THIS is the concluding part of the three-part series “Don’t Cry for Me, Nigeria.” In this final installment, I turn to the era of President Shehu Shagari, whose administration sought to chart a bold and comprehensive path for Nigeria’s development. His vision, captured in the Fourth National Development Plan (1981– 1985), was ambitious in scope: to modernize agriculture, expand industry, and build the infrastructure that would sustain a growing nation. It reflects not only on the promises and setbacks of that era but also on the enduring lessons it left behind; lessons about foresight, continuity, and the peril of abandoning plans before they mature. It also speaks to the deeper tragedy that haunts us today: a culture that embraces the new but neglects the old, that begins projects with fanfare but forgets the quiet discipline of maintenance.
When President Shehu Shagari assumed office in 1979, one of his most ambitious undertakings was the introduction of the Fourth National Development Plan (1981– 1985). It was a blueprint designed to address Nigeria’s critical infrastructural gaps, diversify the economy, and modernize the nation in line with global standards.
At the heart of Shagari’s vision was agriculture. He believed that Nigeria must be able to feed itself and even produce enough to export, and so he launched the Green Revolution, an ambitious programme aimed at mechanizing farming, improving productivity, and reducing dependence on food imports. Alongside agriculture, he placed strong emphasis on industrialization. His administration sought to build industries in steel, petrochemicals, and textiles, convinced that the growth of these sectors would create employment, stimulate the economy, and push the country onto the path of modernization.
Infrastructure and social services were also a major part of the plan. Roads, housing schemes, schools, and health facilities were expanded with the goal of meeting the demands of a rapidly growing population. The government invested heavily in large- scale housing projects, while efforts were made to broaden access to education and healthcare. On paper, Shagari’s plan held the promise of lifting millions out of poverty and setting Nigeria on the same trajectory of growth that countries like China and Morocco would later achieve.
But the challenges soon became overwhelming. Nigeria’s heavy dependence on oil revenues proved to be its undoing when global oil prices collapsed in the early 1980s. Many projects stalled, funding dried up, and the government turned to borrowing, which plunged the nation deeper into debt. Corruption, inefficiency, and poor implementation further weakened the plan, and what could have been a defining moment in Nigeria’s development became another unfulfilled promise.
Yet, Shagari’s plan remains significant in Nigeria’s history. It was one of the few times the country attempted a comprehensive, nationwide development strategy. It showed foresight in agriculture, industry, and infrastructure, areas that remain critical to our progress today. The tragedy is not only that the plan faltered, but that successive governments abandoned it entirely instead of refining and sustaining its vision. Unlike nations such as the United Kingdom, where development is continuous, or Morocco, where road networks and infrastructure have been steadily upgraded over decades, Nigeria has too often chosen to discard the past and start afresh with each new administration.
Looking back now, one cannot help but wonder what Nigeria would look like if Shagari’s development plan had been faithfully continued. Perhaps the Nigeria we still dream about today would already have been a reality for our children and the generations after them.
Just some weeks back, as I drove through the busy streets of Nnewi in Anambra State, a shop was playing very loudly a song I was familiar with “Don’t Cry for Me Argentina.” That was how the title of this series came to me. The lyrics echoed in my mind, not because of Argentina, but because of Nigeria, my Nigeria. The degradation of our roads, the decay of infrastructure, the poverty that hangs heavy in the air, and the silent mental health struggles born out of the frustration of moving goods and services under unbearable conditions, all painted a picture that was too familiar. It is the kind of picture that tells you people have given up, that millions of Nigerians have accepted that we must continue to move backwards instead of forward.
For me, it was unfulfilling, even haunting, because I have known and walked through these places for decades. I have seen the change, not in the direction of progress but in the direction of deterioration. I could not cry, because in a sense, I have been part of this history, part of the story of a country that once had a future and promise but somehow slipped into this abyss of neglect. I could not cry, but I could not rejoice either.
And so, I began to ask myself: Why do we insist on building new things when we cannot maintain the ones we already have? Why do we break ground for new projects while the bridges that once carried us groan under neglect? Why announce railways, airports, expressways, when those that once gave us pride have been abandoned to rot and ruin? Maintenance -the simple discipline of care- has eluded us, and without it, no amount of new construction can carry us into the future.
This is not just about roads, railways, or buildings. It is about a mindset, a culture that celebrates the new but abandons the old, a governance that thrives on ceremonies of commissioning but avoids the less glamorous work of sustaining. It
is about a society that forgets that true development is not in how much you build, but in how long what you build continues to serve its people.
Yet, my deepest worry remains this: why am I not able to bequeath all these experiences, lessons, and opportunities to my children and to the generations after them? I have seen what nations can achieve when they plan for tomorrow, when they take bold decisions today for the sake of those yet unborn.
But if we, in Nigeria, do not think of tomorrow, if we do not worry about the future, then tomorrow will surely catch up with us; unprepared, unready, and unable to meet its demands. The wealth of knowledge, the richness of our culture, and the wisdom of our struggles must not end with us. They must become the foundation on which our children build something greater.
We must ask ourselves: what legacy are we truly leaving behind? Will it be a story of wasted opportunities, or a testimony of resilience, vision, and progress? For the future does not wait for anyone, it arrives, whether we prepare for it or not.
As I left Nnewi that day, the song still lingered in my mind. Don’t cry for me, Argentina. But I wondered who will cry for Nigeria? Who will take up the responsibility of restoring what we already have, of maintaining the heritage of infrastructure that once connected us, empowered us, and gave us dignity? Until that question is answered, we will remain a nation building castles on sand, while the ground beneath us quietly crumbles.
