I could not resist the price Mama Nkechi, as she was called, wanted to sell the roasted plantain to me as the air was thick with its aroma, and the cacophony of hawkers vying for attention. Amidst the chaos, weary Mama Nkechi sat on an upturned wooden crate, her wares spread out before her, amidst collection of tomatoes, onions, and peppers.
It is not an exaggeration to opine that governments around the world are constantly evaluated by their citizens. These assessments shape public perception and influence political decisions. Given the foregoing view, it is not a misleading term to assert in this context that public opinion is a crucial way to gauge government performance, especially at the grassroots level.
Given the foregoing view, it is germane in this context to explore how public sentiment serves as a barometer for assessing government effectiveness.
Without a doubt, it would be foolhardy for politicians in governments to be dismissing people’s sentiments at the grassroots level with mere waves of the hands as they are the ones who experience government policies and services firsthand. In fact, their daily lives are directly impacted by decisions made by elected officials. As a result, their opinions matter significantly.
To further buttress the foregoing view, it is expedient to opine in this contest that grassroots communities are often the most affected by government actions. Whether it is access to basic services like healthcare, education, or infrastructure, citizens at this level feel the direct consequences of policy choices.
In a similar vein, public trust in government institutions plays a pivotal role. When citizens trust their leaders, they are more likely to support policies and cooperate with government initiatives. Conversely, distrust can lead to skepticism, protests, and even non-compliance.
In fact, grassroots opinions serve as performance metrics. If a government delivers on its promises, citizens are likely to express satisfaction. Conversely, failures in service delivery, corruption, or inefficiency can erode public confidence.
Against the foregoing backdrop, permit me to recall that an unforgettable day at Ogba, in Ikeja, Lagos, when the sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows across the bustling market square. On that occasion, I met an elderly woman who is a petty trader, and sells roasted plantain. As I haggled over the price of the plantain, which I considered to be too expensive, she sentimentally reminded me in pidgin that “Everything dey cost now since Tinubu come”, and asked, “Where we dey now? Because I nor know where dis government dey carry us dey go?”
I could not resist the price Mama Nkechi, as she was called, wanted to sell the roasted plantain to me as the air was thick with its aroma, and the cacophony of hawkers vying for attention. Amidst the chaos, weary Mama Nkechi sat on an upturned wooden crate, her wares spread out before her, amidst collection of tomatoes, onions, and peppers.
As I kept haggling, with my activated midget thrust in my breast pocket, she reiteratively asked, “Where dis government dey carry us dey go?”
Mama Nkechi squinted at me, wiping sweat from her brow with the edge of her wrapper. Her eyes held a mix of frustration and resignation. “My son,” she began, “Dis government ehn, e be like say dem dey play with our destiny.”
She gestured toward the potholed road that led out of the market square. “See dis road wey dem promise to fix since I be small pikin, e still be like where goat dey pass. E dey swallow motor, motorcycles, and even people wey dey take leg dey waka. Na so dem dey make us dey suffer every day.”
I nodded, furiously paying attention to her. “And the hospitals?” I asked. “How dem dey?”
Mama Nkechi’s face darkened. “Ah, my brother, hospitals? Dem be like mortuaries. No mericine, no dokita. If pesin sick, na prayer dem go give am. But our government people, dem dey run go Oyinbo land go treat headache, but we, we dey manage paracetamol.”
She leaned in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “You sabi Tinubu? Di Jagaban? Ehn, e get one time wey dem carry am go hospital for abroad. Dem say im dey sick small. Ordinary sick o! Dem no fit treat am here?”
I raised an eyebrow. “But Mama, how we go take change dis tory? How we go find better leaders?”
Mama Nkechi’s eyes blazed with a fire that belied her tired frame. “Na Mercy,” she declared. “We need people for government wey get mercy for the people. People wey sabi wetin hunger be, wey fit trek from Lagos to Abuja. People wey go see our suffer as dia own.”
She pointed at the politicians’ billboards lining the market square. “See dem? Dem dey smile like say dem chop belleful. But we, we dey suffer. Na dem we vote for, but dem nor dey hear us.”
As I took note of her words. I asked to be sure of what she said, “You say na mercy we need?” she nodded in the affirmative, and said “Na mercy we need from our leaders.”
Mama Nkechi nodded. “Yes, my son. “Na mercy. Make dem feel our pain. No be only to dey chop money. If dem sabi wetin we dey see everyday, dem go change.”
As the sun dipped below the horizon, I thanked Mama Nkechi and walked away, my heart heavy with her truth. I knew that capturing her words was more than ink on paper; it was a call to action.
And so, in the fading light, I vowed to write not just for headlines but for hearts. To amplify the voices of the suffering masses, to demand empathy from those in power. Because Mama Nkechi’s question echoed in my mind: “Where dis government dey carry us dey go?”
Without any scintilla of hyperbole, the foregoing scenario reflects the frustrations and hopes of many Nigerians who yearn for better governance and compassionate leadership.