By Bagudu Mohammed
In December 2024, Kemi Badenoch, the UK’s Conservative Party star and a woman of Nigerian heritage, stirred a storm not merely by criticizing Nigerian leadership for corruption, but by the tone, timing, and tactlessness of her delivery. It wasn’t her message that shocked the public it was the condescension dripping from every word, the calculated detachment, and her choice to strike not with intellect, but with venom. That’s where the line between the thoughtful and the thoughtless is drawn.
Her now-infamous exchange with Nigeria’s Vice President, Kashim Shettima, exposed far more than a political disagreement. It laid bare a woman cloaked in disdain, perhaps for the country that gave her a name she now disowns. When Shettima, perhaps clumsily, suggested she drop the name “Kemi” if she held such contempt for her roots, it wasn’t an insult it was a plea. A culturally rooted appeal to identity and emotion. In African societies, reminding someone of shared heritage is often a way of calling for grace, not war.
Yet Badenoch’s reply was a cascade of rage. She lashed out not just at Shettima but at Nigeria’s north, invoking Boko Haram and every known stereotype with an almost gleeful cruelty. Her words weren’t just disrespectful; they reeked of elitist detachment, spite disguised as truth, and a superiority complex that many ignored simply because they shared her frustration with the current Nigerian leadership. But in truth, her barbs weren’t righteous—they were reckless.
Emotional intelligence would have revealed Shettima’s comment for what it was: a conciliatory attempt to bridge a divide, not a declaration of war. He was wrong about the name “Kemi” being exclusively Yoruba or Nigerian, it isn’t—but his intent was to connect, not to offend. Yet in a world charged by ethnic sentiment and political polarization, intent is often swallowed by outrage.
Many rallied behind her then, praising her as bold and brutally honest. They defended her mention of Boko Haram and the north as part of “truth to power.” But truth without empathy is brutality. And brutality dressed in eloquence is still dangerous. If white nations were to be judged solely by racism, would Badenoch applaud a sweeping condemnation of the West? Or would she, like many, call for nuance?
Ironically, what goes around does come around. Badenoch’s latest revelation? She no longer identifies as Nigerian. Among her reasons, she claims that her time at Federal Government Girls College (FGGC) Sagamu was so traumatic, it felt like prison. And just like that, her disdain grew fangs. She disowned not just the nation, but a school many consider prestigious. Her former classmates were livid some called her a liar, others accused her of betrayal. After all, FGGC Sagamu was once ranked just below King’s College Lagos. But they missed something: to a person who has grown obsessed with reinvention, even privilege can feel like chains.
What becomes clear is that Kemi Badenoch may be battling a war within a rejection of her past in a desperate attempt to fit into her present. This isn’t emotional strength; it’s ego and insecurity masquerading as reinvention. True greatness embraces the scars of the past, not erases them. People across the world rise from adversity without denouncing their roots.
Consider 17-year-old Nafisa Abdullah Aminu from Yobe State a region scarred by the very insurgency Badenoch weaponized in her rhetoric. In 2025, this brilliant young girl outshone 69 countries to win the global English language championship in London. Yes, a Nigerian. From the north. From the rubble that Badenoch painted as hopeless. And she didn’t have to change her name or disown her identity to stand tall.
Kemi Badenoch reminds me of Ezeulu, the tragic protagonist in Chinua Achebe’s Arrow of God. Ezeulu, the proud chief priest of Ulu, believed he could rise above the very people and traditions that shaped him. In his defiance, he delayed a critical festival, believing he was wiser than the clan. In the end, he fell alone, misunderstood, and defeated. His tale was not just one of pride, but of disconnect from one’s roots.
Ezeulu’s fall reminds us that no one rises so high as to be above their people. Tradition and identity are not garments we discard at will; they are threads woven into our essence. Badenoch, like Ezeulu, seems to have mistaken foreign applause for elevation above her origin.
So, is she a hero or a villain in denial?
If she considers herself a hero, why erase the contributions of the very school and country that formed her foundation? Prof. Innocent Ujah of the Nigerian Medical Association once said that Nigerian doctors and academics excel globally because of the hardship they’ve endured and the resilience it breeds. Kemi is a product of that same system, no matter how flawed it may be.
If she sees herself as a villain, blaming Nigeria for every shortcoming, then perhaps she should also recognize that the same Nigeria, the same FGGC Sagamu, is producing global giants proud, unrepentant, unbroken.
But my suspicion remains: she sees herself as greater than her clan, her country, her people. Like Ezeulu, she may one day learn perhaps too late that the greatness we seek beyond our heritage often crumbles without the solid ground of where we came from.
Modernity should never make us forget who we are. Sophistication is not shame. Identity is not a costume. And pride especially the kind that denies its roots always comes before a fall.
