What does it mean to be a citizen of Nigeria today? Not in theory, but in practice, in the lives of those navigating insecurity, institutional failure, and the quiet humiliation of daily neglect. The answer, increasingly, is bleak. In a country where life is cheap, justice arbitrary, and identity politicised, the concept of citizenship, and the protections it ought to confer, has been profoundly devalued.
“Elections are reduced to ethnic arithmetic, governance becomes the management of grievances rather than the pursuit of shared prosperity, and as public trust declines, so too does civic participation.”
Nigeria’s Constitution proclaims, with solemn conviction, that the security and welfare of the people shall be the primary purpose of government. Yet, for vast segments of the population, that promise is a dead letter. From banditry and communal killings to the unrelenting economic squeeze, citizens are caught in a grinding reality of vulnerability. The recent spate of kidnappings, ritual killings, and mob lynchings suggests not just a crisis of law enforcement, but a rupture in the civic contract that binds the state to its people.
This is not simply a matter of policy failure or political dysfunction. It is a deeper moral collapse. When state institutions are unable or unwilling to uphold basic rights, protect lives, administer justice, or ensure economic dignity, the foundational value of citizenship is hollowed out. A nation may possess a constitution, a flag, and a parliament, but without enforceable rights and reciprocal trust between state and citizen, it is little more than a hollow republic.
Indeed, Nigeria is no longer a country of equal citizens. It is a state stratified by identity, origin, and circumstance. Structural discrimination remains deeply embedded in public life. The indigene and settler divide, regional quota systems, and uneven access to state resources have conspired to create a hierarchy of citizenship. Some Nigerians are more Nigerian than others by virtue of birthplace, ethnicity, or political proximity.
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This fracture is not benign. It corrodes national cohesion and incentivises loyalty to narrower identities such as tribal, religious, or regional affiliations over the broader civic whole. In such an environment, the idea of a unified national project loses credibility. People retreat into group identities not out of preference but out of necessity, which becomes a rational response to a system that privileges proximity over principle.
Fraternity, once a cherished civic value, is disappearing. It is not merely that the state fails to deliver but that the social compact, the mutual recognition of shared worth and obligation among citizens, has been weakened. Where people once looked to public institutions for justice and protection, they now rely on informal networks, vigilantes, and private arrangements. This shift signals not just distrust but disengagement, a turning away from the republic itself.
The broader consequences are dire. In the absence of a strong and inclusive civic identity, democracy becomes transactional. Elections are reduced to ethnic arithmetic, governance becomes the management of grievances rather than the pursuit of shared prosperity, and as public trust declines, so too does civic participation. Citizens disengage, leaders act with impunity, and the cycle of alienation deepens.
Reversing this trajectory demands more than constitutional amendments or technocratic fixes. It requires moral leadership, the kind that not only speaks of reform but lives it through example. A credible Nigerian state must begin by treating every citizen with equal respect, dignity, and protection. This means rooting out impunity in the security forces, ensuring justice systems are accessible and fair, and building institutions that are responsive to all, not just the well-connected.
It also means revisiting the country’s legal and administrative frameworks that legitimise unequal citizenship. The time has come to abolish the indigene and settler dichotomy in favour of residency-based rights. Public appointments and resource allocation must reflect merit and inclusion, not identity arithmetic.
But citizens too have a role. Rights must be exercised, not merely held. Philosopher John Maccunn once warned that political rights are a satire upon those whose lives are passed in the struggle for a bare existence. The energy of citizenship lies not in its formal recognition but in its active daily practice through civic engagement, accountability, and solidarity.
Nigeria possesses all the ingredients of a successful and resilient nation. A youthful population, abundant natural resources, and a rich history of pluralism are all significant assets. Yet these advantages will remain inert if the crisis of citizenship is not addressed. Without shared rules, equal rights, and civic belonging, the republic will continue to drift. Not necessarily into chaos, but into the quiet and steady erosion of its moral foundation.
To restore the value of Nigerian citizenship is not a matter of sentiment. It is a national imperative. Anything less would be a betrayal, not only of the Constitution but of the people it was meant to serve.
