I grew up in Lagos in a home shaped by chalk, lesson notes, and the quiet dignity of public service. My father and mother were teachers—dedicated, disciplined, and deeply committed to shaping young minds. They rose through the ranks to become headmaster and headmistress at the primary school level, serving the Lagos State government faithfully until retirement.

Then retirement came.

And with it, reality.

*When Service Meets Silence*

In the early 1990s, what should have been a season of rest turned into a season of uncertainty. Pension payments were delayed. Gratuities were stuck in bureaucratic limbo. Months would pass without income. Hope became thin.

For families like ours, it wasn’t just about money. It was about dignity. It was about the quiet humiliation of having given your best years to the system, only to feel forgotten by it. The internal strain was real—tensions that could fracture even the strongest families. We held on, but it wasn’t easy.

Then came 1999. A return to democratic governance. Bola Ahmed Tinubu was sworn in as Governor of Lagos State. There was hope in the air—but also skepticism.

*Reform Feels Different When You’re the One in Pain*

The new administration launched a series of reforms, including civil service restructuring that affected both serving and retired staff—primary school teachers included.

But reforms, from the inside, don’t always look like progress.

For my parents, especially my mother who struggled with leg and joint rheumatism, the early years of these reforms were exhausting. There were multiple verification exercises. Long queues. Repeated documentation. Physical stress. Emotional fatigue.

At the time, I didn’t understand what was happening beneath the surface. I didn’t know Lagos was building databases, attempting to sanitize payroll systems, trying to eliminate ghost workers, and laying foundations for automation.

All I saw was my aging mother in discomfort.

And so, the younger version of me grew resentful. I blamed the government. I hissed at television adverts promoting reforms. I saw those in leadership as part of the problem. Reform felt like punishment.

The system was not perfected during those early years. It took time—close to six years in that administration. And when you’re young and watching your parents struggle, six years feels like forever.

*When the Tide Slowly Turns*

But change, when it is structural, rarely announces itself loudly.

Toward the later part of that administration and into the tenure of Governor Fashola, we began to notice gradual improvement. What once took ten months—like receiving January pension in November—reduced to five or six months. It wasn’t perfect, but it was movement.

By the time both my parents returned to their Lord—may Allah expand their graves and count them among the righteous, ameen—the system was visibly more stable than when they first retired.

Still, that painful season remained etched in me.

*A Full Circle Moment*

Years later, my older brother—also a teacher with Lagos State who rose to become a school principal—retired.

When he told me, something tightened in my chest. I said

“Brother mi… are you going to go through what Dad and Mom went through?”

The memories rushed back instantly.

But his response stunned me.

“Aburo, things have changed now. The reforms that started during our parents’ time have been perfected. When you retire now, your gratuity takes only a few months to process. Monthly pensions are paid as at when due. The system is automated. It’s smoother now.”

I paused.

For years after my parents passed, I never revisited that chapter emotionally. Yet here was living proof that something fundamental had shifted.

And it struck me deeply:

Reforms can be painful at the beginning. But when sustained with sincerity and institutional discipline, they can outlive the discomfort that birthed them.

*The Younger Me vs. The Older Me*

The younger version of me wanted immediate relief. Quick fixes. Instant justice for my parents. And honestly, that reaction was human. When you see those you love suffer, patience feels like betrayal.

But the older version of me understands something different.

Systemic rot cannot be cured overnight. Cleaning up decades of inefficiency, corruption, and poor record-keeping requires disruption. Verification exercises. Databases. Automation. Resistance. Trial and error.

And sometimes, those who endure the early pain of reform do not fully enjoy its final benefits.

That realization is both sobering and humbling.

*A Human Reflection*

This is not blind praise. No system is flawless. No administration is beyond critique. But lived experience has taught me something valuable:

It is easy to judge reforms from the surface.
It is harder to appreciate their long-term architecture.

Public policy is not only about headlines—it is about systems that quietly evolve over time.

My parents endured the turbulence.
My brother benefited from the stability.
And I, standing between both generations, see the arc more clearly now.

Reforms are not always gentle. But when sustained, they can transform the lived reality of ordinary people—teachers, retirees, families who simply want dignity after service.

Sometimes, growth is invisible until a full generation passes.

And sometimes, understanding only comes when we allow time to complete its work.

May God continue to strengthen our Leaders (Ameen). May Nigeria succeed (Ameen).

Jubril