Kemi Badenoch: When agbo loses its bittersweet taste

Kemi Badenoch doesn’t just walk into a room—she strides in with commanding attention. Whether you see her as aprovocateur extraordinaire or a truth bearer, one thing is certain: she leaves you no doubt as to where she stands on issues. In a time when cautious language is the norm in the mainstream media, Badenoch’s unfiltered commentary feels like a jolt of electricity. And like electricity, it can light up a room—or start a fire.

Recently, she gained the attention of the Nigerian mediascape with a statement that has ignited an inferno of backlash and applause. At the heart of her remarks lies the complex interplay of national identity, leadership, and the challenging realities of Nigeria’simmense potential but chronic underachievement.

My interest in this debate is not a defence or condemnation of her statement. It is an exploration of the broader implications of what happens when a society like Nigeria is forced to confront uncomfortable truths. Like agbo—the bittersweet herbal tonic cherished by many Nigerians for its healing properties—honest discourse is bitter but can also be healing. The question is: Are we ready to stomach the bitterness long enough to embrace the cure?

Every nation has its own mythology. For Nigeria, it is the dream or obsession of being the “Giant of Africa.” This narrative is built on the country’s natural resources, cultural diversity, and its large, youthful population. Yet, beneath the surface lies a bitter truth: despite these advantages, Nigeria remains shackled by systemic corruption, poor governance and a fragile sense of unity.

Kemi Badenoch’s statement about Nigeria—while blunt—was not entirely inaccurate. She highlighted the gaps between the nation’s potential and its reality. For many Nigerians, particularly those who have emigrated or are contemplating it, her words resonated. They spoke to the frustration of seeing a country with so much promise fall short time and again.For some, her words are refreshingly honest. They resonate with a Nigerian population tired of platitudes and eager for constructive critique. Yet, for others, her statements feel like a betrayal—a dismissal of a country that is already grappling with negative stereotypes on the global stage.

But here’s where the bitterness becomes unbearable for some: it came from an outsider. Yes, Kemi Badenoch is of Nigerian descent, but she operates within the British political sphere, a system many Nigerians perceive as a former oppressor. Her criticisms, therefore, felt like a betrayal to some and a condescending rebuke to others.

Yet, if we strip away the emotional reaction, her words echo what many Nigerians already say behind closed doors. The bitter truth is that Nigeria is often its own worst enemy. The question is whether we are willing to face this truth or continue masking it with the sweet lies of misplaced pride and denial.

The backlash against Badenoch is emblematic of a deeper issue: a culture that struggles to handle critique. In a society where respect and deference are deeply ingrained, criticism—especially public and unvarnished—often feels like an attack. This is particularly true when the critique comes from someone perceived as an outsider or a member of the diaspora.

But even within Nigeria, honest conversations about the state of the nation are often silenced. From Ken Saro-Wiwa’s peaceful campaigns in the 1990s, highlighting the Ogoni people’s plight, to the recent protests against worsening economic and living conditions, Nigeria’s history reflects a troubling pattern: a reflexive defensiveness and a deep-seated intolerance for honest critique.

Criticism is dismissed as unpatriotic. Activists are labelled troublemakers. Dissenting voices face intimidation. And so, the cycle continues. Bitterness abounds, but it is bitterness without the healing properties of truth.

Consider agbo. It is not consumed for its pleasant taste but for its medicinal value. It purges impurities, strengthens the body, and restores balance. However, the healing only comes when the tonic is taken in its entirety, bitterness and all. In the same way, a nation cannot heal if it rejects the parts of its story that are uncomfortable or painful.

One of the most contentious aspects of Badenoch’s statement is her position as a member of the diaspora. For many Nigerians, the diaspora represents hope—individuals who have escaped the limitations of the system and achieved success abroad. Yet, when these individuals critique Nigeria, it often feels like they are looking down from a pedestal.

Badenoch’s critics argue that she has no right to speak on Nigeria’s issues while seeking the privileges of life in the UK. Femi Fani-Kayode recently described her as a “vile, cunning, dangerous, and willing tool of the colonialists” and accused her of betraying her heritage to gain political favour in the UK. By labelling her as a “willing tool of the colonialists,” Femi Fani-Kayode implies that her statements are entirely motivated by malice or opportunism, leaving no room for nuance nor the opportunity to engage with the underlying concerns about Nigeria’s challenges that her comments might illuminate.

Badenoch’s rhetoric often feels like a balancing act between intellectual bravado and political provocation. Coming from a political career defined by a willingness to challenge conventional narratives on race, gender, and identity politics, she thrives in the space between clarity and provocation, often drawing both praise and ire for her unfiltered commentary. She pokes at the ideological foundations of her opponents, daring them to engage with her on her terms. The result? A polarised audience that either sees her as a champion of free thought or a reckless agitator.

The larger point here is that the value of her critique lies not in her identity but in its substance. When the diaspora speaks, their words should be evaluated on their merit, not dismissed because of perceived privilege or embraced uncritically because of shared heritage.

In contrast to the bitterness of criticism, Nigerians are often drawn to the sweetness of praise.But sweetness alone cannot sustain a nation. If all we do is celebrate, we risk becoming complacent. Pride in our achievements must be balanced with a willingness to address our failures. Otherwise, the sweetness becomes a distraction—a sugar rush that leaves us weaker in the long run.

In many ways, Badenoch’s comments reflect the duality of agbo, the bittersweet herbal tonic beloved by Nigerians. Like agbo, her words are tough to swallow, but they have the potential to heal—if we let them.

When offered constructively, critique can be an act of love. It can illuminate areas that need improvement while celebrating the progress that has been made. But critique without nuance can become bitterness without healing—a source of division rather than growth.

Badenoch’s remarks arrive at a precarious moment for Nigeria, a nation wrestling with profound economic challenges, widespread insecurity, and an escalating sense of despair among its youth. For some, particularly the affluent who live within insulated bubbles of privilege, her critique landed with a sting they are struggling to dismiss as a distant echo of an unpatriotic outburst.

For her cheering fans, her comments were brutally honest—a reflection of frustrations many Nigerians share but rarely hear articulated on the national or global stage. Her Nigerian roots gave her words a weight that no insider could deny and no outsider could wield.

Yet, it’s worth asking: is the backlash against Badenoch truly about her words, or is it a reflection of Nigeria’s deeper frustrations? Her comments, while provocative, may have struck a nerve because they hit too close to home. They force us as Nigerians to confront uncomfortable truths about our country’s state and the diaspora’s complex role in its narrative.

In the end, Kemi Badenoch’s statement is less about her and more about us. It forces us to confront the agbo of our national identity—bittersweet and complex. We can spit it out, reject its bitterness, and continue as we are. Or we can swallow, endure its sting, and allow it to begin the slow work of healing. After all, if we fix our problems, voices like Kemi Badenoch’s will lose their sting, not because they stop speaking, but because we will have rendered their criticisms irrelevant.

• Fr. Kenneth Nkadi O.P. can be reached at [email protected]