Write to Build, Not Destroy Nigeria: The Patriotism Question Before Nigerian Writers
By Jerry Adesewo
There is a thin but important line between writing about a country’s failures and writing against the country’s existence. It is a distinction that deserves serious reflection, particularly at a time when Nigeria is contending with insecurity, economic hardship, political distrust, social fragmentation, and a growing crisis of public confidence in governance.
This was the philosophical question at the heart of Dr Bukar Usman’s address, titled Literature, National Security and the Place of Nigeria in the World, delivered at the opening ceremony of the 45th International Convention of the Association of Nigerian Authors (ANA), held at the Mamman Vatsa Writers’ Village, Mpape, Abuja.
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His message to Nigerian writers was unmistakable: literature should be deployed to construct, not destroy.
“We can help the country to solve some of these challenges by highlighting them constructively,” Usman declared, acknowledging that the country’s troubling realities could naturally provoke bitterness among writers. He nevertheless maintained that criticism should be expressed in a restrained and constructive manner.
It is a compelling proposition, especially coming from a man whose professional experience spans public administration, national security, and the preservation of Nigerian folklore. But beyond the applause such a message might attract at a gathering of writers, it raises a fundamental question: What does it mean to write constructively in a country where the realities confronting ordinary citizens are increasingly difficult to ignore?
Nigeria is hardly short of issues demanding the attention of its writers. From persistent kidnappings, banditry, and communal violence to unemployment, poverty, educational inequality, and institutional weaknesses, the national condition provides an extensive canvas for literary interrogation.
The National Human Rights Commission’s September 2026 situation dashboard recorded 338,810 complaints across its 38 offices nationwide. It also documented 208 killings and 210 kidnappings during the reporting period. These figures, while reflecting complaints and incidents monitored by the Commission, underline the scale of the country’s human rights and security concerns.
Similarly, the United Nations Population Fund’s September 2026 situation report highlighted the combined effects of insecurity, displacement, and flooding on vulnerable communities, particularly in parts of northern Nigeria.
These are not abstract statistics. Behind every kidnapping is a family waiting for a loved one. Behind every displacement figure are disrupted childhoods, abandoned livelihoods, and communities struggling to recover. Behind every failed institution is a citizen whose confidence in the Nigerian project is being tested.
Surely, writers cannot be expected to look away from these realities in the name of protecting the country’s image.
Indeed, Usman’s address recognises this responsibility. He identifies six broad areas that have attracted the attention of Nigerian writers since independence: the conflict between colonial and indigenous cultures, corruption, military dictatorship, civil war, ethno-religious violence, and human rights and gender issues.
This historical observation is significant. Nigerian literature has never existed in isolation from the country’s political and social experiences. From Chinua Achebe’s interrogation of leadership and social disintegration to Wole Soyinka’s dramatic engagement with political oppression, Nigerian writers have consistently used their creative platforms to challenge the status quo.
Their works have not always presented flattering portraits of the country. Yet, in confronting uncomfortable truths, they have contributed to national consciousness, historical documentation, and the continuing search for a better society.
That is why the distinction between constructive criticism and destructive writing must be carefully defined.
Usman argues that “literature will continue to be a means of expressing, recording, and preserving past and current experiences to enrich and guide us in our private and public lives, in governance, and in the maintenance of peace and national security.”
We agree. However, preserving national security must not be confused with protecting governments from criticism. The security of a nation is not synonymous with the political comfort of its leadership. A government is temporary; the nation and its people endure.
Consequently, exposing corruption, documenting human rights violations, questioning public policies, and challenging political failures should not automatically be interpreted as acts of disloyalty. Rather, they are essential components of a functioning democracy.
This distinction becomes even more important when considered against the state of freedom of expression in the country. Human Rights Watch, in its World Report 2026 on Nigeria, documented cases of journalists and social media commentators facing arrests and prosecutions over their publications and online expressions. Freedom House’s 2026 assessment of internet freedom also reported declining digital freedom, including arrests, harassment, and other forms of pressure against critical voices.
Usman himself acknowledges that freedom of expression is not absolute and cautions writers against libel, treason, and subversion. While the need for responsible writing and factual accuracy is beyond dispute, such cautions must never become convenient instruments for intimidating critical voices.
A patriotic writer is not necessarily one who celebrates every government decision. Sometimes, the most patriotic contribution a writer can make is to refuse to normalise injustice, expose uncomfortable truths, and insist that public institutions fulfill their obligations to citizens.
There is also a compelling dimension to Usman’s argument concerning the place of Nigerian literature in the world. His call for the preservation and promotion of indigenous oral traditions through digital technology speaks to a larger responsibility: the need for Nigeria to tell its own stories, document its experiences, and shape its international identity.
A country that does not adequately preserve its stories risks allowing others to define its history and identity. Nigerian writers, therefore, have a responsibility not only to interrogate the present but also to preserve the cultural memory that future generations will inherit.
Ultimately, the challenge before the Association of Nigerian Authors and the wider literary community is not simply to write positively about Nigeria. It is to write truthfully, responsibly, and courageously. To question without malice, criticise without fabricating, document without distortion, and imagine a country better than the one we presently inhabit.
We must also remind government and public institutions that national unity cannot be sustained through patriotic appeals alone. It must be earned through justice, accountability, equity, security, and responsible governance.
Dr Usman’s concluding appeal that literature should be applied “with a view to construct and not destroy” is therefore worth embracing, provided that construction is understood to include the difficult work of confronting what is broken.
Nigeria does not need writers who will merely sing its praises. It needs writers who can see its possibilities without becoming blind to its problems; writers who can challenge its leaders without losing sight of its collective destiny; and writers who understand that telling the truth about a nation is not the same as betraying it.
The pen should build Nigeria, certainly. But sometimes, before a house can be rebuilt, someone must have the courage to identify the cracks in its foundation.