By David Adejoke Andrew

The event began like many epochal birthday celebrations of a Nigerian who has bestridden—and continues to bestride—the delicate nexus of the corporate world, nationally and internationally. Yet, there was something distinctly different about this particular celebration.

Perhaps it was the personality of the celebrant and the chief hostess, individually and as a couple, who have managed to distinguish between business and philanthropy, giving to each what is due. The ambience had all the paraphernalia of a major social event: elegance, warmth and joie de vivre permeated the hall. Yet, beneath the celebration was an unmistakable seriousness of purpose.

I discovered this almost immediately upon entering the hall. The personalities of the hostess and celebrant seemed to impose a certain discipline even on the occasion itself. It was a celebration, certainly—but, unexpectedly for me, it also became a meditation on what it means to succeed.

I was, therefore, not prepared for the most important takeaway from an event attended by some of the movers and shakers of Nigerian society, many of whom – including the celebrant and hostess – had sacrificed their regular participation at the annual global gathering in the Big Apple to be present. The takeaway came from the celebrant himself.

In responding to the encomiums, prayers and generous tributes showered on him, he made a profound observation which, for me, transformed the meaning of the occasion. Beneath his appreciation was a lament: the absence of a sufficiently compelling Nigerian legacy to which individual achievement can ultimately be connected.

To paraphrase his message, personal accomplishment, however impressive, cannot be the ultimate measure of success. The greater question is whether what we accomplish as individuals contributes to a national inheritance that subsequent generations can receive, improve upon and hand over to those who come after them. That thought has stayed with me.

Perhaps we have been asking the wrong question about Nigeria. We routinely ask why Nigeria is not progressing as rapidly as it should. We point to corruption, insecurity, poor leadership, weak institutions, ethnic divisions, poor infrastructure, unemployment and poverty. All of these matter.

But there may be a deeper question: What do Nigerians believe they owe Nigeria beyond themselves? I suspect many more would want to say that Nigeria owes me first in terms of providing the enabling environment for me to be able to reach my ultimate.

The question on what we owe Nigeria changes the conversation—from economics to ethics, from governance to citizenship, and from what the nation can give us to what we owe the nation. A society cannot be transformed sustainably merely by producing successful individuals. It is transformed when individual success becomes part of a larger social purpose.

A businessman who builds a successful company has succeeded. But what happens if that success also creates decent employment, develops people, pays taxes honestly, treats customers fairly and leaves an institution capable of surviving him? A public servant who rises to the highest office has achieved something.

But what if the greater measure of that career is the institution he strengthens, the people he develops and the standards he leaves behind? A professional who becomes wealthy has prospered. But what if part of that prosperity is deliberately invested in developing the next generation? The difference is subtle but fundamental.

It is the difference between success as possession and success as inheritance. This is not merely an abstract philosophical proposition. History provides examples of societies that deliberately cultivated a consciousness that extended beyond the immediate generation.

The celebrant’s intervention reminded me that a country is ultimately the sum of the values that its citizens practise when nobody is watching. History provides useful examples of societies that deliberately cultivated a consciousness that extended beyond the immediate generation.

The much vaunted transformation of Singapore was not simply the product of economic policy. Its founding generation placed considerable emphasis on institutions, integrity, merit, social cohesion and the responsibility of succeeding generations to preserve and improve what had been built.

Lee Kuan Yew articulated the idea explicitly. Reflecting on Singapore’s development, he said: “Each successor generation of Singaporeans must build on these assets and work out their solutions to new problems.” That sentence contains a powerful philosophy of nation-building: each generation inherits, improves and transmits.

The lesson for Nigeria is not that we should copy Singapore. Our history, size, diversity and circumstances are profoundly different. The lesson is that national development becomes more durable when a society develops a shared understanding that the country belongs not merely to the present generation but also to those yet unborn.

Botswana provides another instructive example. Its post-independence experience demonstrates the importance of treating natural resources as a national asset rather than simply an opportunity for those who happen to control them at a particular moment. In reflecting on the legacy of Botswana’s founding President, Sir Seretse Khama, the Botswana Government recently emphasised his insistence that mineral wealth should benefit citizens broadly and that strong institutions—including Parliament, the civil service and judiciary—should outlast individual leaders. That is the essence of legacy: building something that remains useful after the builder has left.

Rwanda offers a different lesson. Emerging from the catastrophe of the 1994 genocide, the country deliberately framed its recovery around a long-term national vision. Its Vision 2020 was built around reconstruction, social capital, an efficient and unifying state, accountability, national unity and transformation.

Rwanda’s own review describes its development journey as being driven by three fundamental choices: unity, ambition and accountability.

Again, Nigeria need not—and should not—replicate another country’s political model. But we can learn from the underlying proposition: a country in crisis can begin its recovery by defining the kind of society it wants to become and aligning individual behaviour and public institutions with that destination.

Oil is not our legacy merely because it exists beneath our soil. Our legacy is what we do with the wealth it generates. Our legacy is whether oil revenues become roads, schools, hospitals, productive industries, human capital and institutions—or simply consumption and accumulation. Perhaps we already possess the philosophy.

What makes this reflection especially relevant to Nigeria is that the philosophy of collective responsibility is not foreign to us. We do not need to import the idea that individual prosperity carries a responsibility to society. It exists in our own traditions.

Growing up in Nigeria in the 1960s and 1970s, I—and many others of my generation—experienced a social environment in which we were, in a very real sense, community children.

Our upbringing was not confined to our parents. Neighbours corrected us. Elders instructed us. Teachers assumed responsibility beyond the classroom. Communities celebrated our achievements and reprimanded our misconduct. There was an understanding that the child belonged to the family, but the family also belonged to the community.

The old African intuition was that individual existence and communal existence were inseparable. Some of our indigenous philosophies expressed this through the centrality of character: integrity, diligence, respect, responsibility, self-discipline and concern for communal wellbeing. The broader African philosophy of Ubuntu expresses a similar idea—that our humanity is realised through our relationships with others.

These are not merely philosophical curiosities. They contain an answer to a problem that Nigeria increasingly confronts: the erosion of the connection between values and conduct.

We know what is right.

We know that stealing public resources is wrong. We know that selling one’s vote is wrong. We know that cheating a customer is wrong. We know that a public officer should serve rather than exploit office. We know that a person who acquires wealth has a responsibility to those whose labour, society and institutions helped make that wealth possible.

The difficulty is not always knowing. The difficulty is doing. And that is where moral philosophy becomes practical. The celebrant’s insight becomes powerful when translated into ordinary behaviour.

A voter who refuses to sell his vote is making a contribution to national legacy. A civil servant who refuses to manipulate a process for personal advantage is contributing to national legacy. A contractor who delivers what was paid for, rather than what he can get away with, is contributing to national legacy. A businessman who pays his taxes and treats employees fairly is contributing to national legacy. A professional who mentors younger Nigerians rather than treating knowledge as personal property is contributing to national legacy. A wealthy Nigerian who builds an institution capable of surviving his lifetime is contributing to national legacy.

These actions may appear insignificant when viewed individually. Collectively, they constitute the moral architecture of a nation. This is why the challenge before Nigeria cannot be solved entirely through legislation or by an arm of government alone.

No constitution can legislate integrity into every human heart. No anti-corruption agency can stand behind every citizen. No President, governor or minister can personally supervise the millions of decisions that Nigerians make every day.

A functioning country is ultimately built through millions of choices made by ordinary people. The quality of those choices determines the quality of the nation. Perhaps we should therefore stop asking only what legacy we will leave as individuals but rather what legacy our generation will leave so that we do not become a wasted generation – like the Noble Laurette Professor Wole Soyinka aptly described the preceding one.

There is an uncomfortable conversation that Nigerians of different generations must have with one another. Those born in the 1960s and 1970s often remember a Nigeria in which public facilities, institutions and social infrastructure appeared to offer greater promise. Younger Nigerians sometimes look at the generations before them and ask why so much of what was inherited was not preserved, expanded or renewed. That should make all of us uncomfortable. Because moving this question forward, what will the Nigerian child of 2040 say about us? Will that child say that we inherited enormous possibilities and consumed them? Will the child say that we spent our energy blaming one another? Will the child say that we fought over offices, contracts, ethnicity and political advantage while institutions deteriorated around us? Or will the child say: They strengthened our institutions. They invested in our education. They protected public resources.

They valued competence. They rewarded character. They developed people. They resisted the temptation to consume everything they inherited. They understood that Nigeria’s diversity was not merely something to manage, but a national asset to harness. They left the country better than they found it.

Perhaps we have placed too much emphasis on what leaders should do for us and too little on the kind of citizens we must become. Perhaps our national conversation needs to move beyond leadership failure to citizenship responsibility.

Leadership matters enormously. But leadership operates within a moral environment created by society.

Andrew is a retired Federal Permanent Secretary and currently a Professor of Practice, MIVA Open University wrote from Abuja.