Corruption in Nigeria is not just a headline or a political talking point — it is the invisible air that millions breathe, shaping the very fabric of daily life. My own family’s history is a testament to this reality.
In the 1950s, my mother borrowed an entire year’s salary from moneylenders just to pay a bribe for a teaching job at a religiously run school. It took her almost two years to repay that debt. My father, hospitalised for over six months in a government hospital in the early sixties, survived only by bribing critical medical staff. Without these payments, he might not have lived to see me born.
As a child, I watched as civil servants — principals, bursars, cooks — stole from school funds with impunity. Even students, sent out for charity fundraising, would return with only a fraction of what was collected. Pension payments for deceased parents continued for decades, false tax claims and fake age declarations were routine, and no one obtained a driver’s licence or passport without bribing an agent. Dishonesty was not the exception; it was the norm.
This is the paradox: without corruption, many Nigerians would be ruined. It has become so normalised that to live outside its web is to risk social and economic isolation. Yet, when we focus only on failed leadership, we miss the deeper truth — corruption is a citizenship problem. But as long as we cast blame upwards, we all get consumed in what has become a way of life.
The roots of this malaise run deep, embedded in a double-faced societal morality. As Peter Ekeh’s “Two Publics” thesis describes, Nigerians operate with two sets of ethics: one for the private sphere, where theft is condemned, and another for the public, where stealing from the government is excused.
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The same society that shames a child for stealing meat from a pot of soup at home will turn a blind eye to massive embezzlement by officials. We are fiery radicals until we taste power — then we become complicit. Patriotic nationalists morph into tribal bigots; those who fought for democracy become its worst dictators. Bad citizenship breeds bad leadership. Our true, unwritten national pledge is not to the nation, but to ourselves:
I pledge to Nigeria my country
To be unfaithful, disloyal and dishonest
To exploit Nigeria with all my strength
To promote her disintegration
And uphold her dishonour and shame
So, help me Self.
The double life of the Nigerian citizen
Why do so many Nigerians live with such ethical contradictions? The answer lies in the “Two Publics” that define our moral universe. The duality explains why the state is so weak and rules are so inconsistently applied. Most educated Nigerians are adept at playing both sides: extracting benefits from the civic public while showing generosity within their primordial group.
Ethical fickleness undermines our sense of obligation to the state. It is why ethnicity, nepotism, and corruption are so deeply woven into our politics, why there is such a disconnect between leaders and the people, and why public office is so easily personalised and abused.
These contradictions are not just abstract theories — they are lived realities, reinforced by everyday sayings that rationalise corruption and apathy. “It is where one works that one eats from” justifies embezzlement. “You don’t put government work on your head” excuses lack of commitment. “You don’t sweat in doing the king’s work” celebrates disloyalty. These are the cultural DNA of a society that has normalised the plundering of public resources.
If colonial legacies laid the groundwork for our duality, it is our everyday mentalities that sustain our dysfunctional society. Deeply ingrained mentalities undermine responsible citizenship.
Chief among these is the “Power to Steal,” a belief encapsulated in the saying, “na where person dey work e dey chop.” Here, public office or any opportunity becomes a licence to exploit resources for personal or group gain.
Alongside this is “Whimsical Faith,” a tendency to blame fate or divine will for problems, which encourages resignation and the shirking of personal or collective responsibility. This fatalism is closely linked to “Suffering and Smiling,” where individuals endure hardship passively, clinging to unrealistic hope rather than taking constructive action.
The mentality of “Everyone for Himself, God for Us All” further fragments society, promoting extreme individualism that prevents communities from organising collective solutions. Other corrosive attitudes reinforce this culture of irresponsibility. The “Do or Die; By Hook or By Crook” mentality drives a win-at-all-costs approach, encouraging unfair competition and disregard for due process. “Influence Peddling” is rampant, with personal connections routinely used to bypass rules, secure favours, and subvert justice.
Finally, the “Right of Way” mentality — marked by aggressive self-interest and disregard for rules — manifests daily in traffic violations and opportunism in public life. Together, these mentalities create an environment where personal advancement trumps civic duty, and where corruption is not merely tolerated but expected as a way of life.
Nigeria’s crisis is not just a failure of leadership — it is a failure of citizenship, rooted in deep-seated cultural contradictions and everyday mentalities. Until we confront the “Unwritten Pledge” we all live by — a pledge of self-interest, dishonesty, and disloyalty — no amount of reform at the top will save us. Real change begins when we, as citizens, rewrite our own pledge to the nation, choosing integrity over expediency, and collective good over personal gain. Only then can we hope to build a Nigeria worthy of its promise.
