Rainfall, Blackouts, and the Never-Ending NEPA Excuse

Anytime the clouds gather in Nigeria and the first drops of rain hit the ground, you can already predict the next line of events. The breeze turns cold, the frogs begin their orchestra in the gutters, and almost immediately… darkness. Like clockwork, NEPA or PHCN or whatever name the Discos are hiding under this year, pull the plug. I sometimes joke with my friends that in Nigeria, rainfall does not just bring water, it brings darkness. Growing up, I was always that curious child who wanted answers. Each time I asked why light disappeared whenever it rained, the adults would laugh and tell me, “Nepa is drying the line because of the rain.” Drying the line? In my young mind, I imagined men with towels hanging on electric wires, squeezing them like laundry. It was absurd, but somehow that was the official excuse. Years later, as an adult, I realized the sad part wasn’t the joke but the fact that nothing has changed. The so-called *Giant of Africa* has not figured out how to keep light on when raindrops touch the soil. And this isn’t about one community or one state. It is national. Whether you are in Lagos, Kano, Port Harcourt, or my friend’s village in Ebonyi, the pattern is the same: rain falls, power goes. Now, this is not just about the inconvenience of missing a football match or having your Netflix abruptly cut off. The impact is much deeper. Productivity in Nigeria takes a nosedive every time power supply fails. Businesses cannot plan, factories cannot run efficiently, and countless start-ups that should be thriving are instead shutting down. Over the years, multinational companies that once saw Nigeria as a hub have quietly folded operations and relocated to places where electricity is not a gamble. Michelin once left, citing the hostile business environment. Dunlop also packed up. Textile companies in Kaduna, which used to employ thousands, became graveyards of machines, all partly because power was too unstable to sustain operations. What is even more painful is that power is the backbone of every modern economy. Ghana, our smaller neighbor, with far fewer resources, has managed to maintain a more stable grid than us. South Africa, despite its load-shedding drama, still manages to keep its industries alive. Meanwhile, in Nigeria, the excuse for darkness is still rain, thunder, or even a goat brushing against a transformer. Each year, government officials announce new megawatts of electricity “added to the grid,” and each year, citizens continue to buy more generators. Sometimes I feel generator dealers are the only ones who benefit from our national darkness. In fact, some say if you want to know Nigeria’s real anthem, it is not “Arise O Compatriots” but the rumbling sound of generators at night. It baffles me because rainfall should ordinarily mean a boost in hydroelectric power, not a blackout. Countries harness rain and water to power their homes, but in Nigeria, rain is treated like an enemy of electricity. This contradiction shows the depth of unseriousness in tackling the issue. When you think about it, the ripple effect is enormous. Students cannot study at night. Hospitals cannot function fully without backup generators. Start-ups in Lagos tech hubs spend more on diesel than on innovation. Even ordinary family life is disrupted; imagine cooking with an electric cooker and halfway through, the rain falls and power disappears. Darkness becomes an uninvited guest at the dinner table. Sometimes, when the rain pours heavily and the lights go out, I sit by the window and laugh at the irony. The same way I laughed as a child at the “drying line” excuse. But behind the laughter is anger and frustration. Because this has gone on for too long. For over sixty years, Nigeria has danced in circles with electricity, and the music has been nothing but noise. The sad reality is that Nigerians have normalized darkness. We celebrate when light stays for 12 straight hours. We give nicknames to electricity providers like “Never Expect Power Always.” And we mock ourselves with survival jokes, as if humor will solve the issue. But humor will not build industries. Humor will not bring back Michelin or Dunlop. Humor will not keep the tech innovators from moving to Kenya or Rwanda where they are assured of constant power. Rain should bring growth, not blackouts. It should be a blessing, not a trigger for NEPA to vanish into thin air. Yet here we are, still in 2025, still sitting in the dark whenever the heavens open. And every time it happens, I can’t help but wonder: how long before we finally grow tired of excuses and demand the real light?

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