WHEN THE GOVERNMENT’S MOTTO IS ‘WE TRY, YOU CRY’
WHEN THE GOVERNMENT’S MOTTO IS ‘WE TRY, YOU CRY’
Ladies and gentlemen, gather around because Nigeria has once again reminded the world that governance is not merely a profession—it is a masterclass in drama, suspense, and sometimes pure comedy. Yes, our government has proudly unveiled its unofficial motto: “We Try, You Cry.” Forget transparency, accountability, or common sense; the national pastime is now officially public crying induced by governmental attempts.
It all begins with a seemingly innocent announcement: a new policy, initiative, or program designed to “improve citizens’ lives.” The phrasing is always optimistic: “We are committed to better service delivery.” The reality, however, is akin to expecting a five-star buffet and receiving a single cold slice of bread with invisible butter. Citizens squint at press releases, blink, and double-check if they accidentally read the government’s financial strategy for speculative investment.
. Take electricity, for instance. The government tries. We cry. Lights flicker like disco balls at a wedding where the DJ forgot to plug in the speakers. Entire neighborhoods experience a pattern of power that could be described as strategically inconsistent—almost like a volatile stock market index. Residents measure time not in hours but in light-on and light-off intervals, a new science pioneered by necessity. Students studying at night juggle candles, phone torches, and anxiety like high-frequency traders juggling crypto portfolios.
Then come the roads. Ah yes, the roads! The government tries. We cry. Each pothole seems to have a name, a personality, and a subtle vendetta against the common driver. Citizens joke that some potholes are self-aware, deliberately appearing where motorists least expect them. Even Google Maps refuses directions, citing “emotional trauma risk” in high-density pothole zones. Drivers develop survival skills reminiscent of hedge fund managers navigating market volatility.
Hospitals are no exception. The government tries. We cry. Budget allocations promise state-of-the-art medical equipment, sufficient beds, and competent staff. The reality: patients queue for hours, nurses perform complex rituals to access supplies, and doctors improvise like financial analysts hedging catastrophic risk. Citizens humorously speculate that medical students graduate not with degrees but with certificates in crisis management and ROI patience. Soap and clean water are treated as luxury commodities, often hoarded like scarce stock options.
Meanwhile, ministers and public officials hold press conferences with unwavering optimism. They smile, presenting charts and slides so colorful they could double as carnival decorations. They repeat slogans like “We are committed to excellence.” Citizens at home respond with sarcasm: “Ah, yes, excellence in making us cry creatively!” Social media explodes with memes showing ministers juggling invisible problems while citizens clutch their chests in mock despair. Even fintech experts would appreciate the absurdity as a new form of economic simulation.
Public transport is another arena of comedy. Buses, taxis, and ride-hailing services operate as if guided by quantum randomness. Timetables exist only in theory. Commuters joke that catching a bus is now a sport requiring strategy, stamina, and luck reminiscent of a leveraged trading strategy. Drivers narrate their own versions of government slogans: “We try, you cry, and don’t forget to pay for the suspense.” Citizens calculate commuting ROI in both emotional and financial currency.
Education is no less amusing. Schools boast of initiatives to improve learning outcomes, while students improvise with torn notebooks, shared textbooks, and creative seating arrangements. Teachers implement DIY curricula, blending history with survival lessons. Pupils master multitasking: memorizing lessons while dodging rain, potholes, and calculating candle-light study efficiency. Some even apply basic principles of portfolio diversification to balance time between study and survival.
Even the judiciary participates in the humor. Citizens file petitions and await justice, but court timelines operate on a separate dimension. Judges, lawyers, and clerks engage in elaborate paperwork rituals that seem designed less to solve cases and more to create suspense. Waiting for a verdict becomes a national pastime, accompanied by memes, jokes, and impromptu debates about governance liquidity. Citizens compare courtroom bureaucracy to long-term investment in patience with uncertain returns.
Let’s not forget social amenities. Water, sanitation, and public facilities are a showcase of creative government attempts. Residents joke that faucets dispense water only when prayers are recited, toilets double as meditation spots, and public gardens serve as philosophical spaces for contemplating opportunity costs. Citizens invent games like “Spot the Working Tap” and “Count the Hours Without Flood.” Even children participate, becoming miniature satirists and early-stage financial analysts in survival economics.
The comedy of governance extends to budget announcements. Trillions are promised, allocations dazzly arranged, charts explode with colors, yet citizens watch reality unfold in slow motion. Street vendors declare that their daily earnings now represent the national deficit ratio. Economists attempt explanations with phrases like “strategically aspirational,” but citizens translate that into: “They are professionally attempting to make us cry for sport, with speculative investment flair.”
Media coverage fuels the absurdity. News outlets present statistics, interviews, and commentary, while social media erupts with memes capturing the daily struggle. One viral post depicts a minister juggling laptops, contracts, and imaginary infrastructure while citizens below clutch their heads dramatically. Another shows a superhero citizen dodging potholes and blackouts with Olympic agility. The nation collectively laughs at the spectacle, tears streaming, not from grief but amusement at creative fiscal chaos.
International observers marvel. Diplomats and foreign journalists attempt to understand Nigerian governance, concluding that it operates under its own logic—a mixture of performance art, social experiment, and comedy. Reports circulate suggesting Nigerian governance might soon be taught globally as: “Advanced Absurdist Administration & Financial Risk Management.” Students of economics and finance worldwide may soon study Nigeria’s policies as lessons in volatility and public engagement ROI.
Citizens naturally develop coping strategies. Humor becomes survival. Street comedians capitalize on real-life absurdity, staging sketches with titles like “The Minister Who Tried Too Hard” and “When Infrastructure Meets Reality.” Families gather around TVs like it’s reality TV, fully aware the ensuing chaos will provide endless laughter and viral meme content. Even fintech enthusiasts can relate: predict, strategize, and survive with zero guarantees.
The interplay between government action and citizen reaction reaches peak absurdity with slogans and social movements. Citizens chant sarcastic versions of official slogans: “We cry, we laugh, we survive!” Memes spread faster than official press releases, depicting ministers tripping over bureaucracy while citizens skillfully dodge daily challenges. Children create cartoons of “Superhero Citizen vs. The Mighty Zero-Value Budget,” blending satire, risk analysis, and civic education.
By mid-year, the country collectively recognizes a new social contract: the government will try, citizens will cry—but with style, creativity, and laughter. Social gatherings include discussions on electricity flickers, pothole navigation strategies, and hospital survival tips. Humor becomes both a coping mechanism and a cultural identity, binding citizens together in shared recognition of absurdity.
In offices, residents implement their own value-added governance systems: tracking which ministries perform, ranking infrastructure by functionality, and awarding imaginary prizes for “Most Dramatic Policy Announcement.” Children maintain “Citizenship Comedy Logs,” recording each absurd interaction with public services, ensuring the next generation appreciates the art of surviving governance with financial prudence.
Ultimately, the motto “We Try, You Cry” becomes ironic yet inspirational. Citizens learn resilience, resourcefulness, and the therapeutic power of laughter. Ministers may try, infrastructure may falter, budgets may inflate, and policies may misfire—but Nigerians have mastered the art of turning adversity into comedy gold.
So, dear reader, the next time the government announces a new initiative, remember the national motto. Prepare for a show, equip yourself with humor, and brace for tears—not because life is cruel, but because governance has become an extraordinary, ongoing, nationwide comedy performance.
Remember: they may try, we may cry, but the laughter—oh, the laughter—is entirely ours. Consider it a national dividend, yielding unlimited ROI in joy, satire, and civic creativity.
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