What kind of society rewards its thieves, while punishing the innocent? How does a nation justify its moral collapse, brushing aside corruption as if it were a necessary evil, a cost of doing business? Nigeria, our dear country, stands as a painful case study of what happens when corruption isn’t just tolerated but institutionalized, woven into the very fabric of its governance. Yet, in many corners of the world, Nigeria’s deep-seated issues are painted as a mere “cultural” problem, a relic of history. But is it culture, or is it a deliberate design by those who benefit from chaos?
Contrast this with Singapore, a country that, in many ways, has become the poster child for good governance in the 21st century. Recently, the island nation convicted Subramaniam Iswaran, a former transport minister, for accepting gifts worth $311,882—Formula 1 tickets, a luxury bicycle, and a ride on a private jet. Twelve months in jail. Justice. Singapore’s message to the world: no one is above the law. But, let’s pause and ask: what would happen if Iswaran were a Nigerian politician? Would his actions even be labeled as corruption, or would they be dismissed as “business as usual”?
In Nigeria, there would likely be no trial. Instead, a minister like Iswaran would remain in office, perhaps even celebrated at home for his cunning. In fact, a private jet ride, whisky, and Formula 1 tickets would barely raise an eyebrow. Nigerian politicians have been known to steal millions—no, billions—yet they walk free, smiling for cameras, hosting lavish parties, while the masses groan under the weight of poverty. How did we get here? And more importantly, why do we remain here?
Richard Joseph’s theory of prebendalism offers a sharp lens into Nigeria’s governance problem. Public office is not seen as a trust, a responsibility to serve the people. No, it is a prize, a tool for personal enrichment, where political elites divide resources among themselves like spoils of war. Once in office, a Nigerian politician doesn’t just “serve” his people. He serves his patrons, his family, his tribe, his friends—and if there’s anything left, perhaps, he remembers the public.
But let’s not be deceived. This isn’t an African problem; it’s a human problem, a flaw of institutions, not individuals. Daron Acemoglu and James Robinson, in their study Why Nations Fail, argue that weak institutions breed inequality, which in turn breeds poverty and disenfranchisement. Nigeria’s institutions—its judiciary, law enforcement, anti-corruption bodies—are fragile, sometimes non-existent. They are designed not to catch thieves but to protect them. So, the country stagnates while its leaders loot its future. And again, we must ask: why?
Peter Ekeh, in his seminal work on the “two publics”, explains part of the reason: there is a divide in the Nigerian psyche between the civic public and the primordial public. The civic public—the government—is viewed with suspicion, as something alien, something to exploit. The primordial public—one’s ethnic group, family, and kin—commands greater loyalty. Nigerians see the state as an entity to be plundered, not protected, because the government, in many cases, is seen as a foreign agent, distant, corrupt, and untrustworthy. How does one take pride in a system that has never served them?
Take a moment and imagine, if you will, that Nigeria had Singapore’s institutions. Imagine that corruption, no matter how small, was swiftly punished. Would things change? Or would the shadow networks of patronage and favoritism simply adapt, finding more sophisticated ways to cheat the system? One might ask: isn’t corruption too embedded, too systemic, to root out? Some argue that corruption is just the price of progress in a developing nation. But look at Singapore, a country that was once as poor as Nigeria. Today, it stands as a global financial hub, while Nigeria teeters on the edge of economic collapse. So, is corruption really the inevitable fate of poor nations, or is it the consequence of choices—political, moral, and institutional?
Nigeria’s problem is not just that its politicians are corrupt; it is that its entire political economy is built on corruption. Bo Rothstein and Aiysha Varraich, in their book Making Sense of Corruption, discuss the notion of patrimonialism, where the state functions as the personal property of its rulers. In Nigeria, this patrimonialism manifests in an entrenched system of patronage, where loyalty to individuals trumps loyalty to the nation. Politicians distribute favors, not because they wish to serve the public, but because they must maintain the loyalty of those who can protect their power.
The Nigerian state, then, is like a ghost—barely visible, rarely felt. It is an illusion, present only in name, while the real power lies in the hands of a few. Corruption isn’t an exception; it is the norm. So, the question isn’t, “Why is Nigeria corrupt?” It is: “Why isn’t Nigeria more corrupt than it already is?” How does a country survive when theft is the foundation upon which everything stands? How does one govern when the law itself is a tool to be manipulated, rather than a moral compass?
Perhaps the most damning indictment of Nigeria’s system isn’t the acts of corruption themselves but the attitude toward them. While in Singapore, even the whisper of scandal can ruin a career, in Nigeria, corruption is worn like a badge of honor. When did we lose our moral compass? Or did we ever have one? The people, impoverished and disillusioned, often idolize the very leaders who steal from them, believing that they too, one day, might ascend to such heights. If everyone is complicit, then no one is guilty. This is the genius of Nigeria’s corrupt system: it turns victims into collaborators, making them believe that the only path to success is through the same immoral channels that rob them of their future.
So, where does this leave Nigeria? Is there hope? Can a country that has normalized theft, bribery, and abuse of power ever find its way back to integrity? The Singaporean model provides a clear answer: yes, but only if there is the will to build strong institutions. Without that, Nigeria will remain trapped in a vicious cycle, where corruption begets poverty, and poverty begets corruption.
But let’s not pretend that the solution is easy. Fighting corruption in Nigeria is not merely about passing new laws or establishing more anti-corruption agencies. It is about dismantling a system that benefits from chaos. It is about asking hard questions: who profits from the nation’s dysfunction? Who stands to gain when schools fail, when roads crumble, when hospitals are death traps? The answers are not flattering, but they are necessary if Nigeria is ever to turn the page.
The fight against corruption requires more than institutional reform; it requires a moral reawakening. It requires the courage to confront uncomfortable truths, to ask: Why have we allowed this? And what will it take for us to say, “No more”? Nigeria can change. But first, it must find the will to see itself clearly, in all its painful contradictions, and choose a different path—one where leadership is about service, not plunder.
The world is watching. What will Nigeria choose?
