Yesterday, someone close to me called and asked that I help him pick up a consignment from Abuja. Out of curiosity, I went along. When we arrived at the space beside Wuse District Hospital—where logistics companies offload solar consignments—I was struck by the sight before me. Trucks lined the edge of the space, workers in reflective jackets shouted directions as they offloaded cartons, while forklifts moved pallet after pallet of solar panels, inverters, and batteries. The air buzzed with activity, and the ground itself seemed alive with commerce. What stunned me most was the sheer scale: the entire area stretched like a football pitch, packed to the brim with solar products stacked high. It was not just a busy scene—it was a clear statement. Nigerians are quietly staging a revolution against unreliable public power supply, and the solar alternative is fast becoming the people’s answer.
On our way back, I began to observe more carefully. Within two or three minutes of driving, rooftops glittering with solar panels became a constant sight. Some buildings had so many panels that you could hardly separate the roof from the solar installations. No wonder people no longer complain about whether there is “light” or not—they have simply decided to provide it for themselves. This reality reminded me of my time in China. From a hotel near their seaport, I could see shiploads of generators being exported, yet inside China itself, I hardly saw them in use. They had long moved beyond noisy generators into cleaner, more sustainable solutions. Meanwhile in Nigeria, the hum of generators still forms the soundtrack of our nights.
But history has always shown that change is inevitable. In our own journey, we began with what the Hausa call achibalbal (firewood torches), later shifted to candles and bush lamps, moved on to rechargeable lamps, and today we stand in the era of solar-enabled lamps and roof-fitted solar systems. The story of light in Nigeria has always been one of resilience and adaptation. If necessity is the mother of invention, Nigerians have proven to be her most determined children.
Sadly, the consequences of neglecting power are visible everywhere. Take Kakuri in Kaduna for example. Once the proud home of booming textile industries that gave jobs to thousands, today, because of lack of power supply, those vast industrial spaces have become homes for snakes, cockroaches, grasses, and rodents. Where machines once roared with productivity, silence now reigns, and nature has taken over. This is the loudest testimony that no nation can industrialize or sustain its industries without steady electricity.
To make matters worse, one cannot forget the flashbacks of the past. There was a time when people would queue at the electricity company offices to pay bills, yet still beg officials for electricity to be restored in their areas. Households kept lanterns ready because nobody knew when “the national grid will take light.” Those days made electricity not just a public utility, but a prayer point. Today, Nigerians no longer beg—they buy panels, install batteries, and generate their own light. The shift from dependence to independence is perhaps the greatest silent protest in our national history.
Yet, instead of addressing the real problem of shortage and epileptic supply, the power sector in Nigeria is busy introducing what they call banding (Band A, B, and so on)—a system that feels more like banditry than reform. Rather than making electricity affordable and reliable, this band classification has discouraged users further. Just some days ago, to my surprise, someone on Band A recharged his prepaid meter with ₦5,000 through my app. To our shock, he got only 11 units! That discovery led us into a long discussion and calculations, and the conclusion was simple: with such costs, more Nigerians will be forced to consider solar systems, not out of luxury but as the only sustainable alternative.
Public institutions must be careful. If they do not wake up, they may go the way of NITEL. Once a giant in the communication sector, NITEL collapsed because it ignored innovation, and GSM networks swept it aside. Today, power distribution companies face the same risk. Nigerians are voting with their wallets and their rooftops, and one day, the national grid may simply become irrelevant. Omoyele Sowore once said in one of his blunt videos: “If I become the President of Nigeria, what I will face is power—light.” That statement may have sounded ordinary at the time, but it captured the urgency of what is at stake.
As Ban Ki-moon reminded the world, “Energy is the golden thread that connects economic growth, social equity, and environmental sustainability.” Without reliable energy, Nigeria cannot industrialize, empower its people, or grow sustainably. Alfred North Whitehead also put it clearly: “Civilization advances by extending the number of important operations we can perform without thinking about them.” But in Nigeria today, electricity is not something we take for granted; it is something we worry about every single day. Worse still, the national joke that “the national grid has taken light” has gone from being a complaint to a resigned way of life. Citizens are now turning this joke into serious investments in solar, and once again proving that when institutions fail, people improvise.
Statistics underline this reality. Over 85 million Nigerians—43% of the population—still lack access to grid electricity (World Bank, 2021). At the same time, Nigeria is now one of Africa’s fastest-growing solar markets, with private sector investments rising steadily (IRENA, 2023). This duality is both a crisis and an opportunity: a crisis of institutional failure, but an opportunity for Nigeria to leapfrog into a renewable future if only the right policies and investments are made.
From achibalbal to solar panels, from Kakuri’s dead industries to today’s rooftops glittering with solar systems, our story of light shows that Nigerians will never remain in darkness forever. But it also shows that institutions that fail to move with the times will be moved out by the times. Unless Nigeria’s power authorities urgently embrace reform, innovation, and affordability, they will watch helplessly as citizens quietly build their own future, one solar panel at a time.
The time for half measures is over. Government must prioritize policies that make power both constant and affordable. Private investors must see the solar revolution not as a side business but as the backbone of Nigeria’s industrial future. Policymakers must wake up to the fact that every panel installed on a rooftop is not just a cry for survival—it is a vote of no confidence in the existing system. If we truly desire progress, if we truly want to compete globally, then fixing power must stop being a campaign promise and start being a national emergency. For without light, there can be no lasting development, and without energy, Nigeria cannot shine.
As one wise maxim reminds us: “A factory without power is just a warehouse for dust.”
