I remember the year 2000 like one remembers a song from childhood still vivid, still echoing. There was 

something about that time. The air carried hope like the harmattan dust, drifting into every crack of our national consciousness. The shadow of military rule was finally lifting, and in its place stood a fledgling democracy, awkward but ambitious, led by President Olusegun Obasanjo. We weren’t just starting a new century we were starting over.

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In those days, the world was on edge over the Y2K bug, and in Nigeria, we quietly feared that our digital infrastructure barely functional to begin with might melt under the weight of a new millennium. But Nigeria, ever stubborn, pressed on. The resilience of our people has always bordered on the mythological.

Our dreams were big. Universities were swelling in numbers. Banks were flourishing and opening branches everywhere including  your doorstep.

With oil prices rising, our economy boomed. The middle class grew fat with confidence, their fingers stained with new ink, stock certificates, property deeds, the keys to new banking halls and glittering telecom offices. It was the GSM era, the dawn of a connected Nigeria. MTN, Econet (which shapeshifted into Vmobile, Celtel, Zain, and eventually Airtel), Glo Mobile, Etisalat, and even Turaya burst onto the scene. Suddenly, phones rang across markets, inside molues, and even from the narrow balconies of face-me-I-face-you apartments. You weren’t cool if you didn’t own a Nokia 3310, or a Motorola flip, or a Sagem with a ringtone that played 2Baba’s “African Queen.”

Those who lived through the 2000s in Nigeria remember it not just through policy shifts or economic reforms, but through the soundtrack of their youth and the pulse of their weekend football matches. It was the era when Sisqó’s “Thong Song,” Westlife’s “My Love,” and the Backstreet Boys’ “I Want It That Way” ruled our radios and hearts. Nelly and Kelly Rowland’s “Dilemma” played endlessly, and Usher’s “Yeah!” turned every university dorm into a dance floor. Globally, music was a balm, but it was here at home that something magical began to happen – Nigerian music found its voice.

From the moment 2Face Idibia sang “African Queen,” a cultural shift began. Styl-Plus melted hearts with “Olufunmi,” Tony Tetuila gave us the anthemic “My Car,” and Eedris Abdulkareem’s “Jaga Jaga” with Mr Lecturer spoke uncomfortable truths to power. P-Square’s “Bizzy Body” and D’banj’s “Why Me” didn’t just top charts they became national moods. Kennis Music, Mo’Hits, Storm Records, and Trybe Records were more than labels,they were movements. These songs, played on Soundcity and Channel O, didn’t just entertain, they also helped us believe that Nigeria could compete on a global cultural stage.

Meanwhile, football stitched us together. Whether it was the agony of losing to Cameroon on penalties in the 2000 AFCON final or the anticipation of the 2002 World Cup, when Julius Aghahowa’s backflips became legend, the game united us like little else. In dusty fields, boys wore faded Arsenal, Manchester United, and Barcelona jerseys, arguing about Henry, Ronaldinho, Okocha, and Kanu. At viewing centres, cheers erupted when Mikel Obi dazzled in the 2005 U-20 World Cup or when Obafemi Martins scored one of his rocket goals. Every street corner had its pundit, every child had a dream.

And then there was the everyday life that now feels like folklore. Eating meat pies at Mr. Bigg’s, watching Super Story and Papa Ajasco on Thursday nights, texting on a Nokia 3310 with custom ringtones and flashing friends with “please call me.” The arrival of 2go and Yahoo Messenger marked our first taste of digital connection or the all night extra cool free calls. WAEC scratch cards, Gulder Ultimate Search, Ovation magazine on the salon table all of it was Nigeria, in full color and full feeling.

Nigerian urban music shed its old skin and found a new rhythm. Kennis Music became the launchpad for a generation of stars. Storm Records followed closely behind, and the rivalry between them kept fans breathless. Our voices, once considered peripheral on the global stage, were now booming through speakers in Johannesburg, London, and Atlanta. We were no longer imitating; we were exporting.

Nollywood, that scrappy film industry born out of raw passion and VHS tapes, matured into a cultural phenomenon. “Living in Bondage” may have laid the foundation in the ’90s, but by the 2000s, Nollywood had become a continent-wide obsession. Our stories laced with melodrama, moral conflict, and magic were being told, and more importantly, they were being heard.

Even our bread told a story. Once just 10 naira in the 1990s, by the early 2000s, it cost five times that. A quiet marker of change. Our cities expanded, and with them came glittering malls, gated estates, and a new swagger in the step of the Nigerian middle class. Magazines like Encomium and Ovation captured it all the weddings, the wealth, the whispers.

And behind the scenes, technocrats were trying to lay a better foundation. Charles Soludo, then Governor of the Central Bank, orchestrated banking consolidation that birthed financial titans. Education saw a renaissance too, as new private universities sprouted across the nation, promising a better future. CEOs like Tony Elumelu, Jim Ovia, Cecilia Ibru, and Aliko Dangote were more than captains of industry, they were symbols of what was possible.

But as with many Nigerian stories, hope is often followed by hardship.

The 2010s came with the weight of unfulfilled promises. The euphoria faded. Reality, brutal and unrelenting, replaced it.

Boko Haram rose from the ashes of neglect and festered into a monster. The 2014 abduction of the Chibok girls broke the nation’s heart and the world’s too. It wasn’t just a failure of security, it was a betrayal of trust. Parents sent their daughters to school with dreams, only to be met with nightmares. And no amount of hashtags could bandage that kind of wound.

Our oil-dependent economy took a hit when global prices crashed. The cracks we’d papered over began to split wide open. In 2015, the people voted for change. President Muhammadu Buhari’s victory was historic, a democratic handover from one ruling party to another. It came with renewed hope perhaps naïve but hope nonetheless.

But by 2016, we were in a recession. The dream of diversification became little more than campaign poetry. Power supply remained unreliable, despite privatization. The education sector suffered from unending strikes. The media, once robust, now struggled under censorship and shrinking advertising budgets. Social media democratized speech but also became a double-edged sword, enabling both truth and toxicity.

Some banks collapsed. The confidence that once graced the faces of everyday Nigerians began to slip. And yet, amidst this slow unraveling, a generation of young Nigerians found new ways to resist despair with tech, with comedy, with activism. The pulse of resilience beat on, stubbornly.

That’s what these decades have been, a clash of contradiction. Triumph and tragedy. Promise and peril. A dance between light and shadow.

Now, we stand at the threshold of the 2020s. And while the scars of the last two decades are deep, they need not define us. Much like the late ’90s prepared us for democratic rebirth, perhaps now is the time for a deeper reckoning. One that demands more than slogans or recycled manifestos. We need leaders who are not just managers of power but stewards of purpose. We need citizens who choose conscience over convenience.

Because the Giant of Africa is tired of sleeping. And maybe just maybe this is the decade it finally wakes.

Vanguard News