A Nation That Memorises but Rarely Imagines
BY HIBBATULLAH SHITTU
Nigeria’s greatest tragedy may not be poverty, corruption, or even bad leadership. It is something quieter, more invisible, yet deeply dangerous: a thinking problem.
We have grown into a society that often repeats instead of reasons, copies instead of creates, and reacts instead of reflects. From classrooms to offices, from pulpits to parliaments, we have mastered the art of memorization but forgotten the value of imagination. We produce graduates who can quote Shakespeare but cannot think like him. We raise children who know the definition of creativity but are afraid to express an original thought.
This crisis is not one of intellect, but of imagination. We were never taught to think differently. Our education system measures success by correct answers, not by curious questions. Our culture rewards obedience over originality.
But there is a cure that requires neither foreign aid nor vast budgets. It lies within our words, our minds, and our stories. That cure is creative writing: the art of thinking freely on paper.
Creative writing teaches what our classrooms often neglect: curiosity, empathy, and imagination. It trains the mind to see beyond what is and envision what could be. And perhaps that is what Nigeria needs most — minds that can imagine a better nation before attempting to build one.
How Nigeria Lost her Ability to Think
To understand Nigeria’s current thinking crisis, we must examine its historical, cultural, and educational foundations.
The problem did not begin today. It has deep roots that stretch back to the colonial period, when the British educational system in Nigeria was designed not to produce innovators but administrators. Its goal was to supply the colonial government with clerks, interpreters, and messengers, people who could follow orders and fill forms, not question policies or propose reforms. The colonial classroom taught what to think, not how to think.
The emphasis was on obedience, not originality. Students were trained to memorize, not to imagine. That system, though outdated, still shapes the structure of Nigerian education today. We inherited a learning model that values conformity over curiosity, accuracy over inquiry, and silence over creativity.
Even decades after independence, we continue to measure intelligence by how well one can repeat information. From primary school to university, many students learn to pass exams, not to solve problems. Teachers are overburdened and undertrained; the curriculum is rigid and outdated. Questions that require reflection are seen as time-wasting, while those that demand memorization are rewarded.
This intellectual rigidity seeps beyond the classroom. In many Nigerian homes, curiosity is unintentionally discouraged. A child who asks too many questions is told to “keep quiet.” A student who challenges an adult’s opinion is considered “rude.” Cultural hierarchy often values respect over reasoning, and compliance over conversation.
Over time, this conditioning kills curiosity. We grow up fearing mistakes more than mediocrity, and that fear limits our capacity to think creatively. We prefer to conform rather than confront, to copy rather than create. From the pulpit to the public office, this pattern repeats itself: authority is rarely questioned, and innovation is often viewed with suspicion.
The result is a society that knows many facts but generates few ideas. We produce graduates with degrees but little direction, and citizens who are educated but not enlightened. Our schools churn out literate minds that can read words but cannot interpret the world.
This is why our national discourse often sounds repetitive. We recycle the same ideas, policies, and arguments year after year. We have made memorization our culture, and it shows in our inability to solve problems creatively.
The danger of this mindset is profound. A nation that cannot think critically cannot progress sustainably. It becomes dependent on others for innovation and direction. Without creative thinking, even the most educated population can remain intellectually stagnant.
But if the roots of the problem lie in our education and culture, then the solution must begin in the same places. We must teach Nigerians not just to learn, but to imagine. Not just to read, but to create. And this is where creative writing comes in.
Creative Writing as the Path to Mental Liberation
Creative writing is far more than an art form. It is a training ground for independent thought. It teaches people to observe, reflect, and express— three habits essential to a thinking society.
When individuals write creatively, they are forced to think beyond the surface. They must understand emotions, motives, and possibilities. They must imagine outcomes, construct worlds, and give meaning to experiences. In essence, creative writing exercises the very mental muscles that our current education system neglects.
In a country like Nigeria, where young people are often told what to say and how to behave, creative writing provides a safe space for free thought. It allows them to question, to doubt, to reimagine. Through storytelling, they can explore social issues that are often silenced: poverty, inequality, gender bias, governance, and identity.
Writing also helps people reclaim ownership of their narratives. For too long, Nigerians have allowed others to define their stories: colonial writers, foreign journalists, and even politicians. But when Nigerians tell their own stories, they regain control of their image and identity.
Look at our literary history. Chinua Achebe’s Things Fall Apart did not just entertain readers; it dismantled the colonial perception of Africa as a continent without culture or civilization. Wole Soyinka’s plays did not merely dramatize society; they exposed its hypocrisies and questioned its values. Buchi Emecheta, through The Joys of Motherhood, gave voice to Nigerian women long silenced by tradition. Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie continues this legacy by writing about feminism, politics, and the danger of single stories.
These writers changed the world’s understanding of Nigeria. But more importantly, they changed how Nigerians understood themselves. They proved that words could be tools of revolution, not through violence but through vision.
Creative writing also nurtures empathy, an essential quality of leadership. When people read or write about experiences different from their own, they learn to see life from another perspective. They understand the struggles of others: a farmer in Benue, a displaced child in Borno, a student in Lagos hustling to survive. Such empathy can bridge the ethnic, religious, and social divides that often weaken our national unity.
Beyond empathy, creative writing cultivates problem-solving skills. Every story demands a structure: a beginning, conflict, and resolution. A writer learns to connect cause and effect, to think critically about consequences, and to create meaning from chaos. These are the same skills innovators and policymakers need.
Moreover, creative writing has therapeutic value. Many Nigerian youths carry unspoken trauma from economic hardship, insecurity, and unemployment. Writing helps them process emotions, release pain, and find clarity. It turns silent suffering into expression, and confusion into creativity.
If we integrate creative writing into education, it can transform the way students think and learn. Literature should not be treated as a static subject focused on memorizing authors and summaries. It should become an interactive field that encourages expression and experimentation. Teachers can ask students to write alternate endings to novels, compose short plays about current social issues, or rewrite folktales with modern relevance. Such exercises awaken imagination and build confidence.
Leadership training can also benefit from storytelling. A leader who cannot imagine cannot reform. By writing and reading stories, leaders develop emotional intelligence and the ability to envision change. The most effective policies often come from leaders who can empathize and imagine possibilities beyond statistics.
To promote this culture, universities, media houses, and civil organizations should invest in creative writing workshops and competitions. A nationwide campaign such as “My Dream for Nigeria” could invite young people to write essays or stories envisioning the kind of country they want to live in. Such initiatives would not only engage youth but stimulate a culture of reflection and innovation.
The media has a crucial role to play too. Rather than amplifying only political noise, newspapers and broadcasters can spotlight creative voices — poets, essayists, storytellers — whose ideas challenge conventional thinking. Public discourse shaped by storytelling tends to be more reflective and solution-oriented than one dominated by empty slogans.
Ultimately, creative writing restores what our system has stolen: the freedom to think. It teaches that imagination is not rebellion; it is responsibility. A person who can imagine a better world is already halfway to creating it.
Nigeria’s problem is not a lack of intelligence but a lack of imagination. We have brilliant minds trapped in rigid systems. We have potential thinkers who have forgotten how to dream.
Creative writing offers a peaceful revolution. It does not overthrow governments; it transforms minds. It does not destroy systems; it redefines them. Through writing, we do not only tell stories, we shape thought, identity, and vision.
If we truly want a generation that can think, we must give our children not just textbooks but blank pages — pages where they can imagine, question, and create.
Because when Nigerians begin to write their truths, they begin to think. When they begin to think, they begin to change. And when they change, so will their nation.
