This piece marks the beginning of a three-part reflection. It is a journey that looks into that very thin line between sanity and insanity not just in the mind of man, but also in the life of our nation. The series will move from the inner struggles of the human mind to the outer realities of our society and the choices that define who we are.
There is a fragile boundary within the human mind a trembling edge that separates reason from confusion, balance from breakdown, and sanity from insanity. It is an invisible line that every individual walks, often without realizing how thin it truly is. Beneath the surface of composure lies the potential for chaos, a reminder that the mind is as powerful as it is vulnerable. Throughout history, the question of what keeps the mind balanced or what causes it to break has fascinated thinkers, artists, and scientists alike. Sigmund Freud spoke of the ego as a fragile mediator between the primal id and the moral superego, suggesting that mental stability depends on maintaining this equilibrium. The philosopher Michel Foucault, in Madness and Civilization (1961), argued that madness is not merely a medical condition but a social construct, a reflection of how societies define what is acceptable, and what must be silenced.
Human consciousness is both resilient and precarious. Like glass under pressure, it can hold together under immense stress or shatter unexpectedly. The World Health Organization estimates that one in eight people globally lives with some form of mental disorder, yet mental fragility is not limited to clinical diagnosis. It hides in sleepless nights, in persistent anxiety, in the quiet sense that one’s thoughts are
slipping beyond control. Psychologists describe this as the continuum model of mental health, the idea that mental wellness and mental illness exist not as opposites, but along a shared spectrum. As Carl Jung once wrote, “There is no coming to consciousness without pain.” Sometimes, what appears as instability may also be a struggle for deeper meaning or transformation.
History is filled with stories of remarkable individuals who walked dangerously close to that divide. Vincent van Gogh painted masterpieces while battling inner storms. Sylvia Plath wrote poetry that illuminated both brilliance and despair. Even philosophers like Friedrich Nietzsche, whose thoughts reshaped Western thinking, spent their final years in mental collapse.
The truth is unsettling: the same intensity that fuels creativity, passion, and deep thought can also open the gates to chaos. The mind that dares to question everything must also bear the weight of uncertainty. The difference between genius and madness often lies not in the depth of thought, but in the ability to return from the depths.
I once had a teacher who would habitually say to his pupils, “Are you mad?” whenever someone gave a wrong answer in class. It was meant as a light-hearted rebuke, yet it reflected how loosely and often thoughtlessly society uses the notion of madness to define error or difference. Years later, I was reminded of this by my good friend, the late philosopher and musical legend Fela Anikulapo-Kuti, whose art often challenged conventional definitions of sanity in a chaotic world. He once composed a song titled “I No Be Crazy Man at All-O,” born out of a playful conversation we shared. I had invited him to accompany me on one of my subsequent expeditions driving from Lagos all the way to London and he laughed, shaking his head before replying, “I no be crazy man at all-o.” His words, though humorous, carried a deeper truth: that what society sometimes calls madness may simply be courage the willingness to step beyond the familiar and embrace the unknown.
During my second solo expedition across the desert in the year 2000, at the age of sixty-two, I found myself once again face to face with the raw, unforgiving power of nature. What began as a confident continuation of my earlier journey soon turned into a test of endurance and resolve. As I ventured deeper into the vast expanse, the terrain shifted dramatically from firm earth to stretches of jagged rock, undulating ridges, and loose, shifting sands that swallowed my tires without mercy. Each mile revealed a new challenge. The desert, silent and immense, seemed to conspire against progress. My vehicle sank into the sand more than once, forcing me to dig, push, and maneuver for hours beneath the relentless sun. The experience was both humbling and enlightening, a stark reminder that, no matter how prepared or experienced one might be, the desert remains the ultimate teacher.
Those early setbacks were more than mere inconveniences; they were warnings. The terrain ahead promised to be far more treacherous, unpredictable, and demanding. Yet, standing there amid the heat waves and shifting dunes, I understood that these struggles were part of the journey’s essence, a prelude to the true test that awaited on the harsh and uncharted stretch of the desert crossing.
This day is better described as the day I really delved into the Sahara Desert, as I was completely cut off from the rest of the world. My day started quite early, at about 4am, as I was a little bit anxious about what the day might look like, given my previous day’s experience with the sand dunes. As usual, I quickly went through my daily routine of car checking and exercising to ensure that I was physically and mentally ready for the day’s journey. So there I was, not receive any signal anymore. No backup, no gas stations, no supplies, no human beings, not even a phone, for I had forgotten the car plug in a battery charger in Lagos.
Just myself, my car, my tent, and my assorted canned food. The temperature outside my tent was close to zero degrees, the surrounding sand was dormant and a soft breeze was in the air. All around me, everything was as cold as death, and silence ruled everywhere. Not even a bird sang, because there were none. Everything was quiet.
This time I was over 600km into the desert from Agadez. Having completed my morning routine, at about 6.10am with the sun already out and the temperature rising, I got into my car and zoomed off. Just as I was warming up to a smooth drive, I got stuck in the soft desert sand without warning. I had only driven for exactly 15 minutes and was less than 10km into my journey. This was to be my initiation into the litany of problems that visited me on this particular day. It was like one minute, one trouble. The warnings began to unfold. The wheels of my car had sunk very deep into the sand. It was now time to put into practice all that I had learnt during my tutelage days as a mechanic apprentice in preparation for this trip. It was time for digging, jacking, and pulling; activities I was very familiar with, so I didn’t see any reason to panic, as I was very sure of what to do.
