Understanding Nigeria’s Tax Reforms from the Diaspora Lens, by Boniface Ihiasota

Over the past year, Nigeria’s fiscal landscape has undergone one of its most significant overhauls in decades. With the Nigeria Tax Act (NTA) 2025, Nigeria Tax Administration Act (NTAA) 2025, Nigeria Revenue Service (Establishment) Act (NRSEA) 2025, and the Joint Revenue Board (Establishment) Act (JRBEA) 2025 all gazetted and taking effect from January 2026, Nigerians both at home and abroad have stirred in intense debate about what the new tax regime means for them.

For Nigerians in the diaspora, often seen as economic anchors through remittances, investment, skills, and global network strengths, the anxieties have been palpable. But beneath the political rhetoric and social media speculation lies a set of rational, fact-based realities that deserve sober reflection.

At the heart of the concerns was a simple question: Will Nigerians abroad now be taxed simply because they are citizens, earn income abroad, or send money home? The answer, based on official clarifications from the government’s Presidential Fiscal Policy and Tax Reforms Committee, is a resounding no — provided certain conditions are met.

Under the new tax framework, tax liability is tied to residency and source of income, not nationality. Nigeria uses the widely accepted 183-day rule to determine tax residency: an individual who spends 183 days or more in Nigeria within any 12-month period is treated as a tax resident and may be liable to tax on their worldwide income. A Nigerian living predominantly overseas is therefore generally classified as a non-resident for tax purposes.

For non-residents, the guiding principle is simple: only income derived from Nigerian sources such as business profits within Nigeria, rental income from Nigerian property, dividends from Nigerian companies, or other Nigeria-sourced earnings is taxable in Nigeria. Income earned entirely abroad, even if remitted into Nigeria, is not taxable under the new law.

This principle aligns with international norms and double taxation prevention practices, ensuring that non-residents are not taxed twice on the same earnings. Nigeria has signed Double Taxation Agreements (DTAs) with many countries to further cement this protection, and in cases where no treaty exists, unilateral relief provisions now apply.

Perhaps the most emotionally charged topic for families across Nigeria and its global diaspora has been remittances, the lifeblood of many households and a key stabilizer of local economies. According to reports from the International Organization for Migration and other development institutions, Nigeria received over $20 billion in remittances in 2024 alone, making it one of the largest recipients globally.

The good news for diaspora Nigerians is that personal remittances, family transfers, gifts, refunds, and community contributions are explicitly not treated as taxable income under the new laws. They fall outside the definition of income because no services were rendered in exchange, meaning such inflows do not attract income tax.

This clarification is huge symbolically and economically. It stabilizes diaspora-to-home financial support channels and removes the fear that sending money to loved ones could attract punitive tax liabilities.

One point of confusion early in the rollout of the tax reforms was whether diaspora Nigerians were required to obtain a Tax Identification Number (TIN) or file annual returns. The government has clarified that Nigerians abroad who do not earn Nigerian-sourced income are not required to get a TIN or file returns simply by virtue of being diaspora citizens.

A TIN becomes relevant only when an individual earns income that is subject to Nigerian tax — for example, if they operate a business in Nigeria, receive Nigerian rents or dividends, or are otherwise engaged in Nigerian economic activities. In such cases, the government has made compliance simpler through digital platforms like TaxProMax, enabling remote TIN registration and electronic filing.

Under the new regime, pensions or stipends from abroad are not taxed in Nigeria unless they relate to employment performed in Nigeria. Similarly, income earned by remote workers employed by foreign entities is taxed in the country where the work is performed or where the worker resides, not in Nigeria.

Investment income like dividends, rental profits from property in Nigeria, or capital gains can be taxable, but they are subject to specific exemptions, withholding tax rates, and treaty-based withholding reductions, depending on the country of residence and the nature of the income.

For many Nigerians living abroad, these tax clarifications provide both relief and opportunity. They remove the threat of arbitrary taxation on diaspora earnings and remittances, uphold the principle that tax should be fair, linked to economic presence and source of income, and provide clear rules on compliance and obligations. This clarity could encourage greater diaspora engagement in investment, return visits, knowledge transfer, and even relocation — all of which can contribute to national development.

However, the reforms also underscore the importance of understanding one’s tax status, especially for diaspora members who maintain business interests, property, or other income-generating activities in Nigeria. In such cases, proactive compliance and professional tax guidance remain vital.

In conclusion, while tax changes can stir anxiety, the new framework ultimately protects the financial interests of Nigerians abroad, aligns Nigeria with global tax practices, and provides a structure that facilitates, rather than inhibits, diaspora contributions to national progress.

Are Forest Guards to the Rescue? By Alabidun Shuaib AbdulRahman

Nigeria’s insecurity story has become the longest‑running drama of our national life, and, at times, its most tragic one. Every week seems to bring another report of village raids, kidnappings, forest‑based ambushes or displaced families seeking refuge from bandits and terrorists. City centres barely register the scale of fear that grips the rural hinterland, where the reach of the state has, for years, thinned to near invisibility. In this context, one of the most talked‑about security interventions of 2025 has been the launch of Forest Guards, a new security force aimed at reclaiming Nigeria’s forest reserves from criminal exploitation. But the fundamental question remains: Is this initiative truly to the rescue?

On May 15, 2025, President Bola Ahmed Tinubu approved the establishment of a national Forest Guards system as part of broad efforts to curb escalating insecurity across Nigeria. The announcement, made at an expanded Federal Executive Council meeting, envisaged recruiting as many as 130,000 forest guards nationwide by directing each state and the Federal Capital Territory to hire between 2,000 and 5,000 operatives depending on their financial capacity. The recruitment and training process was to be jointly supervised by the Office of the National Security Adviser (ONSA) and the Ministry of Environment, with other arms of government providing strategic partnerships.

Nigeria has 1,129 recognised forest reserves and protected areas spread across 36 states and the FCT, making it one of the countries with extensive forest cover on the continent. Many of these forests have become havens for bandits, terrorist groups and kidnappers who exploit the terrain’s complexity to evade the reach of conventional security forces. The initiative’s core premise is to deny these criminals the luxury of sanctuary and operational space by placing trained personnel directly within the forests and surrounding communities.

The launch was greeted with a blend of cautious optimism and scepticism. On one hand, the idea of forest‑specific security adherents — indigenous recruits familiar with local terrain — promised something more nuanced than the traditional military incursions that have repeatedly failed to sustain security gains. On the other hand, concerns about resourcing, coordination, recruitment delays and the overall viability of such a large force in a tilted fiscal climate began to surface almost immediately after the announcement.

Seven months after the launch, the first cohort of Forest Guards has begun to take shape. On December 27, 2025, over 7,000 newly trained Forest Guards graduated from an intensive three‑month training programme under the Presidential Forest Guards Initiative. The graduates emerged from exercises held simultaneously across seven frontline states — Borno, Sokoto, Yobe, Adamawa, Niger, Kwara and Kebbi — marking what many officials described as the operational takeoff of the project. These states were selected partly because they include forest corridors most closely linked to violent criminal activity.

At the graduation ceremonies, National Security Adviser Mallam Nuhu Ribadu outlined the initiative’s purpose: to “strengthen Nigeria’s internal security architecture by denying terrorists, bandits, kidnappers and other criminal groups sanctuary within forested and hard‑to‑reach terrains,” and to serve as “first responders, gather intelligence and support security agencies operating in forests and difficult terrain.” According to Ribadu, deployment would begin immediately, with salaries and allowances to commence without delay.

The guards were trained not simply in physical endurance and patrol discipline, but in human rights, international humanitarian law, ethics and civilian protection. This curriculum including arms handling and regulated use‑of‑force procedures was deliberately structured to ensure that the guards would operate professionally and within established legal frameworks.

Yet seven months after the presidential approval, not all states have fully embraced the initiative. As at last count, the recruitment efforts vary widely: while states like Borno, Adamawa, Kwara, Plateau, Niger, Edo, Anambra and Enugu have begun processes, others such as Kaduna, Ondo, Benue, Kano, Jigawa, Akwa Ibom and Gombe lag behind in recruitment and mobilisation. It was argued that without universal adoption and consistent funding, the force risks patchy coverage that does little to alter the country’s broader insecurity picture.

Still, the fact that thousands of guards are now equipped, trained and being dispatched to forest zones represents a symbolic break from past half‑measures. It reflects a growing consensus among policymakers and security strategists that conventional military responses, often reactive and episodic, must be complemented by specialised, sustained presence in the spaces where criminal networks thrive.

Nigeria’s approach echoes similar strategies elsewhere in the world, albeit adapted to local contexts. In southern Africa, anti‑poaching ranger units have shown that continuous, well‑trained presence in protected areas can significantly reduce illegal activity; documented declines in poaching and encroachment followed sustained ranger deployments in conservation zones. While Nigeria’s Forest Guards are focused on insecurity rather than wildlife protection, the operational logic is similar: constant presence alters the behavioural calculus of those who operate outside the law.

In India’s forested insurgency zones, forest guards working alongside conventional security forces have helped limit mobility and operational space for insurgent groups. The collaborative model, combining local knowledge, community engagement, and formal security mandates has been credited with improving early warning and preventive capacity in areas where terrain favours non‑state actors.

China, despite its very different political environment, has deployed millions of forest rangers nationwide to enforce laws and protect resources, underlying the broader principle that unmonitored terrain invites exploitation.

These international parallels suggest that a specialised force rooted in terrain familiarity and community engagement can yield positive results. But it also posits the prerequisites for such success: adequate resourcing, clear legal authority, accountability, consistent funding, and structures that prevent politicisation or fragmentation. Nigeria’s Forest Guards may be a promising model, but without these underpinning elements, they risk becoming another iteration of well‑meaning policy that struggles under real‑world pressures.

For rural communities long left to fend for themselves, the presence of Forest Guards is welcome. Anyone who has seen a village terrorised for weeks can attest to the psychological value of a sustained security presence. But analysts caution that security alone cannot provide a durable solution. Poverty, unemployment, weak local governance and distrust of the state remain powerful drivers of criminal recruitment and persistence. Unless Forest Guards are integrated into broader development strategies including livelihood support and meaningful local governance their impact may be limited to temporary disruptions rather than lasting peace.

Another dimension of the Forest Guards debate revolves around accountability and professionalism. Nigeria’s history with auxiliary forces and special initiatives has been mixed, with some units overstepping mandates or becoming politicised over time. For Forest Guards to be credible, they must operate transparently, with accountability mechanisms that reassure citizens and protect human rights. This is especially important in forest communities where distrust of security agents sometimes runs deep.

Effectiveness must also be measured, not assumed. Public discourse often gravitates toward dramatic figures and proclamations, but the real test will be quantifiable outcomes: reductions in forest‑based kidnappings, dismantling of criminal encampments, improved safety on rural routes, and greater confidence among farmers and traders in returning to their lands. Nigeria’s security sector has sometimes been weak on data‑driven evaluations, but if Forest Guards are to transcend rhetoric, clear metrics and regular reporting will be indispensable.

Sustainability remains the overbearing question. Maintaining a specialised force of potentially 130,000 personnel that is well trained, paid, monitored, and accountable requires serious budgetary commitment. Nigeria’s economy is under strain, and security spending already commands a significant share of public finances. Ensuring that Forest Guards do not become victims of fiscal neglect will require sustained political will that goes beyond headline launches.

Yet, even with these caveats, the emotion in many affected communities is unmistakable: cautious hope. For farmers whose fields have been overrun, for traders who abandoned routes for fear of kidnappers, and for families rebuilding after raids, the idea that state presence could transform once‑feared forests into safer spaces matters deeply. It may not be the single panacea for all forms of insecurity, but it is an acknowledgment that Nigeria’s security challenges demand innovative and context‑specific solutions.

Ultimately, whether Forest Guards are truly “to the rescue” will depend on actions taken in the months and years ahead, not only on the ground but in corridors of policy, budgeting and public accountability. The forests have waited long enough for effective governance; now, the state’s ability to sustain this initiative may be one of the defining tests of its commitment to protecting every Nigerian, not just those in urban centres.

Nigeria’s insecurity did not emerge overnight, and it will not vanish overnight. Forest Guards represent an important step toward recognising that the battle for peace includes the spaces that have long been ignored. If properly resourced, professionally guided, and integrated with broader security and socio‑economic frameworks, they may yet prove to be not just a policy experiment, but a genuine rescue for communities long overshadowed by fear.

Buhari, Power and the Burden of Integrity, by Alabidun Shuaib AbdulRahman 

Buhari’s life and leadership have always been defined by paradox. A man who began as a disciplined soldier, steeped in the rigors of military order, he later assumed the mantle of democratic president in a nation that demanded compromise, negotiation, and a delicate balance of interests. The launch of Muhammadu Buhari: From Soldier to Statesman, a biography by Dr. Charles Omole, provides a rare window into the inner workings of his leadership, tracing the contours of political power, family controversies, moral conviction, and the costs of integrity in office. What emerges is not a hagiography nor a critique, but a portrait of a man and a presidency struggling to reconcile principle with consequence, personal discipline with institutional responsibility.

Buhari’s political trajectory is remarkable for both its longevity and its historic impact. In 2015, he defeated the incumbent, President Goodluck Jonathan, winning 15.4 million votes to Jonathan’s 12.9 million. This was the first time an opposition candidate defeated a sitting president in Nigeria’s democratic history. He was re-elected in 2019 with 15.1 million votes, defeating Atiku Abubakar. These numbers reflect the scale of public confidence he inspired, a confidence rooted in a reputation for integrity and moral rectitude that transcended party lines. Yet the biography reveals that such trust came with enormous burdens, for voters expected not just policies, but a moral compass that could steer Nigeria through turbulent waters.

The book recounts Buhari’s tenure as military ruler from 1983 to 1985, underscoring the formative influence of that period on his understanding of leadership. As Head of State, he launched the “War Against Indiscipline” (WAI), a campaign to instill order in public life. Clean streets, punctuality, respect for authority were not cosmetic policies but reflections of his belief that moral and civic discipline were prerequisites for national progress. Yet, this strictness came at a cost: political opponents were detained without trial, the press faced censorship, and economic policies often exacerbated hardship. That era established a pattern that would recur in civilian rule: moral conviction in crisis with the human and institutional consequences of policy.

Fast forward to the Buhari presidency, and the book illustrates the complex interplay between his principles and governance. One illustrative episode is the controversial 2022 naira redesign. Ostensibly an economic measure to reduce inflation, curb cash hoarding, and encourage digital transactions, the policy had deep political and social ramifications. According to the biography, it was partially conceived to disrupt vote-buying ahead of the 2023 elections. While intended to advance the nation’s integrity, it triggered acute cash shortages, disrupted small businesses, and left rural communities struggling to access basic necessities. Millions of Nigerians were affected in an economy already reeling from two recessions: one in 2016, when GDP contracted by 1.6 percent following an oil price collapse, and another in 2020 due to the COVID-19 pandemic. Public debt ballooned from ₦12 trillion in 2015 to over ₦77 trillion by 2023, while inflation and unemployment rates soared, revealing the burden between moral intent and social impact.

Buhari’s handling of party politics also illuminates the burden of integrity. The biography recounts an incident during the All Progressives Congress (APC) 2022 primaries, when aides allegedly sought to influence outcomes by instructing security chiefs to favor a preferred candidate. Those instructions were not acted upon, and Buhari, upon learning of the attempt, refused to intervene, insisting he would not impose his choice. This decision, while morally consistent with democratic ideals, allowed internal factionalism to flourish and exposed the limitations of leadership built on principle rather than coercive control. It demonstrates a recurring theme in Buhari’s rule: the discipline of a soldier tested in the unpredictable theatre of democratic politics.

Family, too, emerges as a domain where power and integrity intersected with the controversy. The biography includes revelations from his wife, Aisha Buhari, describing a period during Buhari’s prolonged medical leave in 2017 in which rumours circulated suggesting she intended harm against him. However, the president’s response of locking his room and avoiding meals she prepared speaks to the psychological weight of leadership, where suspicion and trust coexist uneasily. Their daughter, Fatima Buhari, recounts discovering official documents bearing forged signatures of her father, raising questions about authenticity and control in the corridors of power. These episodes are not sensationalism for its own sake; they illustrate how integrity, both personal and institutional, can be compromised or distorted, even within the president’s immediate household.

Mamman Daura, Buhari’s influential nephew, occupies a particularly revealing space in the book. His proximity to the president has often been cited in discussions of the so-called “Villa cabal.” Omole presents this relationship not as a conspiratorial plot but as an instance of moral and personal trust shaping governance. Buhari, who valued loyalty and shared history, often delegated authority to individuals he believed would uphold his principles. Yet, as the biography notes, reliance on personal loyalty rather than institutional mechanisms introduced vulnerabilities, making the administration susceptible to both internal intrigue and public criticism.

On national security, the book offers both praise and critique. Under Buhari, Boko Haram, which had seized numerous local government areas in the Northeast, was territorially weakened. Multinational cooperation improved, and thousands of insurgents were neutralized. Yet the book notes that other security challenges intensified. Banditry in the Northwest claimed thousands of lives, and farmer-herder conflicts escalated in multiple regions. Buhari’s military instinct led him to approach these issues as security problems rather than socio-economic ones, projecting the limits of a morality-focused approach in a structurally complex nation.

Economic policy further illustrates the paradox of integrity under duress. Infrastructure projects, including rail lines, roads, and power facilities, were completed or accelerated. Social intervention programs were expanded. Yet inflation, unemployment, and poverty rates remained stubbornly high. For example, inflation reached double-digit levels in 2022, and the National Bureau of Statistics reported unemployment exceeding 33 percent in 2021. The book posits that Buhari’s commitment to ethical governance eschewing patronage and corruption sometimes conflicted with pragmatic economic interventions that could have alleviated immediate suffering, highlighting the burdens of integrity in office.

The biography also situates Buhari’s moral philosophy within the broader framework of public expectation. He was widely regarded as a man who rejected ostentation, faithfully declared his assets, and maintained a personal life detached from the trappings of power. Yet the book underscores a central question: Can personal virtue compensate for systemic dysfunction? Policies executed with moral clarity did not always produce equitable outcomes, reminding readers that integrity, however steadfast, does not insulate a society from consequence.

Public reception of the biography has mirrored the divided legacy it chronicles. Supporters emphasize Buhari’s unwavering commitment to principle, his efforts to curb corruption, and his steadfast leadership during challenging times. Critics focus on policy missteps, humanitarian fallout, and perceived aloofness. The biography itself has ignited debate over historical interpretation and the role of personal narrative in shaping public memory. Former Kaduna Governor Nasir el-Rufai described the book as potentially transforming Buhari’s legacy into a tool for narrow political interests, while analysts caution that literary accounts cannot fully capture the lived experiences of citizens affected by policy.

The book’s thematic core—power coupled with integrity—offers lessons not just about Buhari, but about governance itself. Leadership demands balancing moral conviction with the pragmatic complexities of a diverse nation. Buhari’s experience illustrates that personal integrity, while admirable, cannot operate in a vacuum. The mechanisms of state, the pressures of politics, and the unpredictability of human behavior inevitably shape outcomes in ways that moral intent alone cannot control. The biography does not shy away from these contradictions; it embraces them as part of the story.

Ultimately, From Soldier to Statesman positions Buhari as a figure whose public life cannot be divorced from private conviction. His military discipline, moral clarity, and personal austerity defined his approach to governance, even when structural realities and human behavior complicated the translation of those principles into policy. The narrative challenges readers to consider the burdens of integrity: the personal cost, the public expectation, and the unintended consequences that arise when principle meets the messy reality of nationhood. Nigeria, as much as Buhari himself, is the subject of this reflection.

In framing his legacy, the book refrains from offering final judgments. Instead, it presents evidence, testimony, and analysis, leaving readers to grapple with the complex interplay of power, family, and moral responsibility. It reminds us that leadership is seldom a matter of unalloyed success or failure. It is a negotiation between ideals and realities, between what a leader believes should happen and what the nation can sustain. Buhari’s story, as told in this biography, is emblematic of that tension, offering a prism through which to examine Nigeria’s own ongoing struggle with governance, morality, and the rule of law.

By revisiting Buhari through the lens of personal integrity and public consequence, the biography forces a recognition that moral leadership is not costless. Policies rooted in principle may impose hardship, familial loyalty may complicate governance, and the very discipline that preserves character may restrict flexibility. The book situates Buhari as a man aware of these burdens, striving to navigate them even when the outcomes were imperfect, sometimes harsh, but always reflective of a personal code of ethics that remained central to his identity.

In the final assessment, Muhammadu Buhari: From Soldier to Statesman is more than a recounting of elections, decrees, and family dynamics. It is an exploration of the paradoxes of leadership in Nigeria. Buhari’s life and presidency illuminate the dilemmas inherent in governing a nation of over 220 million people, the costs of maintaining integrity in office, and the consequences of holding principle above expediency. For students of politics, historians, and citizens alike, the book offers both a cautionary tale and a meditation on what it means to carry the weight of power with conscience as a guide. Buhari’s story, and Nigeria’s, are inseparable: a testament to the enduring tension between moral leadership and political reality, and a reflection on the burdens that accompany integrity at the highest level of governance.

Alabidun is a media practitioner and can be reached via alabidungoldenson@gmail.com