felt I did not deserve. And he wanted me to feel it. I have never apologized to people like that. I am not the reason for their misery, and I will never pretend to be. There is something broken in our society when someone else's modest progress feels like an insult to your own existence.
Years later, as I was preparing to leave Modibbo Adama University, I saw the same pattern again. People in the registry department, who had no reason to be anything but professional, started to drag their feet. They made things unnecessarily difficult. It was only after one person spoke that I realized what was going on. He told me bluntly that the real "crime" in our public university system today is getting a chance to study in a place like the UK. That's when they start resenting you.
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That conversation explained a lot. I began to understand the sarcastic comments I had heard. Some colleagues made remarks that implied my doctorate could not be real because I finished in two years. Others dismissed foreign degrees altogether, saying they were just commercial documents. But what really exposed them was what happened when I returned. I told them I had completed my program within the standard three years and was not seeking any extension. They looked surprised, even disappointed. Some of them clearly expected me to return with excuses and stories of failure. It upset them that I did not.
I have found that envy, always finds its way out through sarcasm. Many people are too clumsy to hide it well. Their facial expressions, their offhand comments, the way they withhold help or delay your progress -- all of it shows. And what makes it worse is that they do not even see anything wrong with it. They think they are justified.
Just last couple of weeks, my sister went through something similar. She returned from the UK and went to the NYSC office in Bauchi to submit her documents. The women in the office did not even try to hide their resentment. They asked her, in a mocking tone, why she had to study abroad. Was Nigeria not good enough for her? They were not curious. They were hostile. They did not want to assist her. Their envy stood in the way of doing their job. This is a culture problem. When people are not doing well, instead of confronting the system or pushing themselves, they choose an easier target -- someone who looks like them but dares to rise. And rather than seek growth or improvement, they build emotional barricades around themselves and lash out at anyone who refuses to stay behind with them.
I have been around long enough to know that this kind of envy thrives where systems are weak. In a country where talent is not rewarded, where corruption determines who gets ahead, and where bitterness is passed around like a family heirloom, envy becomes normal. The worst part is that it is often dressed up as something else. People call it humility, tradition, loyalty, or even morality. But at its core, it is just envy. They will question your car, your job, your education, your ambition. Not because you did anything wrong, but because your success reminds them of everything they did not become. And they hate you for that. They want you to explain yourself, to apologize, to downplay your achievements. And when you refuse, they punish you in whatever small way they can. They delay your file. They withhold information. They invent problems. They speak to you with contempt. All because you had the audacity to rise without asking for their permission.
I do not hate people like this. But I do not entertain them either. I do not explain myself to them, and I certainly do not slow down to make them feel better. It is not my duty to make anyone feel comfortable with their own lack of progress. I did not design their life, and I will not shrink mine to make them feel better. We do not talk enough about how envy is quietly choking progress in this country. It is not just in public offices. It is in religious spaces, workplaces, campuses, even families. People carry deep resentment for those who try to break out of poverty, obscurity or mediocrity. And they work hard to clip your wings before you get too far.
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Nigeria has many problems, but this one is personal. It lives inside people. It shows up when they see someone doing well and they feel attacked by it. Until we start calling this out for what it is, we will continue to have a society that rewards bitterness and punishes ambition. My advice is simple. If you are doing well, do not look back. Do not apologize. Do not shrink yourself. Do not seek validation. And never beg for acceptance. The people who matter will support you. The rest will have to deal with the fact that you refused to suffer just to make them feel better.
Mohammed Dahiru Aminu ([email protected]) wrote from Abuja, Nigeria.
