By Omoh Giwa
Dear Naira,
I will skip the pleasantries today, for I write not in admiration but in sorrow for what you have become, sorrow for what you represent and sorrow for the betrayal that you have dealt to millions of us who once held you so dear. I could begin by hurling accusations at you but let me first extend the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps, Naira, you too are a victim of abuse, of manipulation, of bad company. Maybe you are simply a shadow of your former self, weakened by the hands that have tossed you around in careless policies and unholy alliances. I will speak my mind and if your dignity still permits you to reply, I shall await your letter as well.
I grew up on tales of your glory. They called it your golden age, that enchanted period when you strode proudly beside the dollar, shoulder to shoulder, without trembling or apology. The elders still recount it with misty eyes and wistful smiles, their wrinkled faces lighting up at the memory. They speak of you with reverence, as if you were once a hero who liberated us from economic bondage. In their voices, I hear pride. In their eyes, I see nostalgia. And yet, when I look at you now, all I see is a shadow trembling in the wind; a fallen champion gasping for breath in the marketplace.
It breaks my heart to say this but even the Ghanaian cedi now bullies you. The mere whisper of its name sends you scampering like a frightened child. Can you imagine? Ghana! Our noisy neighbour whose national anthem we once mocked! Once upon a time, the Naira was the African giant, the very measure of worth and stability, but today, you hide your face in shame before currencies that used to salute you. If shame could speak, it would ask you how you managed to fall so far so fast.
They say there was a time when a few hundreds of you could buy a ticket from Lagos to London. I want to laugh at the absurdity of that claim, yet something in me hesitates because my mother once told me she bought her first car, a Volkswagen, for less than two thousand of you in the seventies. Imagine that! A brand-new car, bought with mere thousands of you. Today, two thousand of you barely fuel a generator for a few hours. How do I reconcile these memories with this pitiful version of you that lies limp in my pocket like a fainting patient on a hot afternoon?
As a child, I remember when one Naira could command respect. It could buy sweets, snacks and break-time dreams. But now, you are treated like the village drunk; handled with suspicion, discarded without reverence. The children of today laugh when they hear that 50 kobo once held value; they look at us as though we are spinning bedtime stories from a fantasy land. It hurts because, for all their laughter, they are right: you have become a fairy tale. You are history told in disbelief.
What pains me most, however, is not merely your humiliation abroad or your weakness at home. It is the destruction you have left in your wake. The middle class, that fragile bridge between comfort and chaos, has vanished because of your recklessness. You have wiped it clean from existence. We warned you, Naira. We warned you about the company you kept. We pointed out the men in agbadas who borrow your strength only to squander it, the self-proclaimed economists who treat you like a toy in a child’s sandbox. We warned you when you started mingling with the wrong crowd: politicians with sticky fingers, contractors with inflated budgets, governors with a taste for Dubai. You ignored us, intoxicated by false promises and easy loans. Now look at what you have become? A ghost currency, mourned by those who once sang your praise.
Do you remember the warnings from your cousins, the Zimbabwean dollar and the Venezuelan bolivar? They told you what happens when pride meets poor management but you refused to listen. You allowed your handlers to print, borrow and speculate until your value became a joke on the global stage. The tragedy, though, is that you will never be the one to pay the real price. It is we, the middle class, who are crushed under the weight of your fall. We are the ones who saved in you, trusted you, invested in you, only to watch you betray us for shiny promises and empty slogans.
The poor never expected much from you; they live hand to mouth and count blessings in grains of rice. The rich, on the other hand, abandoned you long ago. They spend their days flirting with the dollar and the pound, calling them by pet names like “Benji” and “Mama Charlie”. They carry you only for public appearances, like a trophy spouse they no longer desire. But we, the faithful middle class, we remained loyal. We saved in you, we built dreams with you, we believed in your revival. We held on even when your voice trembled, even when your worth shrank. And this is how you repay us? By drowning us in inflation, stripping our savings bare and mocking our patience?
I know you will try to defend yourself with those big economic terms: inflation, recession, fiscal policy, devaluation, exchange rate mechanisms, but those are just words that politicians hide behind. On the streets, all we see is hunger. In the markets, all we hear is complaints. The people now measure wealth not in naira notes but in how many meals they can still afford. And the saddest part? You, dear Naira, have become the very face of our suffering. You used to symbolise national pride; now you are the symbol of our decline.
You have turned us into clowns. Every time we compare you to the dollar, it seems like we are weighing an elephant with a kitchen scale. We used to boast that Nigeria was rich in resources; now we whisper about how even onions have their own inflation rate. Why do I need several thousands of you to buy one catfish? How do we explain to our children that the same Naira that once paid rent can now barely buy a loaf of bread? How do we tell them that our loyalty was misplaced?
Do not think I write this out of malice. No, I write this because I still care. I am that fool who still carries you in my wallet instead of mishandling you. I am that believer who still checks exchange rates, hoping for a miracle. I am that citizen who prays for your recovery every time the news announces another economic woe or policy. But love can only endure so much humiliation. How long do you expect us to stay faithful when you continue to break our hearts, one policy at a time?
Still, I remember who you once were, and perhaps that is why I cannot entirely let you go. I remember your beauty; the smell of a mint green note, the portraits of heroes, the designs that told our story. You were more than paper; you were our identity. And so, I beg you: if there is still strength left in your veins, rise again. Find your dignity. Stand tall once more so that we can hold you proudly without apology. Prove to us that you can be rescued from the clutches of corruption and mismanagement.
Until then, I will keep writing to you, to remind you that you are not just currency, but our national mirror, reflecting the very chaos of our governance. And though you embarrass us daily, I still find myself wishing you well. Maybe that is the curse of patriotism: to keep loving even when love feels foolish.
So here I am, still holding on to you, fragile and faltering as you are. But know this, Naira: my patience is thinning faster than your value. If you do not rise soon, I might start professing my love to the American dollar.
With reluctant affection,
Omoh Giwa from the Department of English, Unilag.
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