For decades, Nigeria’s economic orthodoxy has rested on a familiar promise: embrace tough reforms today, and prosperity will arrive tomorrow.
“Short-term pain for long-term gain,” goes the mantra. But as millions of Nigerians sink deeper into poverty, one must ask: what if the pain is all too real, and the gain too elusive?
In 2023, President Bola Tinubu’s administration launched a bold set of economic reforms lauded by international financial institutions and local technocrats.
The two flagships: removal of the fuel subsidy and the floating of the naira. Technically, these reforms were sound.
Economists had long argued that subsidies distorted the economy, and an artificially pegged naira drained foreign reserves while encouraging arbitrage.
The reforms were supposed to correct decades of fiscal imbalance and lay the groundwork for sustainable growth.
But just two years later, the reality on the ground tells a grimmer story. As of early 2025, Nigeria’s poverty count has surged to 129 million people—nearly half the population. That’s up from 104 million just two years prior. This is no minor fluctuation: it is an indictment of reform without a safety net.
Inflation, officially recorded at 33%, has eroded purchasing power. The naira has lost nearly 70% of its value.
Bread, fuel, transport, even water—everything costs more, while wages have stagnated.
Over 300 factories have shuttered their doors in just one year, unable to cope with higher input costs and erratic energy supply. In the informal sector, which employs over 80% of Nigerians, traders and artisans now operate in survival mode.
Perhaps the most damning statistic: GDP per capita has collapsed to $824—less than half of what it was at independence in 1960 ($1,847).
A Nigerian alive today is, in real economic terms, poorer than their grandparents were at independence. This is not the profile of a nation “on the path to prosperity.” It is a textbook case of policy without protection.
To be clear, the diagnosis behind the reforms is not in doubt. The fuel subsidy—costing as much as ₦4 trillion annually—was unsustainable, benefiting mostly middlemen, smugglers, and the upper middle class.
A fixed exchange rate regime enriched arbitrageurs and discouraged exports beyond crude oil. But the treatment has proven more lethal than the disease.
Economies are not spreadsheets. They are human systems. You cannot prescribe economic surgery without anesthesia and expect the patient to emerge smiling. And yet, this is precisely what Nigeria’s leaders have done—administered market medicine while ignoring the pain threshold of the majority.
Worse still, “hope” has become the policy. Ministers urge citizens to be patient. Technocrats argue that the free market will correct itself.
But the market is not a god, and hope is not a fiscal stimulus. The reality is that without cushioning reforms—real jobs, targeted subsidies, investment in infrastructure, and protection for the vulnerable—Nigeria risks breaking before it bends.
Cash transfer programs to the poorest, rolled out by the government, have been modest and poorly implemented. Much-needed reforms in agriculture, manufacturing, and energy have been slow or non-existent.
Youth unemployment hovers around 40%, while graduates queue for menial jobs or emigrate in droves.
Nigeria’s economic paradox is cruel: it exports oil but imports poverty. The country earns billions in crude sales, yet it imports nearly all refined petroleum products. Its fertile land lies fallow while it spends billions on food imports.
These contradictions have become entrenched because reforms have consistently stopped at the headline level, without structural follow-through.
There is a path forward—but it requires political will and institutional focus. First, reform must be people-centred.
Structural adjustments must be paired with structural protections. This means investing heavily in agro-industrial hubs, providing uninterrupted power to SMEs, and building local manufacturing capacity. It means not just removing subsidies, but redirecting them—to education, to rural healthcare, to industrial power.
Second, reform must be sequenced. The current administration front-loaded the most painful components (currency float, fuel subsidy removal) without first stabilizing the economy or expanding production capacity. A phased approach—with upfront investment in power and transport infrastructure—would have softened the blow.
Third, transparency must underpin everything. Nigerians are willing to endure hardship—but only if they believe the sacrifice is shared and the end is in sight.
Right now, many see bloated government motorcades and jumbo salaries while they struggle to eat. That is not reform. That is an insult.
Lastly, leaders must communicate with clarity and empathy. Economic pain is not just numbers—it is skipped meals, school fees unpaid, lives lost to preventable illness. Citizens deserve more than slogans; they deserve a plan, a timeline, and tangible improvements.
The IMF and World Bank may continue to applaud Nigeria’s “bold reforms,” but unless those reforms translate into jobs, food, and dignity, they will fail. Pain is only bearable when it is purposeful. Austerity, on its own, is not a strategy. It is abdication.
Nigeria’s story is not doomed. The country has a dynamic youth population, abundant resources, and strategic geographic positioning. But these advantages mean nothing if the economic model continues to punish the poor while rewarding the connected.
The bottom line? Pain today can lead to gain tomorrow—but only if the poor survive till tomorrow.
