When The Mountains Burn: Nepal’s Uprising & The Warnings Nigeria Refuses To Hear
THE streets of Kathmandu did not erupt by accident. They exploded under the weight of betrayal. For days, young Nepalis poured into the streets, their anger ignited by corruption, inequality, and the arrogance of rulers who had mistaken silence for obedience. They carried no grand ideology; they carried the scars of hunger, the bitterness of unemployment, and the wounds of promises broken too many times. Their rage was not theoretical. It was visceral. It was lived. And when rage is lived, it does not whisper—it roars.
For a week, bullets and batons could not push them back. They set ablaze the symbols of their torment: the parliament building, once a house of laws, became an inferno of defiance. The home of a former Prime Minister crumbled under their fury, leaving tragedy in its wake. His wife, an unintended victim, did not survive the flames. Yet even that loss only underscored the truth rulers everywhere must learn: when rage explodes, it does not choose between the guilty and the innocent. Revolutions consume everything in their path.
This is not just Nepal’s story. It is the world’s story. From the Bastille in Paris to Tahrir Square in Cairo, from Dhaka’s restless streets to Santiago’s protests, history has delivered the same lesson: when leaders betray the social contract, citizens reclaim it by force. Kings, presidents, and generals often believe power is permanent. They convince themselves that repression buys time. They believe bribes purchase loyalty. But they forget that consent—once withdrawn—cannot be bought back with bullets or lies. They forget that silence is not consent. It is often the pause before the storm.
Nepal today is a mirror. It shows us what happens when corruption metastasizes into a way of life, when elites gorge on wealth while citizens starve, when rulers treat public office as private property. The Nepali youths who filled the streets did not rise for abstract ideals. They rose because their fathers died of curable illnesses while ministers flew abroad for checkups. They rose because their mothers begged for rice while parliamentarians drove luxury cars. They rose because their sisters walked miles for water while officials pocketed pipeline contracts. These are not abstract grievances. They are daily humiliations. And humiliation breeds revolt.
Every dictator knows the contract between the ruler and the ruled: leaders must serve, citizens must obey laws in return. But when leaders loot, the contract collapses. When leaders kill, the contract ends. When leaders mock the poor, the contract burns. And when the contract burns, no constitution, no police, no army can hold society together. The palace walls are only as strong as the people who consent to them. When that consent disappears, even marble turns to dust.
Bangladesh offered the world this same warning only last year. Student protests began with a single demand: abolish quotas in civil service jobs. The government cracked down. Instead of fear, the crackdown bred boldness. The protests spread, the anger deepened, and the Prime Minister fled into exile. That was another parable rulers could have learned from. Did Kathmandu’s leaders listen? Clearly not.
Now, others must. For Nigeria, the warning could not be louder. Youth unemployment swells like a ticking time bomb. Inequality sharpens resentment. Climate despair compounds frustration. Hunger makes waiting impossible. Every unjust dismissal of Nigerian youths as “lazy” or “restless” only adds fuel to the fire. Every headline about stolen billions while families go hungry tightens the rope. Every delay in justice, every mockery of accountability, every broken promise pushes the rope closer to breaking.
And Nigerians know this story well. The EndSARS protests of 2020 were not simply about police brutality. They were about humiliation. About rulers who mocked their pain, about institutions that dismissed their demands. The streets filled with energy, with defiance, with the power of young people refusing to be silenced. And like in Nepal, the rulers chose bullets over listening. The scars of Lekki remain, and with them, the memory. Memory, after all, is the most dangerous weapon of the oppressed. It whispers, it reminds, it keeps injustice alive until the day it is avenged.
Nepal’s burning parliament is more than an image of destruction. It is a symbol of the shift in legitimacy. It declares that when rulers fail, the streets become the true parliament. It reminds us that power is not about buildings or thrones, but about the trust of the governed. Once that trust dies, the most magnificent halls are nothing but ashes.
The lesson is urgent: rulers must listen before the flames come. They must reform before the fire spreads. They must understand that youth are not only the custodians of tomorrow, they are the judges of today. To dismiss their anger is to play with fire. To mock their hunger is to light the match.
Nepal is not a faraway tragedy. It is a nearby warning. The Everest of corruption will always collapse under the avalanche of youth. And that avalanche, once it begins, cannot be stopped. The rulers of Nigeria—and of Africa—should look in the mirror and ask: are we feeding hope, or starving it? Are we building consent, or burning it? Are we remembering history, or mocking it? Because history is merciless. Those who mock it always pay. Sometimes with crowns. Sometimes with lives. Always with regret.
The question is not if Nigerian youths will rise. The question is when. And when they do, as Nepal reminds us, no army will be enough, no palace secure, no throne unshakable. Hunger and memory are stronger than bullets.
The young have spoken. The rulers must learn. The time to listen is now—before the streets of Lagos burn as Kathmandu’s did.
