Last week, Japan hosted the Tokyo International Conference on African Development (TICAD). It was a stage for countries to showcase their strengths. To tell their stories. To attract trade and partnerships. While much of the world, and particularly Nigerians at home, focused on headlines celebrating new investments secured by President Tinubu and his delegation, an image of the Nigerian booth in Tokyo virally circulated online, catching the attention of more discerning eyes. 

The photograph bore a haunting resemblance to “Interior, Strandgarde”, the celebrated painting by the Danish master Vilhelm Hammershoi. Both captured a striking stillness, a deliberate spatial emptiness that seemed to pause time itself. But the comparison deepened: in Hammershoi’s work, the solitary figure of the lady turning her back to the door evokes a muted loneliness, a meditation on isolation. 

In the Nigerian booth, the emptiness is filled differently by our active citizens living in Tokyo, stepping into the breach, and assuming the duties of consular staff in the absence of official delegates. The effect is surreal, almost uncanny. The booth, meant to embody national presence and pride, became instead a quiet theatre of improvisation and citizens’ ingenuity. Here, ordinary Nigerians transformed into de facto representatives, bridging the gap left by absent authorities. 

The image conveyed more than a lapse in protocol; it gestured, in part, toward the deeper truth about the unseriousness of our ruling elites’ civic responsibility and to the resilience of citizens often forced to save the face of their country. The truth remains: in that silence, in that staged stillness, the booth spoke as much about the absence of governance as it did about presence – the visual depiction of citizens’ will to act, to navigate their country’s failings and show what is possible, yet insistently.

Nigeria’s empty booth became the viral hashtag.

It was a telling absence. An emblem of neglect. A silence where there should have been song, story, and persuasion. In an age where soft power drives diplomacy, the Nigerian government forgot the basics: that the world must first be courted before it can be convinced. Soft power is influence without coercion. It is culture, values, ideas, and reputation. It is the image that travels ahead of a nation’s goods. When wielded well, it makes foreign publics open their doors. 

When ignored, it leaves a nation’s exports stranded. Nigeria’s failure at TICAD is not a small misstep. It is a pattern. A recurring blindness. A government that still believes trade is driven only by contracts, not by trust. By raw negotiation, not by imagination. Consider South Korea. It did not become a giant of electronics and automobiles by trade alone. It built cultural bridges first. K-pop bands, K-dramas, and Korean cuisine softened the ground. Samsung and Hyundai followed. The world bought into the story before it bought the products. Or Japan.

Long before Toyota and Sony conquered global markets, Japanese aesthetics travelled. Anime, Zen gardens, and tea ceremonies all offered glimpses of that country. Together, they created an aura of precision, elegance, and resilience. The brand “Made in Japan” became a promise. Saudi Arabia is offering another lesson. Once seen narrowly through oil, it is reinventing its global image. Through football, cinema, and tourism, it is projecting a new identity. The transfer of Cristiano Ronaldo from the Spanish La Liga, the Saudi Pro League, the big boxing fights, and the ambitious Vision 2030 projects are all tools of soft power. They attract attention, shift perceptions, and open space for economic diversification.

And Nigeria? It has the raw materials of soft power in abundance. Afrobeats has conquered dance halls and floors from Lagos to London. And New York in-between. Wizkid, Burna Boy, Davido, Rema, Tems, Tiwa, and Ayra Starr are global music ambassadors. Nollywood produces films streamed in every corner of the world. Writers like Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie and Wole Soyinka have become voices of conscience. Footballers like Kanu Nwankwo and Jay-Jay Okocha remain enduring legends. This is not trivial. It is capital. It is influence. It is the currency of attraction. Yet Nigeria has failed to convert this cultural wealth into economic diplomacy. It treats culture as entertainment, not as strategy. 

It forgets that a song can open markets, that a film can ease negotiations, that a story can sell a nation’s products before the products even arrive. The empty booth in Japan symbolises this forgetfulness. TICAD was not just an exhibition. It was a narrative space. Countries that filled their stalls with textiles, technology, and cultural displays were not simply trading. They were telling stories. 

They were positioning themselves in the minds of Japanese investors and consumers. Nigeria, by leaving its space barren, told a story too. A story of disorganisation. Of a country that does not take itself seriously. This is not new. Nigeria has missed similar opportunities before. Expos and trade fairs where smaller nations shone, Nigeria stumbled. Its delegations often arrived late, underprepared, or burdened with protocol rather than purpose. The world notices. Investors notice. And every misstep costs more than an arm.

Soft power works because it humanises nations. It creates familiarity. It lowers suspicion. It draws people in. When France promotes its wines, its museums, its cinema, it is not simply selling culture. It is making French products desirable. When the United States exports Hollywood and jazz, it is exporting an idea of America: freedom, dynamism, creativity. Trade follows the image. 

Nigeria could do the same. It could weave Afrobeats into its export strategy. It could pair Nollywood screenings with trade exhibitions. It could use football legends as goodwill ambassadors for Nigerian products. It could promote its cuisines, fashion, art, and commodities. But it does none of this in a systematic way. Instead, it defaults to the old model: extractive trade diplomacy. 

Selling crude oil. Negotiating loans. Attending summits without preparation. Expecting deals when it hasn’t built relationships. Expecting trust where it has not been cultivated. The world no longer works that way. Serious countries now compete for attention before they compete for contracts. In a crowded marketplace, the loudest are not always the strongest, but the most persuasive. Nigeria cannot afford silence.

The government of President Bola Tinubu should learn from others. Rwanda, with far fewer resources, has mastered soft power. Through the Kigali Film Festival, the Tour du Rwanda cycling event, and its reputation for cleanliness and efficiency, it has projected an image of a small but competent state. Investors respond to that image. Tourists do too. 

Kenya has leveraged its safaris and wildlife as soft power. Ethiopia has used its historic sites and airline as a brand. Even Ghana, with its “Year of Return”, turned cultural memory into economic diplomacy, attracting African-Americans and the diaspora to its shores. The Republic of Benin is doing the same. Just recently, renowned American singers, Lauryn Hill and Ciara, participated in citizenship ceremonies and formally reconnected with their West African roots. A simple movement of diasporic affirmation of provenance has now been turned into a soft power. Both Ghana and the Republic of Benin understand the simple truth: image precedes investment.

Nigeria should have led this pack. It has the scale. It has the culture. It has the people. But what it lacks is strategy. What it lacks is leadership that understands the language of attraction. An empty booth is not just an embarrassment. It is an abdication. It tells the world: we do not care enough to show up. And when you do not show up, others fill the space. Competitors step in. Attention shifts elsewhere. 

In international trade, perception matters as much as the product itself. Trust matters as much as tariffs. Nigeria must therefore invest in cultural diplomacy, in branding, and in building institutions that project reliability. It must see Afrobeats not only as music, but as diplomacy. It must see Nollywood not only as entertainment, but as a trade envoy. It must see footballers not only as athletes, but as bridges to markets. The irony is painful. Nigeria, a giant in population and talent, is a dwarf in self-presentation and self-projection. It has soft power but lacks a formal policy to utilise it. It has cultural wealth but no cultural diplomacy. It has global stars but lacks a strategy to utilise them as trade ambassadors.

The world is waiting. 

It is waiting to see Nigeria tell its story with coherence. To see its government act with seriousness. To see its booths filled, its exports displayed, its image sharpened. Until then, the empty booth in Japan will remain a symbol. A symbol of missed opportunity. A symbol of government failure. A symbol of a country that does not yet understand the power of its own voice. The world does not pause for the silence of a vacant booth or the stillness of an unremarkable display. It moves with curiosity, seeking signs of vitality, ingenuity, and ambition. Nations are measured not by the emptiness of their spaces, but by the energy and vision they project: the purposeful gestures, the inventive offerings, and the visible marks of endeavour that speak of a people intent on shaping their own narrative. Or what our youths now describe as “doings” and “workings”. 

In short, Nigeria must demonstrate its actions and workings. It is the vibrancy of ideas, the boldness of action, and the clarity of intent that capture attention. The world looks for evidence of a country’s ambitions, the deliberate steps it takes to innovate, create, and engage. These are the signals that resonate, announcing with quiet insistence: “Look at us, witness our works, recognise what we are doing and the life we are building”. In their absence, the silence of an empty booth speaks louder than any message, revealing a gap between aspiration and execution.

Soft power is not a luxury. It is a necessity. It is the hidden engine of trade. The sooner Nigeria learns this, the sooner it will turn culture into contracts and influence into investment. For now, the music plays abroad. The films stream worldwide. The football legends remain admired. But the government, deaf to Nigeria’s strengths, still left its booth empty.

The world will not wait forever.

Abdul Mahmud is a human rights attorney in Abuja