Tinubu’s Policy Somersaults and the Search for Economic Direction

By Alabidun Shuaib AbdulRahman

When President Bola Ahmed Tinubu declared “subsidy is gone” on May 29, 2023, he triggered not just applause but also anxiety. The bold announcement, made even before he settled into office, set off a chain reaction that would define his presidency. Nearly 17 months later, what stands out is not just the courage of his decisions but the inconsistency of their execution, a troubling pattern of policy somersaults that have left Nigeria’s economy oscillating between reform and relapse.

The Tinubu administration came into power on the promise of bold economic transformation. It pledged to end wasteful subsidies, unify the exchange rate, overhaul the tax system, and attract investment. Yet, the implementation of these policies has often been marked by haste, reversals, and contradictions, leaving citizens to bear the brunt of experimentation without a clear safety net.

Few policies have shaped the Tinubu era like the removal of fuel subsidy. The logic was sound: the Nigerian government spent over ₦4.7 trillion on subsidies in 2022 alone, according to the Nigeria Extractive Industries Transparency Initiative (NEITI), making it more than the federal budgets for health and education combined. Eliminating it, Tinubu argued, would free up funds for infrastructure and development.

However, the rollout was chaotic. Within weeks, the average petrol price jumped from below ₦200 per litre to ₦617 at major Nigerian National Petroleum Company Limited (NNPCL) stations by July 2023. The National Bureau of Statistics (NBS) later confirmed that the average national retail price surged from ₦238.11 per litre in May 2023 to ₦626.21 by September 2023 — a 226 percent increase in just four months.

By May 2024, NBS data showed another spike, with petrol averaging ₦769.62 per litre nationwide, and even higher in states like Taraba and Rivers. In some private stations in Lagos and Ibadan, prices exceeded ₦850 per litre by late 2024.

The economic consequences were immediate. Transport costs tripled, food inflation soared, and small businesses struggled to survive. What made matters worse was the creeping suspicion that the government had quietly reintroduced a “hidden subsidy.” Independent data from industry analysts revealed that as of mid-2024, the landing cost of petrol was about ₦1,200 per litre, yet it sold for roughly ₦700, suggesting that the federal government was once again absorbing part of the cost.

This backdoor return of subsidy, after its public burial, unapologetically exposed a policy contradiction. The administration that prided itself on fiscal discipline was once again subsidizing consumption, this time without transparency.

Again, Tinubu’s decision to unify the exchange rate and allow the naira to float was meant to end years of distortion in Nigeria’s foreign exchange market. In June 2023, the Central Bank of Nigeria (CBN) merged multiple exchange windows, and the naira initially traded at around ₦750 per dollar.

But the reform quickly turned into a free fall. By September 2024, the naira had tumbled to over ₦1,600 per dollar in the parallel market. In October 2025, Reuters reported it hovering between ₦1,455 and ₦1,475 at the official Investors and Exporters window, a sign that despite the “float,” the CBN had resumed active interventions.

The result was predictable: imported goods became unaffordable, inflation climbed above 30 percent, and investor confidence weakened. Nigeria’s inflation officially stood at 24.23 percent in March 2025, according to the NBS, but food inflation was far higher, eroding household purchasing power.

The policy’s intent to attract foreign inflows was lost amid uncertainty. Businesses couldn’t plan; manufacturers couldn’t price goods; and citizens, already hit by petrol costs, faced a depreciating currency that made survival harder by the month.

Also, in a bid to expand revenue, the Tinubu government launched an ambitious tax reform agenda, establishing the Presidential Committee on Fiscal Policy and Tax Reforms led by Taiwo Oyedele. The committee’s work was well-received, projecting an effort to simplify Nigeria’s complex tax regime and improve collection efficiency.

But at the same time, the government and its agencies imposed new taxes and levies that contradicted the reform spirit. Excise duties on beverages increased, Customs raised import tariffs, and several states introduced new consumption taxes. Manufacturers, already reeling from exchange-rate pressures and high energy costs, began to shut down or relocate.

The Manufacturers Association of Nigeria (MAN) warned in mid-2024 that over 30 percent of its members were operating below capacity, citing rising input costs and multiple taxation. The government’s short-term revenue drive, critics argue, is strangling the very industries that could generate sustainable growth.

Furthermore, in April 2024, the government approved an electricity tariff hike for “Band A” customers, from ₦68 to ₦225 per kilowatt hour, claiming it affected only those receiving at least 20 hours of power daily. But within weeks, public outcry forced a partial reversal. The Minister of Power, Adebayo Adelabu, and the regulatory commission issued conflicting statements, leaving investors uncertain and consumers angry.

The pattern was similar in labour relations. After months of delay, negotiations for a new minimum wage ended in confusion. A proposed ₦70,000 wage was announced, withdrawn, and then reintroduced and yet to be fully implemented across. Each cycle of promise and reversal erodes credibility and deepens public frustration.

To cushion the subsidy shock, the federal government announced a ₦500 billion palliative package, including cash transfers and food distribution. But implementation was chaotic. Governors disagreed on sharing formulas, distribution was politicized, and many citizens reported being left out.

Similarly, the much-publicized student loan scheme, initially announced for September 2023 was delayed for nearly a year, suspended, then relaunched in mid-2024. The repeated stop-start pattern has become emblematic of Tinubu’s governance style: bold announcements followed by administrative bottlenecks.

Tinubu’s reform instinct is not the problem; his reform management is. The administration must move from ad hoc responses to structured execution. Nigeria cannot afford further policy confusion; stability and clarity must now define governance.

First, the President should rebuild coordination within his economic team. The CBN, Ministry of Finance, and Budget Office must speak with one voice. Economic policy cannot thrive when officials contradict one another.

Second, transparency must replace opacity. Nigerians deserve to know how much is spent on fuel subsidy, how forex is allocated, and how palliatives are distributed. Publishing monthly reports on fiscal and monetary interventions would restore trust.

Third, government must prioritize production over taxation. Incentivize manufacturing, reduce energy bottlenecks, and support SMEs through credit facilities. Expanding the economy’s productive base will yield more revenue than squeezing existing taxpayers.

Fourth, social protection needs reengineering. Palliatives should be digital, data-driven, and corruption-proof. The student loan scheme must be managed transparently, not politicized. The poor cannot remain collateral damage in every policy transition.

Finally, President Tinubu must embrace patience. Sustainable reform is not achieved through shock therapy but through gradual, sequenced policies backed by strong institutions. The temptation to reverse decisions under pressure should give way to evidence-based adjustments.

Alabidun is the Editor of Diaspora Watch Newspapers and can be reached via alabidungoldenson@gmail.com

When Mercy Betrays Justice, by Boniface Ihiasota

Presidential pardon is meant to be a sacred act — an instrument of compassion used sparingly to correct excesses of the law or ease human suffering. But in Nigeria, it often mutates into a political favour that undermines justice rather than serving it.

President Bola Ahmed Tinubu’s recent exercise of clemency — which reportedly included drug barons and Maryam Sanda, convicted of killing her husband — has provoked deep national outrage. It raises a fundamental question: is the Nigerian presidency using mercy to uphold justice, or to reward privilege?

Under Section 175 of the 1999 Constitution, the President has the power to pardon or commute sentences upon the advice of the Council of State. But constitutional power does not translate to moral righteousness. Mercy must be anchored on fairness, transparency, and moral justification — none of which have been evident in this latest gesture.

The case of Maryam Sanda stands out like a bruise on the conscience of the nation. Convicted in 2020 for the gruesome murder of her husband, Bilyamin Bello, Sanda’s trial was thorough, her conviction upheld through due process. Her sudden pardon, reportedly influenced by family intervention, reeks of class privilege and political influence. It sends a dangerous message — that the wealthy and well-connected can always negotiate their way out of justice.

Even more troubling is the inclusion of convicted drug traffickers. At a time when the National Drug Law Enforcement Agency (NDLEA) is battling to dismantle narcotics syndicates, the Presidency’s pardon of drug offenders undermines years of painstaking enforcement. It emboldens traffickers and discourages officers who risk their lives to keep the country safe.

This is not the first time Nigeria’s leaders have abused the prerogative of mercy. In 2013, President Goodluck Jonathan’s pardon of Diepreye Alamieyeseigha, the ex-Bayelsa governor convicted of corruption, drew global condemnation. It tainted Nigeria’s anti-graft image and emboldened those who see public office as a licence to loot.

The consequences of such indiscriminate pardons are dire. They erode public trust in the judiciary, demoralise judges who labour for years to deliver justice, and delegitimise the rule of law. When presidential pens can nullify judicial rulings overnight, justice becomes negotiable — a commodity for the powerful.

Across the world, the abuse of clemency has produced similar consequences. In South Korea, repeated presidential pardons for convicted ex-presidents Park Geun-hye and Lee Myung-bak sparked nationwide protests, forcing lawmakers to debate curbing the practice. In Brazil, President Jair Bolsonaro’s politically motivated pardon of a far-right ally convicted for attacking the Supreme Court was condemned as an attack on democracy.

In Peru, the 2017 pardon of former dictator Alberto Fujimori, who was serving time for human rights abuses, triggered mass protests and international backlash, forcing courts to overturn the pardon two years later. In South Africa, early releases of politically connected individuals in the name of “national healing” have often deepened public cynicism and distrust in government institutions.

Even in the United States, where presidential pardons are common, the process attracts intense scrutiny. Barack Obama’s clemency programme focused on non-violent drug offenders serving disproportionate sentences. Each pardon was documented publicly to ensure fairness. By contrast, Donald Trump’s pardons of political allies and campaign donors drew sharp criticism, raising concerns of corruption and cronyism.

Nigeria, however, lags behind global accountability standards. The Presidential Advisory Committee on Prerogative of Mercy operates in secrecy. The public is rarely informed of the criteria or rationale for pardons. Were the convicts reformed? Were they victims of judicial error? Or were they simply politically connected? Without transparency, clemency becomes a mockery of justice.

Yet, clemency itself is not the problem. When properly used, it can heal wounds, decongest overcrowded prisons, and give reformed offenders a second chance. In Canada, for instance, pardons (called record suspensions) are carefully reviewed, excluding violent crimes and ensuring public safety. In Germany, presidential pardons are extremely rare and only considered under compelling humanitarian grounds.

Nigeria can learn from these systems. Clemency should prioritise prisoners of conscience, the terminally ill, and those unjustly convicted — not murderers and drug traffickers. The National Assembly should urgently review the constitutional process to introduce transparency, public disclosure, and limits on eligible offences.

Crimes like murder, terrorism, drug trafficking, and grand corruption should not qualify for presidential mercy except under extraordinary humanitarian grounds. A pardon should not erase accountability; it should reflect reform and remorse. Anything less erodes the moral fibre of justice.

Beyond legality, the ethical question looms large: what happens when mercy becomes selective? Thousands of ordinary Nigerians languish in prisons for petty offences, many without trial for years. They are the forgotten souls who deserve presidential mercy — not those whose connections can bend the system.

The late Justice Chukwudifu Oputa once said, “Justice must not only be done but must be seen to be done.” Today, justice in Nigeria is neither seen nor done when presidential mercy is dispensed like patronage.

History shows that unchecked clemency corrodes institutions. If Nigeria continues down this path, we risk normalising injustice and undermining the credibility of our judiciary. The rule of law must remain the ultimate arbiter, not the whims of political benevolence.

Presidential mercy should be a balm for the broken — not a shield for the powerful. To forgive without fairness is to betray the very soul of justice. And when justice becomes negotiable, a nation’s conscience is no longer intact.

ASUU Strikes: The Endless Loop Nigeria Must Break 

By Alabidun Shuaib AbdulRahman

If there is any rhythm that has refused to change in Nigeria’s academic calendar, it is the drumbeat of strikes by the Academic Staff Union of Universities (ASUU). Each cycle begins with a warning, swells into protests, and collapses into months of classroom paralysis. It makes students stranded, parents helpless, and the nation’s tertiary education trapped in recurring stagnation.

For decades, ASUU strikes have become a permanent punctuation in Nigeria’s educational story, making occurrences a tragedy that has outlived governments, policy directions, and even generations of undergraduates. The irony is that every new strike looks like the last: same demands, same government responses, same media debates, and the same outcome — suspension, not resolution.

How did Nigeria get here? And why does this crisis appear so cyclical, almost generational?

The Academic Staff Union of Universities was founded in 1978, emerging from the ashes of the Nigerian Association of University Teachers (NAUT). From inception, ASUU was not just a trade union; it was a conscience of the academia, a body that saw itself as guardian of intellectual autonomy, national development, and academic integrity.

But its relationship with the government has always been uneasy. The first major showdown came in 1988 during General Ibrahim Babangida’s regime, when ASUU embarked on a strike to demand fair wages, university autonomy, and funding. The government’s response was swift and draconian. ASUU was banned, its leaders detained, and salaries withheld. Yet, the union’s resilience prevailed, and by 1990, it was reinstated.

Since then, ASUU has gone on strike over twenty times, spanning military and democratic dispensations alike. The issues have remained stubbornly familiar: poor funding, unpaid allowances, inadequate infrastructure, decaying research capacity, and government’s failure to honour previous agreements.

The landmark agreement of 2009 between ASUU and the Federal Government was supposed to be a turning point. It captured key demands that included better welfare for lecturers, revitalisation of infrastructure, and university autonomy. But, as with many government pacts in Nigeria, the implementation was half-hearted and short-lived. The Memorandum of Understanding (MoU) in 2013, 2017, and 2020 merely recycled promises, each one becoming a prelude to the next crisis.

Every ASUU strike has two layers — the visible and the political. On the surface, it’s about funding and welfare. Beneath that lies distrust, ego, and inconsistent leadership.

Government negotiators often approach agreements as temporary pacifications rather than binding contracts. Ministries change, priorities shift, and promises fade. ASUU, on its part, wields strikes as its strongest bargaining tool. Sometimes effective but increasingly self-defeating.

Both sides share blame for the cyclical failure. Government often defaults, while ASUU, in its moral fervour, sometimes resists pragmatic reform, especially in accountability and diversification of funding. The result is a predictable dance: delay, protest, strike, negotiation, suspension and then repeat.

The consequences are devastating. Millions of students lose valuable academic time, universities fall behind global peers, and research collapses. Parents endure emotional and financial stress; employers distrust local degrees; and private universities quietly benefit from public dysfunction.

During the eight-month strike in 2022, Nigeria lost an estimated ₦1.5 trillion in productivity. Many lecturers relocated abroad, deepening brain drain. The crisis is no longer a union-government quarrel but a national emergency that undermines development.

Nigeria isn’t alone in facing academic labour disputes but other countries learned, adapted, and reformed.

In India, repeated strikes in the 1990s led to creation of the University Grants Commission Reforms, which institutionalised regular wage reviews and infrastructure funding insulated from political manipulation.

In South Africa, the “Fees Must Fall” crisis of 2015 forced government and universities to form oversight committees of academics and students to monitor education spending. Transparency replaced tension, restoring confidence.

Kenya went further. It enacted a Collective Bargaining Framework that legally binds both government and unions for four-year terms. No administration can unilaterally breach it without parliamentary approval. Predictability replaced confrontation.

Nigeria can learn from these examples. The problem is not absence of ideas but absence of political will and institutional discipline.

The heart of the problem is philosophical: Nigeria treats education as expenditure and not investment. That mindset must change.

While Ghana invests about 6.5% of GDP in education, Nigeria spends less than 2%. South Korea channels more into research than oil. Their progress is no mystery. They fund their future.

Every strike pushes Nigeria’s future further behind. Education is not just another sector; it is the soil on which every other grows. Without it, national development becomes guesswork.

Although ASUU’s struggle is noble but must evolve. Activism must give way to innovation. The union should complement resistance with reform, proposing alternative funding models, driving research-commercial partnerships, and mentoring new lecturers for modern academic challenges.

The government, on the other hand, must understand that signing agreements without intention to implement is governance without honour. Each broken promise erodes trust and provokes another strike.

A serious government should measure progress not by the number of schools built but by the quality of minds produced. When airports function better than universities, the country builds departures, not destinies.

If Nigeria truly wishes to end the ASUU strikes, both sides must shift from rhetoric to reform.

Every ASUU–Federal Government agreement should be backed by legislation. Once domesticated by the National Assembly, any breach becomes actionable, not negotiable. Education cannot thrive on verbal promises.

Beyond TETFund, Nigeria needs an Education Stabilisation Fund co-managed by government, ASUU, private sector, and alumni networks. Funding can come from education levies, grants, and endowments. This would provide consistent support regardless of annual budget politics.

ASUU must demonstrate stewardship. Universities should publish audited reports on how revitalisation or research funds are spent. Accountability strengthens credibility.

Set a four-year salary review cycle tied to inflation, GDP, and minimum wage benchmarks. Once automatic, it removes salary from recurring contention.

A permanent University Industrial Mediation Council (UIMC), composed of respected scholars, jurists, and labour experts, can serve as an early-warning system — intervening before crises escalate.

A public online dashboard showing government disbursements and ASUU obligations would foster accountability. When citizens can see the truth, both sides act more responsibly.

The future lies in structure, not sentiment. A binding framework, transparent governance, and joint accountability can end the strike culture permanently.

ASUU must rise beyond protest politics, and the government must govern with integrity. Both must see education as a shared project and not a battlefield.

If Nigeria’s leaders can build political peace accords and implement oil-sharing formulas, they can certainly fund and protect the education sector.

Until then, the next strike will not surprise anyone. It will simply mark another sequel in a story that should have ended years ago.