Before 2027: What Every Nigerian Should Understand About Our Economy--Femi Obembe

Before 2027: What Every Nigerian Should Understand About Our Economy

There is a kind of pain a nation feels that cannot be captured by statistics or policy documents. It is the pain of a mother standing in front of a market stall, calculating what she can no longer afford. It is the pain of a young graduate refreshing job portals that never open. It is the pain of a father watching transport costs swallow the money he should have used to feed his children. Nigeria is hurting, and the hurt is real.

Over the last two years, our country has been pushed through some of the most far‑reaching economic reforms in its history. The removal of fuel subsidies, the floating of the naira, and the impending introduction of new tax measures have shaken every household. As the 2027 elections draw closer, many Nigerians have turned their frustration toward the presidency, convinced that the hardship they feel is the result of unnecessary decisions. In the midst of this rising anger, the truth is becoming harder to hear.

I am not writing to defend any politician. I am writing because I love this country too deeply to let confusion become our compass. Nigerians deserve clarity, honesty, and a fair understanding of why we are where we are. And sometimes, the truth is not as convenient as the narratives we cling to.

Whether people like him or not, Nigeria has rarely had a president who understands the mechanics of an economy as deeply as Tinubu does. Beyond understanding, he possesses the courage to confront the entrenched interests—the oligarchs—who have fed fat on Nigeria’s weaknesses for decades. I watched Lagos transform with my own eyes. I saw a city many had written off become a place where trains glide across the skyline and investors plant billion‑dollar dreams in its soil. Even Babangida Aliyu, former governor of Niger state once admitted that “we had given up on Lagos” until Asiwaju stepped in. But this story is not about Lagos. It is about the monsters that have held Nigeria hostage for years.

For decades, fuel subsidy was Nigeria’s biggest open secret. Everyone knew it was corrupt. Everyone knew the numbers never added up. No one could tell us how much fuel the country consumed daily, yet billions disappeared every year. Subsidy itself is not evil—many nations subsidize essential goods—but subsidy without data is a playground for thieves. The money we spent on it could have built multiple Dangote‑sized refineries. Instead, we kept importing fuel like a country allergic to progress. And when subsidy finally went away, the system that benefitted from it fought back, attacking Dangote, attacking reforms, attacking anything that threatened their grip. Removing subsidy was painful, but it was necessary. No nation becomes strong by importing what it can produce.

The same applies to the floating of the naira. For years, Nigeria ran two exchange rates: one official, one in the shadows. That gap became a goldmine. Imagine being a manufacturer. You could either build a factory, hire workers, and struggle with power supply—or simply buy dollars cheaply at the official rate and sell them at the black‑market rate for instant profit. Which would you choose? This policy killed industries, killed jobs, and turned banks into forex traders instead of lenders. Poverty and insecurity were inevitable. Floating the naira was not a choice; it was a rescue mission.

Yet despite these necessary reforms, Nigerians have not felt relief. The reason is simple: reforms alone cannot heal a nation. Leadership must meet people where they are. When subsidy was removed, federal revenue increased dramatically. But state governments—who receive a large share of that revenue—did not rise to the occasion. They could have provided affordable mass transit, offered free meals in public schools, supported farmers and small businesses, and built local infrastructure to create jobs. Most did nothing. And so the people blamed the only face they could see: the president.

Local governments, which should be the heartbeat of development, are barely functioning. That is where the carpenters, bricklayers, traders, and artisans live. That is where small contracts can change lives. But many local governments never see their full allocations. Funds are intercepted before they reach the grassroots, leaving communities stagnant, hungry, and hopeless.

At the same time, Nigerians see the convoys, the luxury, the excess. They see senators living like royalty. They see federal officials spending carelessly. And they ask themselves why they should tighten their belts when their leaders loosen theirs. Trust evaporates. Even good policies begin to look suspicious.

As we prepare for another election cycle, we must shift our focus. Nigeria’s problems are not only in Abuja. They are in the states. They are in the local governments. They are in the systems that refuse to change. We must ask why local government funds are being hijacked, why states cannot provide affordable mass transportation system, why our children cannot get free meals in public schools, and why governors remain silent while their people suffer. These are not federal questions. These are questions for the leaders closest to us.

Nigeria is on a difficult journey. The road is rough, the nights are long, and the pain is undeniable. But we must not lose sight of the truth. We must not let confusion divide us. And we must not forget that every level of government has a role to play in our healing.

Until I come your way again.
Femi Obembe
Public Policy/Public Affairs Analyst