Shortly after the flight took off from Heathrow Airport, the BBC World Service broadcast its news hour. There, on the screen on the plane to Nigeria, was coverage of the oil pipe that burst in one of the villages in the country’s oil-producing region.

The pipes were on open ground and some criss-crossed people’s backyards like angry veins. Entire households had burnt down. There was a ramshackle hospital where people lay on threadbare beds, groaning with pain.

It was clear many of these people were not going to survive their injuries and for those who did, the scars would be etched deep in their psyches and bodies.

The makeshift hospital, torn sheets and the cries of the injured spoke more eloquently than anyone could ever do about the deprivation of the area that produces the wealth of Nigeria – its “liquid black gold”. Even in their last hours, at death, the people in this community had no privacy. Their pleas, their most vulnerable and intimate moments, were captured on camera and beamed across the world.

For a few moments after the BBC broadcast, there was utter silence on the flight. When people had finished their prayers or whatever was happening in their interior beings, there was a sudden cacophony of noise. Nigerians were commenting and analysing what they had just seen. There seemed to be as many different views as there were people who wanted to speak and who did so loudly.

Seven hours later, the aircraft circled over Lagos and finally landed. The Harmattan had delayed its descent. On that night of landing in Nigeria, the country was moving rapidly to a new phase following the demise of General Sani Abacha.

Shortly afterwards, the apparently relatively unknown army Chief of Staff, General Abdusalami Abubakar, assumed power. He immediately set on a mission to convince the international community as well as influential Nigerians in exile that the time of military rule was over. He wanted to hand over to a democratically elected government as soon as possible. Abubakar, known as the “soldiers’ soldier” because he rose from the ranks within the military, may have been unknown to outsiders and even among Nigerians, but he was entrenched within the military.

Taking the helm Abubakar assured the military he was a man who could steer the ship to steady shores without ruffling too many feathers. But, the electoral mandate of 1993, which many believed was won by Chief Moshood Abiola, presented problems for the new plan.

Abiola, who was still in jail, made it clear he did not intend to surrender what he and his supporters considered a democratic mandate.

A month after the death of Abacha, Abiola too suffered a heart attack. Urban legends abounded about what happened. However, that was what the official autopsy report said.

Following his release from prison, General Olusegun Obasanjo began touring the world and inviting the international community to assist in the rebuilding of Nigeria’s democracy. With this change and the rapid developments in Nigeria, the International Institute for Democracy and Electoral Assistance (I-IDEA) determined it was time to go in and assist with the reconstruction and democratisation effort.

So it was that in October 1998 I went to Nigeria for the first time. I was working for the I-IDEA.

After months of meetings with the Nigerian pro-democracy activists in London and Stockholm, looking at how best I-IDEA could be of meaningful assistance in Nigeria, now things moved quickly.

The Conference of Ethnic Nationalities provided an entry point where I would meet some of the people involved in the debates on the electoral processes, policy and constitutional issues. I also planned to use this visit to make connections with other relevant peoples, including those who were not part of the network of organisations and entities who organised this conference or held different views.

Conference organisers came from different parts of the country. They and many civil society organisations had serious reservations about the transition process. Almost every Nigerian I met welcomed and, in fact, was elated by the idea of finally seeing the military exit power after 16 years. But many were also anxious about the lack of debate and agreement on what they considered “fundamental issues in the nationhood of Nigeria”.

Some of these issues were part of what has always haunted the Nigerian geo-political space and nation- state. Different and disparate groups wanted a substantial discussion on the constitution. They were alive to the problems of a transition with no end which they experienced during the time of General Babangida. But they wanted a constitution that laid the basis for the nation-state and citizenship.

Such a constitution, they argued, had to address the thorny issues of resource allocation; the status of oil-producing communities, under-development, protection of rights of worship. They emphasised the importance of the supremacy of the constitution in a secular state and the reform of the electoral system.

On the other hand, Abubakar wanted to hand over to a civilian government as soon as possible. Western governments and other African states seemed to support his rapid handover. However, the unfolding events provided a compelling case for an approach to the transition based on a solid base of negotiated terms and a clear constitutional process. That was not to be.

In February 1999, Obasanjo won the elections. Even with the rumblings about vote rigging, it was clear he was the man of the hour. At that time, Nigeria did not even have a constitution. Considering the melange of possible things that could go wrong, no one paid attention to the calls by civil society organisations, constitutional activists, community leaders and many others for a clear constitutional process.

The international community, it seemed, was only too pleased to have this phase over and done with.

So it was that in May 1999, Obasanjo was sworn in as the country’s first civilian president in 16 years. Abubakar was in the military parade 20 years earlier (in 1979) as a lieutenant-colonel when Obasanjo handed over power to an elected civilian president, Shagari.

Now, Abubakar was going to be the second military head of state to hand over power to a civilian president – to Obasanjo for his “second coming” in the Nigerian parlance. This was stuff of legends.

Obasanjo began his term with an economy that was in shambles.

Constitutional contestations ensued for the most part of his first year. At times it was not clear where his powers ended and those of the senate started and which version of the constitution was in use.

Often issues of national importance became a casualty in the horse-trading and muscle-flexing between men in power. Historical and new resentments emerged.

Most of these issues had very little to do with the population.

The contestations were mainly “body language” (posturing in the Nigerian parlance), but they also became handy as the “big men” fought for influence and control. Rocky as the process seemed to be in the beginning, Nigeria pulled out that amazing trick it seemed to always have – it yanked itself from the brink of disaster.

Obasanjo, one of the strongest opponents of a constitutional review process, had the unenviable position of confronting the same problem he had 20 years ago. Amid political disagreements, one governor – who came from the same political party as Obasanjo, the People’s Democratic Party (PDP) – upped the ante and announced he would declare Sharia (law) in his state.

Many of the northern politicians had the backing of Muslim clerics and the military. Many complained that the north was marginalised in the new dispensation.

That the political party from which Obasanjo came was in fact a federal one with most of the power brokers, king-makers and money coming from the north, was a detail politicians saw as a minor inconvenience. When the governor made true of his threat and declared Sharia, Obasanjo, despite earlier statements that this would not be allowed, did not challenge the decision on constitutional grounds. Neither did both houses of parliament do anything.

Soon other states followed.

Travelling in northern Nigeria to a meeting in Zaria we found ourselves surrounded by Muslim militants who were being bussed to Kano, where Sharia was also being declared.

I do not recall ever being in such a terrifying situation. I was afraid not for myself – working in Nigeria came with its own operational hazards and privileges. I was afraid for the young men who chanted in solemn voices “Allahu Akbar” and wondered whether they would ever have the courage or an opportunity to break out of the situation they were trapped in.

In the scorching dry northern Nigeria, in a little town, already neighbours had started seeing each others as strangers and enemies.

Sharia was enforced and non-Muslims had to oblige or flee. Sooner rather than later, many left because of the attacks.

The attacks and counter-attacks between people of Muslim and Christian faiths spread to other regions and threatened to crack the veneer of a common nation.

Christians fled from the north, even in cities like Kano, which although it is the capital of the predominantly Muslim north, has historically always maintained an inclusive belonging and cosmopolitan bearing, except in times of religious conflict. The conflict spread to Kaduna and other towns in the Middle Belt, in particular Jos.

This was a democratic and post- military Nigeria that reminded one of the progroms of the 1970s, which saw thousands of Igbo traders flushed out of the north of the country. Others retaliated with as much force as they could muster. So, the Christians flushed out the Muslims and vice versa, the very same people who had always lived side by side.

Obasanjo seemed impotent to deal with this problem, which left hundreds dead in places of worship and homes abandoned. Besides preaching unity laced with a huge dose of denialism, he was clearly hamstrung. The unfinished business many said had to be addressed to lay the basis of the post-military Nigeria was no longer an issue of lofty deliberations. It was there, a haunting spectre. But who would lead such an undertaking?

Traversing the length and breadth of Nigeria with Nigerian academics, researchers, activists and some religious leaders, it was clear to me that most ordinary Nigerians shared common problems, irrespective of their location and religion.

As the sun rose one morning, we made our way out of Port Harcourt, the capital of the oil-producing region in Nigeria. Traffic crawled in the “go-slow” (traffic jam) out of the city. We were on our way to Ogoni land and other areas. On the roadside were truck drivers, hot, hungry and lethargic, resting in the hammocks under their trucks.

This was the only place they could get shade. The area is fertile – pawpaws, pineapples, mangoes and other fruit hung low in the trees. People only had to lift their hands to pick them. And yet to touch them was out of the question. They were dark with soot from oil pollution.

The smell of crude oil was pervasive. The trucks coughed the dark smoke of diesel. We made it through the grinding “go slow” and reached Ogoni land and other communities. What we saw mirrored what we found in other parts of the country – abject poverty and neglect.

The difference here, of course, was that the locals could not even use the water streams; there was flotsam and oil in them.

As Chief Wiwa, Ken Saro-Wiwa’s father, pointed out, “That unfinished school there, that primary health care clinic without a roof, is what we have to show for the destruction of our land. The oil comes from here and it is spewed far away from us. The proceeds do not benefit us. And the world tells us differently.”

After two terms in office, Obasanjo, who was hailed by the international community as the one who would lead Nigeria to greener pastures, dismally failed his people.

The conflict has deepened and taken a sinister turn now. Boko Haram, an organisation which identifies itself as an al-Qaeda offshoot, openly unleashes acts of terror in the name of Islam.

When those who act on behalf of Christians retaliate, they, too, show no restraint or mercy.

In the Niger Delta, communities have also resorted to violence. Often the international media reports abductions of foreign nationals and employees of oil companies and hijackings of boats. Of the internal strife and conflict within these communities, very little is said.

The fuel strike which has finally brought Nigeria back to the attention of the international community could provide a strategic opportunity for the country’s leaders.

Nigeria is a powerful country in Africa and produces more than two million barrels of crude oil a day.

But citizens are deeply alienated from their country and its wealth.

Multilateral organisations often speak of “early warning signs” to prevent conflict. But they ignore these even when they are obvious as in Nigeria, where they are deeply embedded in the very DNA of a deeply unequal society.

We all hope Nigeria will rise again and pull back from the edge where it is teetering. But what is the cost?

Long after the current fuel strike has been resolved, the dark clouds that have haunted Nigeria for more than five decades will continue to hover. Their impact is corrosive and destructive to the very fibre of Nigerian-ness.

Here is the tragedy. As far back as 2000, when we undertook a consultations process in that country, Nigerians identified not only the problems, but also the solutions. In Democracy in Nigeria: Continuing Dialogues for Nation-Building, Nigerians from different parts of the country, political outlooks and belief systems, spoke with consistency and clarity on what had to be done.

Now, will President Goodluck Jonathan step up to the plate? Well, he’d better try. After all, even he has acknowledged that the unfolding crisis in Nigeria can push the country to a civil war. No one wants a visit from that monster again.

n Nomboniso Gasa is a researcher and analyst on gender, politics and cultural issues. She is editor of Women in South African History and Democracy in Nigeria: Continuing Dialogues for Nation-Building. She worked in Nigeria in 1998-2002.