I don’t have many friends in Nigeria. Why? Because I tell it as it is. Born into a family with a name, I know who I am and what I can do. I don’t conform to tradition—a tradition that has drained the soul of Nigeria. Stupidity, masked in village nonsense, has turned the nation into a laughingstock.
I have my own family, my own children. If siblings or relatives dislike me, that’s their problem. I won’t dwell in their self-made misery. Some call me arrogant, but if arrogance means refusing to keep my thoughts to myself or calling out an imbecile to their face, then so be it.
Let me share a scene from the early 80s when I flew into London Heathrow from New York. I witnessed an embarrassing spectacle at the Nigerian Airways desk—market women fighting, throwing food, and making such a racket that the police had to intervene. Back then, Nigerians didn’t need visas to enter the UK, but this new breed of Nigerians flooding the country with cheap tickets and visa-free passports quickly ruined that. Soon after, the British revoked our visa-free status, and the country’s reputation was tarnished by criminals with oil money.
The oil boom destroyed Nigeria. It turned a once self-reliant nation into one that imports everything—food, petrol, and even common sense. The worst part? The arrogant bush Nigerians who stole millions from their own people and walked around like gods. I have nothing but contempt for them and anyone who defends them.
Once during my National Service at the Senate President’s Office, a politician yelled at me for handing him a paper with the wrong hand. The man, uneducated, and full of tribal nonsense, shouted at me like a slave. I gave him a piece of my mind, publicly humiliating him. When he ran to the President to have me disciplined, they told him: “This is Godfrey Amachree’s eldest son.” But it wasn’t my father they feared—it was my Yoruba mother, Nike. That was my introduction to Nigerian tribalism. Even though my father was a pioneer in law and public service, what mattered to these small-minded men was that my mother was Yoruba, which meant I was ‘one of them.’
Tribalism has crippled this country. No matter your achievements, it’s all about who you know, not what you’ve done. At 22, I woke up to the reality of Nigeria—not the Nigeria seen from a big house in Ikoyi, but the one corrupted by jealousy, thievery, and incompetence. People tell me I write too much, that I should hold back, but someone has to call a spade a spade. I learned from my time at Eton how the British groom their leadership. If you’re afraid of your own shadow, don’t expect Kio Amachree to be scared of his. I don’t need friends. My friends send rockets into space and run billion-dollar companies. I’m not interested in “gin and tonic Nigerians” who smile in your face and plot your downfall behind your back. I’ve experienced that, and those who tried are six feet under—not by my hand, but by forces greater than all of us.
I have too much knowledge to waste time on fake titles, potbellies, and stolen money. Millions of Nigerians need to adopt this attitude. Look at your so-called leaders—have they done anything for you? The answer is always “no.” If you don’t wake up and dismantle this false elite now, Nigeria will continue its march toward self-destruction.
