When Insecurity Sits At The Dinner Table

Femi Akintunde-Johnson

Not long ago, a friend sent me a photograph of a pot of stew. Now, Nigerians send photographs of food all the time. Some do it to celebrate culinary excellence. Others do it to torment friends and relatives who may be surviving on garri and optimism. This particular photograph, however, came with a curious instruction: “Please zoom carefully. The meat is somewhere inside.”

I laughed. Then I stopped laughing. Because beneath the humour was a reality that millions of Nigerians now understand all too well. The country’s economic crisis is no longer something discussed only by economists, policymakers and television analysts. It has moved permanently into our kitchens, our markets and our dining tables.

Food has become one of the most accurate measures of how difficult life has become. The evidence is everywhere. Families that once bought a crate of eggs without much thought now purchase them in cautious instalments. Rice is increasingly treated with the kind of strategic planning once reserved for major family ceremonies. A pot of soup now requires financial calculations, consultations and, in some cases, divine intervention.

 In today’s Nigeria, preparing certain meals can feel remarkably similar to executing a government project. Resources must be sourced. Stakeholders must be considered. Costs must be reviewed. And after completion, sustainability remains uncertain.

Of course, Nigerians are adapting, as they always do. We are a people with an almost supernatural ability to adjust to changing circumstances. We have mastered the art of stretching provisions beyond their intended lifespan. We know how to make one loaf of bread perform duties for which it was never designed. We have elevated substitution to a national skill.

Indeed, the average Nigerian mother now possesses budgeting skills that could impress an international financial institution. Unfortunately, neither party has enough money.

Yet beneath the jokes lies a more troubling question. How did food become this expensive? The obvious answers are familiar enough. Inflation. Fuel costs. Transportation challenges. Exchange-rate pressures. Supply chain disruptions. They all matter. They all contribute.

But increasingly, there is another factor sitting quietly at the table with us. Insecurity.

The connection is easy to miss from the comfort of an urban supermarket or a neighbourhood market stall. But it exists. Somewhere in Benue, Plateau, Niger, Zamfara, Borno or countless other communities, a farmer decides that cultivating a portion of his land is no longer worth the risk. Somewhere else, an entire farming community is displaced by violence. Elsewhere, transporters avoid certain routes because the dangers outweigh the potential profits.

Months later, consumers hundreds of kilometres away find themselves staring in disbelief at the price of tomatoes, pepper, onions, beans or yam. 

The chain may be long, but it is not complicated. When farmers cannot farm safely, food becomes scarce. When food becomes scarce, prices rise. When prices rise, families eat less or eat differently. And when that happens across an entire nation, food inflation ceases to be merely an economic issue. It becomes a social concern, a health concern and, ultimately, a security concern in its own right.

The irony is difficult to ignore. Nigeria remains blessed with vast agricultural potential. We have the land, the climate, the manpower and the markets. Yet many of those responsible for feeding the nation increasingly find themselves battling challenges that have little to do with farming and everything to do with survival.

No farmer should have to choose between cultivating crops and protecting life. No nation should become comfortable with such a choice. Sadly, we seem to be drifting towards that comfort.

Perhaps that is one of our most remarkable national traits. We adapt so effectively that we sometimes stop questioning the conditions that require adaptation in the first place. We celebrate resilience, and rightly so. Nigerians have earned every compliment for their perseverance.

But resilience should never become an excuse for accepting dysfunction. There is a difference between applauding people’s strength and ignoring the burdens they carry. The woman who feeds six people with resources meant for three deserves admiration. The fact that she must perform such miracles every day deserves scrutiny.

The young graduate who skips meals to save transport fare demonstrates discipline. The circumstances that make such sacrifices necessary deserve attention.

The retiree who carefully calculates every food purchase displays prudence. The economy that turns basic nutrition into a luxury item deserves interrogation.

Food occupies a special place in Nigerian life. We celebrate with it. We mourn with it. We negotiate over it. We express hospitality through it. In many homes, asking a visitor whether they have eaten remains one of the most sincere expressions of care.

That is why rising food insecurity strikes at something deeper than household budgets. It affects dignity. 

There is a certain quiet anxiety that comes with entering a market and discovering that yesterday’s budget has become today’s fantasy. There is a particular frustration in watching meals become smaller while expenses become larger. There is a subtle erosion of confidence when ordinary necessities begin to feel like privileges.

These are not merely economic statistics. They are human experiences. And that is perhaps what worries many Nigerians most. Not simply that food is expensive. But that expensive food is gradually becoming normal.

The danger of normalisation is that it dulls urgency. We begin to see extraordinary hardship as ordinary reality. We stop asking difficult questions because the answers seem too distant or too complicated.

Yet some truths remain simple. A nation that cannot adequately secure its farmers will struggle to feed its people. A nation that struggles to feed its people will eventually confront consequences that extend far beyond the marketplace. And a nation that allows food to become increasingly inaccessible to ordinary citizens is confronting more than an inflation problem.

It is confronting a quality-of-life problem. A security problem. And perhaps, at its core, a governance problem.

The next time someone jokes about the disappearing meat in a pot of stew, we will probably laugh. Nigerians always do. But after the laughter fades, it may be worth remembering that the joke is not really about meat. It is about the state of the nation.