It is often said that time waits for no one, yet in Africa, it sometimes feels as though time itself has been trained to linger. This reflection was inspired by two wedding ceremonies I attended over the weekend—events that were supposed to run like clockwork but instead became a living illustration of what has come to be known as “African time.”
The first wedding was scheduled for 9 a.m., while the second was set for 11 a.m. It looked like the perfect arrangement—attend the first, slip smoothly into the second, and still have the rest of the day for other commitments. But perfection on paper often collides with reality in practice. I arrived at the first wedding by 8:46 a.m., eager to witness the ceremony on time. Instead, I was met with silence, a restless crowd, and the unforgiving heat. The program did not begin until after 10 a.m. My early arrival had turned into an endurance test.
To distract myself, I immersed myself in online commentaries and even drafted an article titled Politics as a Contest of Supremacy Between Betrayals and Loyalists. Ironically, it was during this waiting period in a mosque—a space not known for frivolity—that I discovered how much could be achieved with proper time management. By the time the cleric finally initiated the wedding fatiha, I had completed a full article. The delay, as it turned out, was caused not by logistics but by the late arrival of mallams—the very custodians of our moral compass. While they are human and subject to constraints, the irony of preachers of discipline arriving late for a solemn duty did not escape me.
The second wedding, slated for 11 a.m., was no better. By the time I arrived, guests were still trickling in, seats were unoccupied, and the event had not even begun. Once again, I turned to my phone, engaging with online debates, particularly one that nearly drove me to exasperation—the endless quarrel over whether my geopolitical zone should be referred to as “North Central” or “Middle Belt.” The argument quickly escalated, as is common in Nigeria’s online spaces, with insults flying and one side claiming a monopoly on wisdom. As Socrates once warned, “When the debate is lost, slander becomes the tool of the loser.” Sadly, such contempt for civility is increasingly becoming the norm, both online and offline.
This culture of disrespecting time has deeper consequences than delayed ceremonies. It seeps into governance, planning, and even the national psyche. A governor arriving late to a wedding may be a trivial inconvenience, but when leaders promise to deliver projects within six months and fail to do so for years, the result is stagnation and broken trust. President Tinubu, for instance, was reported to have forwarded a list of ambassadorial nominees to the National Assembly months ago, yet the matter remains unresolved. The much-needed Bida–Lapai road, one of the worst in Nigeria, has lingered under the weight of broken deadlines, despite repeated assurances and contracts supposedly awarded under tax-for-project initiatives.
Psychologists describe time as a cultural construct. Edward Hall, in his study of chronemics, distinguished between “monochronic” cultures—where punctuality and schedules are sacred—and “polychronic” ones, where relationships and events take precedence over the clock. Africa, for the most part, leans toward the latter. But as globalization tightens its grip, the costs of this cultural orientation are glaring. Poor time management explains, in part, why budgets often achieve less than 50% implementation, why students overstay in universities, and why government promises become little more than political rhetoric.
Contrast this with nations like Japan and Germany. In Japan, punctuality is elevated almost to a moral duty. Trains are timed to the second, and a delay of even one minute is enough to trigger a public apology from the railway company. A Japanese proverb captures this ethos perfectly: “Time is life.” To waste time is to waste existence itself. Germany, too, has built its reputation on discipline and precision. The concept of Ordnung—order—shapes not only social life but governance and industry. A German will often arrive ten minutes earlier than scheduled, for to be on time is already to be late. This strict adherence to schedules has been a cornerstone of their industrial success, ensuring efficiency, accountability, and public trust in systems.
Africa’s contrasting rhythm, where time is elastic and events start “when people arrive,” reflects a communal warmth but also creates dysfunction. What may be charming at a family gathering becomes costly in matters of governance, economics, and education. The same tolerance for delay that excuses a wedding starting hours late also excuses budgets unimplemented, projects abandoned, and promises broken.
The irony is that the very tool that many dismiss as a distraction—the new media—has become one of the best antidotes to wasted time. Social media has transformed citizens into journalists, advocates, critics, and watchdogs. With just a smartphone, ordinary people expose corruption, demand accountability, and engage governments in real time. A policeman taking bribes or an official abusing power can be recorded, uploaded, and judged by thousands within minutes. This immediacy forces action where bureaucratic delay might once have prevailed. Scholars argue that this phenomenon, known as “citizen journalism,” has deepened democratic values by making everyone a stakeholder in governance.
Good time management, then, is not merely about punctual weddings or meetings starting on time. It is about productivity, trust, and the very success of governance. The Project Management Institute stresses that effective project delivery is inseparable from disciplined timelines. Without respect for time, leadership becomes guesswork, development stalls, and citizens grow cynical.
As I reflect on those two weddings, I realize that “African time” is more than a social quirk—it is a mirror reflecting our broader struggles with planning, execution, and accountability. Until we learn, as Mallam Shafiyi once taught, that “a promise is a debt,” and that time is sacred, we will continue to drift in cycles of broken trust.
Perhaps it is fitting to end with a reminder from Benjamin Franklin: “Lost time is never found again.” In governance, as in life, time wasted is opportunity squandered. If Nigeria and Africa at large are to fulfill their potential, we must first conquer the invisible enemy that keeps us waiting: the stubborn persistence of African time.
Bagudu can be reached at bagudumohammed15197@gmail.com or on 0703 494 3575.
