Long before Zhang Bing became a household name, before the flashing cameras and scripted interviews, his understanding of Nigeria was already set in stone—not by experience, but by the stories he grew up hearing.
It started subtly. In whispered conversations at family dinners.
From his grandfather, who once traded with a man from Port Harcourt and lost everything to a forged contract.
From his aunt, who was nearly scammed by a company that didn't exist.
From a colleague who shared horror stories about traveling there—power outages in luxury hotels, aggressive customs officers, promises that fell apart overnight.
It didn't matter that some of these stories were exaggerated, or that similar things happened in other countries too. The damage was cumulative. Perception became belief.
But what none of them truly understood—what Zhang Bing never cared to investigate—was that Nigeria's history was complicated, not cursed.
Nigeria is located in the Western part of Africa. It was one of the most popular and largest countries in Africa. Popularly known as "The Giant of Africa" was also one of the infamous countries in Africa.
Not because they are cruel—they lack the knowledge of brother/sisterhood.
But behind every infamous act, came a scar, born from mistrust and slavery.
One, they even till date, still feels the lingering pain.
Once, the land now called Nigeria was home to great kingdoms—the Benin Empire, the Oyo Empire, the Kanem-Bornu, and the Sokoto Caliphate. These civilizations had governance, trade systems, schools, and flourishing cultures long before colonial boots touched the soil.
Then came the treaties. The British arrived—not as saviors, but as businessmen with flags. They signed deals with local leaders, sometimes under duress, sometimes through deceit, and claimed lands under the name of the Queen.
In 1914, they merged different tribes and kingdoms—over 250 ethnic groups—into one single entity and called it "Nigeria."
No unifying language. No common faith. Just a stitched-together map for administrative convenience.
They divided the people, favored some over others, planted mistrust. And when independence came in 1960, it was handed over like a ticking time bomb—with cracks too deep to seal.
A few years later, civil war broke out.
Over a million people died.
The oil boom came. So did corruption. Military coups. Bloodshed. Civil unrest.
It wasn't that Nigerians lacked brilliance—they had plenty. But they were trapped in a system built on colonial fractures, where even honest efforts were often swallowed by broken institutions.
And yet… they kept rising.
Nollywood became one of the world's largest film industries. Nigerian music shook global charts. Their writers won Nobel prizes. Entrepreneurs built tech companies out of cyber cafés.
Hope never quite died in Nigeria. It just changed its shape.
Some had given up on a better Nigerian. While, some still hoped. Truly hoped that they were different.
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But Zhang Bing wasn't taught that Nigeria.
He was taught a darker version. A filtered one. One laced with bitterness and caution.
He had never visited. Never spoken to a Nigerian without a camera present. Never heard their side.
To him, Nigeria was chaos in disguise. A PR risk. A loaded dice.
Not because he was cruel—but because he was afraid.
Afraid of betrayal. Of being scammed. Of being dragged through the mud of a country whose image had been tarnished too many times by loud headlines and viral scandals.
So when proposals came from even the most well-meaning Nigerian brands, his defenses shot up.
He didn't see innovation. He saw a trap.
He didn't see potential. He saw a gamble.
He didn't see the people.
He saw the shadows of history.
Maybe one day, that perception would change.
Maybe one day, Zhang Bing would meet a Nigerian who'd force him to see beyond the stereotypes.
But today?
He simply couldn't care anymore.