Last week, I shared a travelogue describing my visit to Taraba State, where distance is measured not in kilometres but in neglect and where a road becomes a referendum on citizenship. I anticipated interest, but not the overwhelming response: over 2,010 emails, texts, and messages followed—some generous, some stinging, many deeply reflective. Some thanked me for articulating what they have endured for years; others challenged my framing or conclusions, or said I had not gone far enough. The feedback became more than applause or criticism: it sparked a national conversation about what infrastructure means, who the federation serves, and why resilience is often mistaken for progress.
I believe public commentary earns legitimacy only when it remains open to scrutiny. That is why this week I am applying the right-of-reply principle—an essential discipline that separates persuasion from propaganda. My goal is not to win an argument or highlight only favourable feedback. Instead, I aim to elevate the best insights my piece inspired, test my assumptions, and offer readers a substantive counter-reading. In a country often split between cheerleaders and cynics, what we need most is rigorous engagement: fair critique, honest empathy, and accountability that respects nuance.
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One response stood out for its clarity and depth. Instead of merely reacting, it interpreted—the everyday violence of potholes, collapsed shoulders, and abandoned bridges became a probe: what do these physical realities say about power, priorities, and belonging in Nigeria? This review treats the Jalingo–Wukari road not as travel detail but as a window into governance, federal attention, and the normalization of deprivation when citizens are told, year after year, to endure.
I invite you to read it slowly, not as an endorsement of my position, but as an invitation to think more deeply about what my journey represents — and what it demands from those who govern and those who are governed. Below is Olufemi Awoyemi’s review titled, “When Potholes Become Policy Statements: Reflections on Dakuku Peterside’s Taraba Journey and Nigeria’s Governance Paradox.”
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He writes: “There are moments on Nigeria’s roads when infrastructure ceases to be a mere technical question and becomes instead a language, crude, unambiguous, and deeply revelatory. Dr Dakuku Peterside’s recent journey through Taraba State offers us precisely such a moment.
Writing from firsthand observation during a five-hour odyssey from Jalingo to Wukari, a distance that should take half that time, he translates the grinding physical reality of failed federal roads into a broader grammar of governance. “There are moments on Nigeria’s roads,” he writes, “when you stop thinking of potholes as engineering failures and begin to see them as policy statements. Each crater says, ‘You can endure this.’ Each collapsed shoulder says, ‘Your inconvenience does not matter.’ Each missing stretch says, ‘you are far from the centre of attention.'”
This is not rhetoric. It is field reportage elevated into diagnosis. And it warrants serious analytical reflection, not least because Peterside’s account crystallises a tension at the heart of Nigerian governance, beyond the particulars of Taraba: the balance between critique and empathy, the danger of romanticising citizen resilience, and the imperative to hold leadership accountable while acknowledging incremental progress where it occurs. His reflections remind us that effective commentary on governance must resist two temptations – cynical despair on one hand, and sentimental celebration of “coping mechanisms” on the other.
What Nigeria needs now is clear-eyed analysis that names failure without flinching, yet recognises possibility without naïveté.
The Language of Neglect
Peterside’s journey through Taraba is instructive precisely because it refuses abstraction. He does not traffic in the usual statistics about infrastructure deficits or recycle well-worn complaints about federal abandonment. Instead, he takes us with him, through the jolt of each pothole, the delay at the collapsed Namnai Bridge, the contrast between state-led interventions and federal indifference. The bridge, which collapsed in August 2024 and remains unrepaired, becomes in his telling “more than a fact”, it is “a symbol.” He continues: “A bridge is not just concrete and steel; it is a connection. Its collapse is a failure of urgency, attention, and governance.”
These matters because it reframes infrastructure from the domain of technocrats into the realm of citizenship. When roads fail, markets cannot function. When bridges collapse, communities are severed not just physically but economically, socially, symbolically.
Resisting the Romanticisation of Resilience
What makes Peterside’s account particularly valuable is its refusal to indulge in the familiar narrative that treats rural Nigerians as perpetual victims awaiting deliverance from Abuja. Instead, he documents agency, state-level leadership attempting to fill federal voids, communities mobilising resources, philanthropists like General T.Y. Danjuma constructing hospitals and schools when government fails to deliver.
Yet even as he acknowledges these interventions, he resists the seductive logic that would normalise them as sufficient. Observing Danjuma’s transformative work in Takum, Peterside writes: “The message was unmistakable: when public systems fail, committed individuals sometimes become the fulcrum of development. Yet even as I admired what one man’s love for community can accomplish, I also felt the uncomfortable question beneath it: why should any community’s access to basic infrastructure depend on the benevolence of exceptional individuals? Philanthropy can supplement development, but it must never substitute for the state.”
This intellectual position cuts to a fundamental problem in Nigerian public discourse: the tendency to celebrate endurance as though it were development, to applaud communities for “managing” deprivation rather than demanding systems that make deprivation unnecessary. The point cuts deep.
When we praise Nigerians for their ability to navigate broken roads, dysfunctional healthcare, epileptic power, and absent security, we risk shifting the burden from those who govern to those who are governed. Resilience becomes not a testament to human spirit but an alibi for state failure. This intellectual trap is particularly insidious because it often masquerades as empathy. But true empathy does not ask citizens to carry weight that rightly belongs to government. The “heavy lifting” is properly the responsibility of those who seek and hold office, not of communities forced to fill governance vacuums with their own sweat and resources.
When Sub-National Leadership Matters
Yet the Taraba story also demonstrates that governance is not monolithic. Peterside’s account of the 12-kilometre Takum-Lissam Road launch and the 41-kilometre Wukari Township Road Network reveals something important: sub-national leadership can matter, even when federal capacity fails or federal attention wanders.
When Governor Agbu Kefas invests in roads that restore connectivity, when he builds forward operating bases to consolidate security, and commits resources to education and healthcare infrastructure, he is not merely “doing his job.” He is indeed, making deliberate choices about prioritisation, signalling that even constrained budgets can produce tangible outcomes when leadership is focused and accountable.
Peterside captures this clearly: “Here, in the midst of what often feels like national forgetfulness, a state government is choosing to invest where it matters most… even when federal attention wanes, consistent, transparent, and people-centred sub-national leadership can still drive real transformation.”
The philosophy embedded in these projects which are incremental, visible, and responsive, deserves articulation. Development is not always dramatic. Sometimes it is simply the construction of a flyover bridge that reduces travel time, the rehabilitation of a township road network that allows commerce to flow more freely, the repair of a stretch between communities long isolated by terrain and neglect.
As Peterside observes, “roads do not give speeches. They do not trend on social media. Yet they are the silent engines of economic life. They shape how farmers reach markets, how traders move goods, how workers commute, how ambulances arrive, how children get to school, and how a town becomes a city. Roads are not mere infrastructure; they are opportunities arranged into movement.” This understanding, that development is fundamentally about expanding the realm of the possible for ordinary people, is too often lost in our fixation on megaprojects and ribbon-cutting ceremonies.
But recognising sub-national effort does not absolve federal failure.
The Damning Catalogue of Federal Abandonment
Peterside’s litany of abandoned federal roads is damning: Wukari to Jalingo to Zing; Mararaba Zing to Numan; Bali to Serti to Gembu; Takum to Katsina Ala; Wukari to Ibi; the list stretches on, each route “repeating the story of potholes, broken promises, and normalised neglect.”
The Ibi Bridge, once a subject of federal attention, now stands “abandoned, a silent monument to bureaucratic indifference.” Federal educational institutions like the Federal Medical Centre Jalingo, Federal University Wukari, Federal Polytechnic Bali, exist “in name, absent in transformative impact.” This is not partisan scoring. It is documentary evidence of a pattern that has hardened into policy reality.
As Peterside concludes, with the weight of accumulated observation: “At some point, patterns become conclusions. And the logical conclusion here is difficult to escape: for all practical purposes, the federal government behaves as though Taraba is not fully within its circle of care.”
What Peterside’s account prompts, but does not fully address, is a question any serious analysis of Taraba’s development trajectory must confront: what are the state’s actual competitive advantages, and how might intentional policy unlock them?
Taraba’s Unrealised Competitive Advantages
Taraba is not a blank slate. It sits on resources that, if properly governed and strategically deployed, could transform its fiscal position and expand economic opportunity across multiple value chains.
The state’s agro-ecological diversity is extraordinary, fertile land, favourable rainfall patterns, and microclimates that support everything from rice and maize to groundnuts, yams, and cash crops like sesame and soybeans. Livestock production, particularly cattle rearing, remains significant but underexploited in terms of value addition and formal market integration. The Mambilla Plateau alone represents untapped potential for high-value horticulture, dairy farming, and tourism.
The Industrial Hemp Opportunity: Regulatory Courage Required
Beyond conventional agriculture lies an opportunity that demands regulatory courage and economic sophistication: industrial hemp. Interestingly, this is a topic explored in a Thursday, May16, 2019 article by Olusegun Adeniyi, Chairman, THISDAY Editorial Board, titled: “Nigeria: Is it Time to Legalize Marijuana?”, and asserted that “It is a leaf that grows wild and naturally in at least six states of Nigeria where scale and size offer a compelling case for an agricultural economic zone.”. Taraba is one of those states.
Nigeria’s National Agency for Food and Drug Administration and Control (NAFDAC) has already begun creating frameworks for regulating cannabis for medicinal and industrial purposes. Taraba’s climate and soil conditions are well-suited for hemp cultivation, which offers multiple revenue streams, fibre for textiles and construction materials, seeds for oil and protein, and cannabidiol (CBD) for pharmaceuticals and wellness products.
The global industrial hemp market is projected to exceed $18 billion by 2027, driven by applications in biodegradable plastics, automotive components, and health supplements. For a state with high youth unemployment and underdeveloped manufacturing capacity, a well-regulated hemp industry could generate formal employment in farming, processing, logistics, and export-oriented manufacturing. The fiscal implications, through licensing fees, taxes on production and export, and downstream industrial activity, could be transformative.
This is not advocacy for legalisation without guardrails. It is a call for the kind of regulatory sophistication that distinguishes governance from administration. Industrial hemp production requires clear legal frameworks distinguishing it from psychoactive cannabis, robust licensing and monitoring systems to prevent diversion, investment in research and development to optimise yields and processing technologies, and strategic partnerships with international buyers in pharmaceuticals, textiles, and green manufacturing.
States that move early on these frameworks, through engagement with federal regulators, pilot projects, and public-private partnerships, position themselves not as followers but as pioneers in Nigeria’s agricultural modernisation. Taraba has the land, the labour, and the need. What it requires is the policy vision to see opportunities where others see only risk.
Other Strategic Assets Awaiting Institutional Activation
Taraba’s other competitive advantages deserve equal strategic attention. The state’s solid mineral endowments, limestone, kaolin, lead, zinc, remain largely unexploited due to infrastructure deficits and weak investment climates. Eco-tourism, particularly around the Mambilla Plateau and the Gashaka-Gumti National Park, could generate revenue and employment if packaged with improved access roads, hospitality infrastructure, and security guarantees. Cross-border trade with Cameroon offers logistical and commercial opportunities that neighbouring states have leveraged more effectively.
The common thread across these sectors is not resource scarcity but governance deficit. Taraba is not poor in endowments. It is poor in systems, systems for attracting investment, for maintaining infrastructure, for creating regulatory clarity, for building human capital, and for converting natural advantage into economic velocity.
Peterside’s observation that Taraba is “a paradox: fertile but poor, possessing all it needs to thrive except recognition and essential tools for development” applies not just to infrastructure but to institutional capacity. Recognition, in this context, is not merely symbolic. It is the federal government acknowledging Taraba’s existence through functional infrastructure and the enabling environment for investment.
But recognition must also come from within, the state recognising its own assets, mapping them systematically, and building the institutions necessary to unlock them. This requires data. It requires planning capacity. It requires the courage to make hard choices about where to deploy scarce resources for maximum multiplier effects. And it requires the political will to prioritise long-term value creation over short-term patronage.
Actionable Pathways Forward
What, then, are the pathways that convert observation into transformation? Several strategic interventions emerge from Peterside’s account and the broader analysis of Taraba’s potential:
First, infrastructure must be understood as economic strategy, not political favour. Road construction, bridge rehabilitation, and transport network expansion are not gifts from benevolent leaders to grateful citizens. They are investments in productivity, market access, and fiscal sustainability. States that treat infrastructure as such, by conducting cost-benefit analyses, prioritising corridors with the highest economic returns, and maintaining completed projects rather than abandoning them, create conditions for compounding growth. Taraba’s focus on township road networks and strategic connectors like the Takum-Lissam route reflects this logic. It must be sustained and scaled.
Second, data-driven state planning must replace intuition and improvisation. Taraba needs a comprehensive economic development plan anchored in rigorous resource mapping, sector-specific value chain analyses, and evidence-based prioritisation. Which agricultural products offer the highest value-addition potential? Which solid minerals are most commercially viable given current global demand? Which tourism assets can be developed with existing infrastructure? Which regulatory reforms would most rapidly improve the investment climate? These are not rhetorical questions. They are technical questions with deserve empirical answers. States that answer them seriously, through dedicated planning agencies, external technical partnerships, and transparent data publication, attract investment and execute effectively.
Third, regulatory courage must define the state’s approach to new economic sectors. Industrial hemp is one example, but the principle applies broadly. Nigeria’s federal structure creates space for states to experiment, to pilot innovations, to lead where federal capacity lags. Taraba can position itself as a testing ground for agricultural industrialisation, for value-added processing, for export-oriented manufacturing in underexploited sectors. This requires engaging federal regulators proactively, building local institutional capacity to monitor and enforce standards, and creating incentives for private sector participation. The states that thrive in Nigeria’s next economic chapter will not be those waiting for federal direction. They will be those shaping federal policy through demonstrated success.
Fourth, institutional capacity building at the sub-national level must become a strategic priority. Taraba’s civil service, its planning agencies, its revenue collection systems, its procurement processes, all must be continuously strengthened through training, technology adoption, and performance management systems that reward competence and penalise mediocrity. Development does not happen because leaders ‘will’ it into existence. It happens because institutions execute effectively, because bureaucracies function with integrity, because systems deliver predictable results. Governor Kefas’s administration has made visible infrastructure commitments. The next frontier is institutional infrastructure, the less glamorous but equally essential work of building state capacity to plan, implement, and sustain development beyond individual leadership tenures.
Accountability Without Cynicism
Finally, we must insist on accountability without cynicism. The proper locus of responsibility, that heavy lifting belongs to those who govern, not those who endure, applies both to federal and state levels. When federal roads remain abandoned for years, when bridges collapse and stay collapsed, when institutions exist only on paper, citizens are entitled to demand answers, to mobilise politically, to withdraw support from leaders who confuse tenure with entitlement.
But the same standard applies to state governments. Visible projects are necessary but insufficient. Sustainability matters. Maintenance matters. Equity in resource distribution matters. Citizens in remote local government areas are as entitled to functional infrastructure as those in the state capital. Accountability is not partisan; it is structural. And it must run in all directions.
The Test Case Nigeria Cannot Afford to Fail
Peterside concludes his account with the conviction that “a land with this much potential, and a people with this much spirit, cannot remain forgotten forever. Not by potholes. Not by collapsed bridges. Not by bureaucratic amnesia. Taraba is rising, stubbornly, steadily, and unmistakably.”
The sentiment is not naive optimism. It is observation grounded in evidence, roads under construction, state investments materialising, communities speaking with “cautious confidence.” But whether Taraba’s rise accelerates or stalls depends on choices yet to be made.
Will the federal government finally treat peripheral states as full citizens of the federation, entitled to functional infrastructure and institutional presence? Will state leadership convert short-term visible projects into sustained, system-wide transformation? Will regulatory frameworks evolve quickly enough to unlock new economic sectors before demographic pressures overwhelm fiscal capacity?
Taraba is indeed a mirror of Nigeria’s broader development dilemma; a place where abundance and deprivation coexist, where potential mocks performance, where resilience becomes necessity rather than virtue. It is also a test case: can sub-national leadership convert comparative advantages into competitive advantage when federal systems fail? Can incremental progress compound into transformation if sustained over electoral cycles? Can governance move from reactive firefighting to proactive strategy?
The answers will not come from travelogues, however insightful, or from editorial commentary, however earnest. They will come from the daily choices of those who govern, and the accountability demanded by those who are governed. But this much is certain: potholes are indeed policy statements. And the policy they state is clear. The only question now is whether those with power to repair them will do something about it; or if the electorates will act to further their collective interest. Is someone listening?”
Dakuku Peterside is the author of the books, Leading in a Storm, and Beneath the Surface, while Olufemi Awoyemi is the founder of Proshare LLC, a macro policy analysis, impact research and thought-led market information services firm. Email: [email protected]
