Special to USAfrica magazine (Houston) and USAfricaonline.com, the first African-owned, US-based newspaper published on the Internet.
Agbedo is a Professor of Linguistics, University of Nigeria, Nsukka, and a contributing analyst to USAfrica
Tragedy is a concept as old as human civilization itself. From the Greek playwrights who chronicled the downfall of great men to the everyday losses that humble us, tragedy has always been a mirror to the human condition. It is the cruel hand of fate, the inexplicable suffering that befalls the innocent, and the unrelenting cycle of despair that mocks our aspirations. Tragedy, in its classical definition, is the downfall of a noble character due to an unavoidable flaw – whether personal, societal, or cosmic. It is the cruel intersection of fate and failure, often presented as a lesson for those who remain. But in Nigeria, tragedy has lost its instructive purpose. Instead of serving as a lesson, it has become a routine, a pattern, a certainty. In Nigeria, tragedy is not an occasional misfortune; it is an everyday reality. It is not the result of fate alone, but of deliberate negligence, systemic failure, and the horrifying predictability of preventable disasters. The stories of the Nwaji family the four siblings of another family from Ọha-Imezi Ezeagu community of Enugu State, as victims of the unfortunate tragedy, transcend a commonplace tragic accident. It is a reflection of a nation that has embraced tragedy as a way of life.
In classical tragedy, the protagonist often suffers not just because of personal flaws but because of forces beyond their control. The Nwaji family was not reckless; they were not careless. They were simply on their way to perform a sacred duty – to bury their late father, Pa Nwaji – when Nigeria happened to them. Like in a tragic play, the irony is too bitter to ignore. The very journey meant to lay one soul to rest became a mass funeral. A father who should have been buried with dignity is now left with no one to mourn him. A family, wiped out in an instant, leaves behind no continuation of their lineage. The audience – us, the Nigerian people – look on, aghast, but ultimately powerless.
The horrifying fate of the Nwaji family is a predictable disaster, one that unfolds on Nigerian roads with sickening regularity. Their story, gut-wrenching as it is, could be any Nigerian family’s story. Every road trip in Nigeria is a game of Russian roulette. The fate that befell the Nwaji family is a preview of what awaits every traveler on Nigerian roads – if not by tanker explosions, then by failed brakes, collapsed bridges, armed bandits, or potholes deep enough to swallow cars whole. We know how this play ends because we have seen it before. The fire consumes, the wailing begins, empty statements are released as a perfunctory duty, and then, just as quickly as it appeared, the story fades into the background, making way for the next disaster. The tragedy repeats itself.
If the unending loop of Nigerian tragedies is meant to serve as an advisory, Nigeria has refused to learn. Each disaster is followed by ritualistic outrage, a brief flurry of headlines, and then eerie silence. But silence does not mean the tragedies have stopped; it only means we have become accustomed to them. The fuel tanker that exploded in Ugwu Onyeama is not the first, nor will it be the last. Nigeria’s roads are graveyards, waiting to claim the next victims. Hospitals, ill-equipped and overwhelmed, turn emergency cases into death sentences. Schools collapse, fires consume, gunmen raid villages, floods wash away homes, and yet, we remain trapped in this endless cycle of catastrophe. If tragedy, in its purest form, teaches societies to improve, Nigeria remains an anomaly – a country where suffering is endured, not rectified. The fate of the Nwaji family is not unique; it is shared by millions who live with the daily reality that disaster is only ever one misstep, one faulty brake, one corrupt official away.
If there were an award for the deadliest roads in the world, Nigeria’s highways would be perpetual winners. The Nigerian road is not merely a means of transportation; it is a stage for some of the most gruesome and heartbreaking tragedies. Every journey is a wager with death, and the odds are never in the traveler’s favour. On these roads, fuel tankers – time bombs on wheels – move without regulation, spilling death at the slightest provocation. Commercial drivers, pushed to desperation by economic hardship, operate vehicles that should have been condemned to the scrapyard. Road construction contracts, when awarded at all, are executed with the greed of men who see lives as mere numbers. The tragedy of the Nwaji family is not a singular event. It is the natural consequence of a country that has abandoned safety for impunity, governance for negligence, and planning for prayers.
The most devastating aspect of the Nwaji family’s story is not just the immediate horror of their deaths, but what it symbolizes: Nigeria as a nation of walking victims. Every day, millions of Nigerians step out of their homes without knowing if they will return. In a tragic play, the characters have no power to change their fate. They are trapped by destiny, by prophecy, by the cruel whims of the gods. But Nigeria is not a play, and we are not mere spectators. We live this reality, we breathe this air of despair, and we walk these roads of death. The difference between the Nwaji family and the rest of us is only time. Today, it was them. Tomorrow, it could be anyone. In Nigeria, we are all living victims—some marked for tragedy now, others simply waiting their turn. We do not have to accept this fate. The cycle of tragedy is not an unbreakable curse; it is the result of choices made by those in power and the silence of those who suffer. Until we demand change—not with momentary outrage, but with sustained action—tragedy will continue to define our national existence.
The fate of the Nwaji family is a painful reminder that Nigeria remains a country where life is cheap, where grief is abundant, and where justice is a myth. But if we do nothing, we must accept this as our own fate as well. The tragedy that claimed the Nwaji family could have been prevented. Proper road maintenance, stricter regulations on fuel transportation, and an effective emergency response system could have made a difference. But in Nigeria, tragedy is not prevented; it is merely postponed until the next victim appears. Every Nigerian who travels by road is a potential Nwaji. The next victim could be a trader going to the market, a student heading to school, a worker commuting to the office, or a politician’s convoy—though the latter always has an army of escorts to insulate them from the reality of the roads. The question is no longer if another road tragedy will happen, but when and who will be next. To break this cycle, we must demand accountability for every road disaster, including independent investigations into their causes; insist on strict enforcement of road safety laws, especially regarding fuel tanker transportation; invest in emergency response infrastructure to minimize casualties when accidents occur; refuse to move on from each tragedy without systemic change.
Nigeria does not have to be a land where life is as fleeting as a candle in the wind. But unless we take action, the tragedy that befell the Nwaji family will be replayed, over and over again, with different names and faces. And the only question that remains is: Who, as walking victims, will be next? May the souls of Nwaji family members find eternal rest in the Lord’s bosom; and may He have mercy on us, Amen.
