It is not merely what an Igbo man does that defines him, but what he is in the doing. His life, his atmosphere, his presence carries a weight beyond activity. For the Igbo, history itself has become a shadow stitched to the skin: the pogroms of 1966, the massacre at Kano Airport, the searing memory of a civil war that drained more than three million lives. That blood fertilized the land, yet the land remains impoverished.

Nigeria’s middle class labors daily under hunger and hardship, while wealth trickles upward into the hands of a few. This is not unique to Nigeria—Africa at large blooms with the sweat of the masses, while elites harvest in luxury—but for the Igbo, history sharpens the edge of this inequality. Their tragedy, their survival, and their restless striving have become inseparable.

To be Igbo is not only to speak the language or to live along the banks of the Niger. It is to carry within the blood a calling: to confront hardship as if destiny itself demanded it. One sees it in the igba boi apprenticeship system, a grassroots economy of mentorship and uplift where a trader or artisan trains a younger one until he, too, can stand independent. It is a philosophy of resilience disguised as commerce. It is generosity as economic structure.

The British, In their first encounters, noted the optimism and ingenuity of the Igbo. They were quick to recognize ambition, quick to create, quick to rebuild. The Hausa-Fulani came down from the desert; the Yoruba had long built their kingdoms; but the Igbo seemed perpetually restless—an energy that could not sit still, that refused stillness even in the face of devastation.

Some call this arrogance, self-obsession, or greed. Yet beneath these labels lies an ingenuity that has reshaped Nigeria’s economy. From real estate to markets, from transport to entertainment, the hand of the Igbo is evident. Even when governments demolished their homes in Lagos or elsewhere, they built again, stubborn as stone against the tide.

The Igbo spirit is a paradox: accused of loving money, yet always willing to give—sometimes fivefold, sometimes beyond reason—at weddings, festivals, or funerals. They dictate pace in business, yet play “second fiddle” in politics. Leonard Bernstein once said that second fiddle is the hardest instrument to play; few wish to supply harmony without recognition. Yet this has been the Igbo role in Nigeria: denied the presidency, cast as second-class citizens, they have nonetheless kept the nation’s economy humming, supplying the harmony while waiting for a chance to conduct.

The diaspora echoes this rhythm. In Houston, Igbo songs lift worship; in Dublin, their voices fill cathedrals; in Cape Town, they gather as if Nigeria were next door. In Kano, Lagos, London, New York, the Igbo presence is undeniable. Wherever they go, they build—houses, markets, churches, communities, legacies.

They are often derided as opportunists, as founders of corruption in civil service and military. Yet these accusations ring hollow against their record of survival. After the war, Nigeria rebuilt its fortune on Igbo labor and ingenuity. When recession strikes, it is often the Igbo trader, the Igbo entrepreneur, who absorbs the shock, recalibrates, and steadies the market.

To love the Igbo is not to romanticize them. Like every people, they are flawed: restless, ambitious, sometimes reckless. But their flaws are born of excess vitality, not decay. They have never accepted impossibility as definition. They have worn the mark of resilience where others might have succumbed to despair.

And perhaps this is what separates the Igbo from others in Nigeria. Not superiority of race, nor perfection of virtue, but the refusal to be broken by history. They have been forced into the role of “second fiddle,” yet in playing it, they have sustained the harmony of the nation.

Today, Nigeria trembles under the weight of its leadership failures. Hunger grows, potholes deepen, hope feels scarce. But if there is to be a restoration, a tide that carries the country out of misery, the Igbo spirit will be central to that rebirth. For they have shown, again and again, that to fall is not the end of a story.

The name Igbo is like a fortified tower—flawed, resilient, ambitious, enduring. To study them is not to elevate them above all others, but to recognize that in their persistence lies a truth: a people denied power can still dictate survival. And perhaps, one day soon, the second fiddle may yet become the conductor.

•Obiotika Wilfred Toochukwu writes from Living Grace Restoration Assembly Nkono Ekwulobia, Anambra State.