It can never be me

Until it is…

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Last week, my friend sent me a series of voice notes. She was ranting, rightfully so, about the governor of a certain state. Name withheld. It’s not like I’m afraid or anything, I just don’t like his name.

Apparently, this man hosted an event to celebrate the state’s 50th anniversary.

It was not a small event, as many distinguished guests were present.

The time was set for 10 a.m.

But guess when he showed up?

1 p.m.

One o’clock, after noon.

He strolled in casually with his entourage, no apology, no acknowledgment, no sense of urgency, as though the rest of the world had nothing better to do than wait for him. And let me be clear. This wasn’t an invitation he honoured late, it was his event. The show could not start without him being there.

How are you late to your own programme?

Is that normal?

No, genuinely, can that be considered normal anywhere?

I’ve been privileged to observe how seriously time is treated in many European societies, not as a personality trait, but as a social contract. Time is understood as something collective, something owed.

To arrive late is not merely a personal failing, it is seen as a subtle form of disrespect, an assumption that your time matters more than everyone else’s. Punctuality, in that context, isn’t about rigidity or perfection, it’s about mutual regard.

In this part of the world, however, time often carries a different meaning. There is little social consequence attached to lateness, and even less expectation of accountability.

We joke about it so much that it has become normalized, hence phrases like “No African time,” a saying that didn’t emerge from nowhere, but from repeated patterns of casual disregard for time.

And still, as regular people, we try. When we’re late, we jog in from a distance so our effort is visible. We apologize, we over-explain, we offer excuses; some genuine, some improvised, all in an attempt to show that we recognize the inconvenience. We want it to be clear that the lateness was not intentional, that time did not suddenly grow wings and disappear between 8 a.m. and noon in five seconds.

But that’s beside the point.

The point is this. As regular people, because we are still operating within a shared understanding that someone else’s time deserves acknowledgment, we make the effort to show that we care.

However, once a person crosses the line from being a regular person to a person of “importance,” the rules change by default. Time is no longer treated as mutual, it becomes something you own. You arrive when you please, because who is really in a position to question you?

Nobody.

Last year, I wrote a piece on greed. About how it doesn’t always show up as money-hoarding villainy, and how power has a way of subtly expanding people’s entitlement. This piece is an extension of that thought.

See, the thing is, you can’t actually say you’re not greedy until greed is an option and you refuse it. You can’t say you’re not corrupt until corruption would benefit you and you still say no. You can’t say power won’t change you until power is handed to you and you choose not to abuse it.

I’m going somewhere with this. Please stay with me.

There’s a very common phrase people love to say: “It can never be me.”

Even when you know on a random Tuesday morning, it could very easily become you.

Because of this, it’s easy for you to see a governor show up three hours late and say,

“This man is wicked.”

“So we that came by 10 are fools, abi?”

“God will punish him.”

Kelvin.

Amaka.

Chinedu.

Relax.

Until you become a governor, set a meeting for 10 a.m., and still show up before 10, you really don’t know what you’d do. Because eight years from now, you might be the same person God is allegedly punishing.

We all claim to have values,

lines we can’t cross,

boundaries we won’t break,

words we insist we would never be caught saying,

things we swear we could never be caught doing.

But when you finally have leverage,

when power gives you the illusion of freedom of choice,

when you can do what you want without consequence,

what happens then?

Do those values stand the test of time,

or do they reveal not who you thought you were,

but who you have always been once the opportunity finally arrives?

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They say power comes with baggage.

Greed that starts as entitlement and subtly turns into excess; lust not just for pleasure but for more control, more influence, and more validation.

They say power brings a growing disregard for others, where people slowly stop feeling like humans and start feeling like obstacles or tools you can use and dump at your will.

They say soon after the power, nepotism creeps in, dressing favoritism up as loyalty and calling it harmless.

And once you cross that line, corruption follows fast on your heels, first as small compromises, then as routine, until bending the rules feels normal.

Somewhere along the way, there’s the sudden belief that laws are for other people, that your position has lifted you just high enough to float above consequence.

And at first, when you see these things play out from a distance, it all feels absurd.

Why would I ever do that? you ask.

But believe me, if you could, you would.

Because it rarely starts big.

It starts small.

Right now you’re just an intern at that big publishing house. You know how hard it is to be seen, how your work is constantly scrutinized, criticized, and torn apart, most times unfairly. They call it “training.” A rite of passage.

Everyone must suffer.

You must write piece after piece just for it to be dismissed. You must lose sleep, be exhausted, be depressed, question yourself daily, and be on the edge of giving up, just to be seen.

But it’s just a test.

You must prove your worth, even if it breaks you in the process.

Then, fifteen years later, you’ve “made it.” You’re a survivor, a CEO. You now own the publishing company.

And yet, the same cruelty is alive and well under your watch.

You tell yourself, I went through it and survived. Why can’t they?

Let me tell you something, that is witchcraft.

Because if you were mistreated in your days of humble beginnings, you know exactly how it felt.

You remember the nights you cried yourself to sleep, the prayers you whispered just for strength to survive another day, the anxiety of waking up, wondering what fresh humiliation awaited you.

And yet you chose to let others suffer the same fate.

When confronted, you shrug, and say “We all went through it. They’ll be fine.”

Until someone isn’t.

Until someone sinks into depression.

Until someone becomes suicidal.

Until someone jumps off the 19th floor because waking up each day starts to feel harder than the idea of not waking up at all.

Why do we do to others the exact things that almost destroyed us?

“When I was a child, they beat the hell out of me.”

“So now that I’m a parent, these children must see shege.”

You curse that governor for showing up three hours late simply because he’s the governor,

yet you oppress your siblings because you’re the firstborn.

You curse that governor for showing up three hours late,

but you’re rude to the electrician who came to fix the fridge, simply because you were born with a silver spoon in your mouth and he wasn’t.

You curse that governor for showing up three hours late,

but you’ve never greeted a bolt driver in your life, because he’s “just” a driver. Why should you wish him good afternoon?

You curse that governor for showing up three hours late,

but when last did you even show up early to anything?

You don’t say thank you to the waiter.

Or to the security guard who holds the door open for you.

Or to the people who sweep the roads every day so your world can look clean.

Are you really that different from the governor?

I don’t think so. Because it shows up in the little things.

It can never be you.

Until you’re the team lead,

oppressing your group members because you saw shege when you were just a group member yourself.

But to what end?

What is the joy in inflicting pain on others simply because you went through the same pain?

What exactly are you proving?

Are you healing, or are you just passing the wound forward?

Life is dicey.

CEO today.

Street urchin tomorrow.

It can happen fast.

Then you’re in desperate need of help, someone whispers that there’s a person who can save you. You finally meet them, and it turns out they were your student once.

The one you broke, the one who cried himself to sleep because you made him write fifty articles a week only to tear them up and tell him nothing good could ever come out of his life.

Funny thing is, his life is good now. Very good, in fact. So good that he’s now in a position where any decision he makes can either make you or mar you.

What do you think he’ll choose?

Let’s forget about what happens in high places for a moment and pay attention to our own small corner of the world, because it can never be you,

until it is.

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Happy New Week!❤️

Remember to stay healthy and hydrated.

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