“And so it came to pass / Many seasons after the death of one Saviour / That a new crop of saviours, armed with party programmes / Came cascading down our rivers of hope…”
Funso Aiyejina’s words, written decades ago, remain eerily prophetic. Nigeria has never lacked self-proclaimed saviours, each promising redemption, only to unleash fresh waves of betrayal. Today, as we grapple with the fallout of successive failed administrations, Aiyejina’s lines echo like a dirge for our nation’s aspirations.
Now, former President Olusegun Obasanjo, once a messianic figure himself, has picked up the whip, lashing Muhammadu Buhari’s administration as “the worst civil administration regime so far in Nigerian history.” He, like a prophet of doom, also suggests the Tinubu Administration may outdo Buhari’s.
His new book, Nigeria: Past and Future, paints Buhari as the ultimate embodiment of hypocrisy. It is difficult to disagree with Obasanjo when indeed the man who said, “if we don’t kill Corruption, Corruption will kill Nigeria,” granted presidential pardon to convicted looters like former Governors Joshua Dariye and Jolly Nyame and watched as some of his Ministers perpetuated major scams such as the Nigerian Air project and Godwin Emefiele’s atrocities at the Central Bank of Nigeria.
But in Nigeria, the messenger is often as flawed as the message. Before Buhari, before Jonathan, before Yar’Adua, before Obasanjo himself, Nigeria’s leaders have followed the same script. They come promising hope, only to mortgage the nation’s soul for their thirty pieces of silver. They come “armed with party programmes,” as Aiyejina put it, and acclaimed redemptive decrees, but their true mission is the poisoning of our Atlantic reservoir.
In 1976, when Obasanjo himself was head of state, Nigeria’s oil sector reportedly lost
$2.8 billion without explanation. By the time Ibrahim Babangida took over, another $12.4 billion disappeared during the Gulf War. The looting continued massively under Abacha, whose Swiss accounts still vomit stolen funds decades after his death. Under the civilian era, several sectors such as power and oil continue to guzzle billions with little to show for it.
As I wrote this piece, my mind flashed to one of my favourite songs by Lagbaja, 200 Million Mumu. In that song, Lagbaja sings, in Yoruba, “Babangida, Abacha, Obasanjo, and you / The four of you are not different at all / You are the same.” The song affirms my earlier note: while Buhari’s government looted, so did the ones before him. The difference? Just the style of execution. The pipeline of corruption, contracts inflated, funds misappropriated, among others has remained unbroken. And if history is any guide, the next “saviour” waiting in the wings will not be different.
This brings us to the Tinubu administration. Where is Nigeria’s former Minister of Humanitarian Affairs, Betta Edu and the report of the probe on her? The administration’s refusal to reduce the cost of governance has also raised questions about whether it will prioritise the public good or the interests of a privileged few. Will Tinubu break the circle, or will he, like his predecessors, become another link in the chain of betrayal?
Yet, corruption in Nigeria is not just a disease of our leaders. It infects every arm of governance, every institution, every level of society. Civil servants siphon public funds, business moguls manipulate government contracts, and even religious leaders who were presumed to be moral anchors have become high priests of Mammon.
The cleric who demands million-naira “seeds” before offering prayers is no better than the politician diverting public funds. The customs officer who demands bribes at the ports is no less guilty than the governor who inflates road contracts. Even the average citizen, including myself, quick to condemn politicians, will gladly pay a bribe to bypass a queue or evade consequences for a traffic violation.
This is not a system in crisis, it is a system functioning exactly as designed. The tragedy of Nigeria is not just that corruption thrives, but that it thrives without consequence. The saviours of today become the villains of tomorrow, and the cycle continues.
But must it always be this way? Perhaps the first step toward breaking this unbroken circle is to acknowledge our collective complicity. Corruption is not just the sin of the powerful; it is the failure of all of us to demand better, to resist the temptation of quick gains, and to hold our leaders accountable. We must move beyond the cynicism of Lagbaja’s 200 Million Mumu and find a new song of collective responsibility and accountability.
As I end this piece, I return to Aiyejina’s poem, which captures this hopelessness:
“And so it came to pass / That our saviours gave us a gift of tragedy / For which we are too dumb-struck to find a melody.”
Indeed, corruption in Nigeria is a song we have sung for so long that we no longer hear its lyrics. The saviours are the betrayers. The betrayed will, in time, become the next betrayers. And so it will continue—until, perhaps, there is no Nigeria left to loot.
