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

Passport Politics and the Cost of Reputation 

By Alabidun Shuaib AbdulRahman

The Nigerian Senate’s proposal to impose a 10-year passport ban on citizens convicted and deported from foreign countries has opened a serious national debate on justice, image, and identity. The bill, sponsored by Senator Bello Sani Abubakar (APC, Niger North), seeks to amend the Passport (Miscellaneous Provisions) Act, Cap P343, Laws of the Federation of Nigeria, 2004. It aims to deter criminal acts abroad and restore confidence in the Nigerian passport — a symbol of national identity that has, over the years, been battered by global perception.

At first glance, the intent appears patriotic. It was argued that too many Nigerians engage in criminal or unethical activities abroad, damaging the reputation of the country and, by extension, every law-abiding citizen who carries the green passport. Indeed, data from various international agencies suggest that the concern is not unfounded. Between 2019 and 2024, the United States deported about 902 Nigerians, while India deported 1,470 in its 2023–24 fiscal year, citing immigration violations and minor crimes. Similar deportations have been recorded in the UAE, Malaysia, and parts of Europe. Lawmakers contend that these repeated incidents have eroded global trust in Nigerian travellers, resulting in tighter visa scrutiny, denial rates, and the humiliation many experience at airports worldwide.

The proposal, therefore, is designed as a deterrent. A signal that the Nigerian state will not tolerate misconduct abroad and is ready to take decisive measures to protect its image. The logic seems straightforward: if citizens know that crime abroad could cost them their passport for a decade, they might think twice before engaging in it. The move could also assure the global community that Nigeria is policing its own, taking responsibility for the behaviour of its nationals beyond its borders. In a world where perception often shapes policy, such assertiveness could, in theory, help rebrand Nigeria as a nation of accountability.

However, beneath this logic lies a complex moral and legal dilemma. While the desire to defend Nigeria’s image is legitimate, the method proposed risks becoming excessive, even counterproductive. Deportation is not always the outcome of criminality. In many cases, it stems from administrative or civil issues such as expired visas, job loss, or immigration policy changes. To punish deportees with a sweeping 10-year travel ban would mean treating minor infractions and serious crimes as equals, an approach that undermines justice rather than upholds it.

More troubling is the difficulty of verifying the circumstances of conviction abroad. Legal systems differ widely, and not all convictions reflect fair trials. Nigerians living abroad often face racial bias, poor legal representation, and systemic discrimination. To automatically penalise them at home based on foreign judgments could amount to endorsing injustice committed elsewhere. A Nigerian unjustly convicted in an unfair jurisdiction should not return to face additional punishment in his own country. That would be double jeopardy — a violation of Nigeria’s constitutional guarantees of fair hearing and human dignity.

The Senate must also weigh the potential economic and diplomatic fallout. Nigeria’s diaspora community is one of its greatest national assets. According to the World Bank, diaspora remittances totalled $21.9 billion in 2023, a figure that in some quarters surpassed oil earnings. These funds support families, fuel local economies, and stabilise the naira. A policy that stigmatizes deported Nigerians could alienate this vast network of contributors and discourage their engagement with the country. It could also project Nigeria as a state quick to disown its citizens rather than rehabilitate them.

Furthermore, the proposed law raises questions of practicality. How will enforcement work? Will the Nigeria Immigration Service maintain a central database of affected individuals? What oversight will exist to ensure that wrongful inclusion is avoided? In the absence of clear administrative safeguards, the policy could be vulnerable to abuse, selective enforcement, or political manipulation. Nigeria’s bureaucracy has a long history of inconsistent record-keeping and arbitrary decision-making; giving it such sweeping power over citizens’ mobility could easily lead to miscarriages of justice.

On the international stage, the proposed ban sends mixed messages. While some foreign governments may view it as Nigeria taking responsibility for its citizens’ actions, human rights observers might see it as excessive and punitive. Image rehabilitation cannot be achieved merely through punishment. A nation’s reputation improves when it demonstrates fairness, transparency, and a commitment to justice and not when it adopts harsh measures to appear firm. A ten-year passport ban may create the illusion of strength but, in practice, could deepen Nigeria’s reputation for bureaucratic overreach and human rights insensitivity.

The real solution lies not in exclusion but in reform. To reclaim the dignity of its passport, Nigeria must address the root causes driving misconduct and illegal migration. Many Nigerians who fall into legal trouble abroad do so out of desperation. Many are victims of poverty, unemployment, and systemic failure at home. The unemployment rate, which stood at 5% in 2024 (by redefined metrics), still hides a massive informal sector and underemployment crisis. Every year, tens of thousands of young Nigerians risk dangerous migration routes, not because they seek crime, but because they seek opportunity. Criminalising them after deportation without addressing the structural pressures that pushed them out would be a misdiagnosis of the problem.

Examples abound of better approaches. The Philippines once faced similar embarrassment when many of its nationals were jailed or deported from Gulf countries. Rather than punish them, the government introduced reintegration programmes offering skills training, counselling, and financial support. Within a decade, deportation numbers declined, and the country’s global image improved. Nigeria could learn from such models — building systems that reform and reintegrate, rather than alienate, citizens who stumble abroad.

That said, the bill’s underlying message that Nigeria must take its global image seriously is valid. The Nigerian passport ranks 88th globally in the July 2025 Henley Passport Index, with visa-free access to a few countries. This is not just a function of global politics. It reflects how other nations perceive our systems, integrity, and international conduct. Rebuilding trust will require a multi-pronged strategy that includes modernising passport security to meet global standards, curbing domestic corruption, strengthening the justice system, and intensifying diplomatic engagement. These measures, not blanket bans, will persuade the world that Nigeria respects global norms and values.

If properly refined, the bill could still play a constructive role. Rather than imposing a flat ten-year ban, a graded system could be introduced, linking the length of travel restrictions to the severity of the offence. Individuals convicted of serious crimes such as drug trafficking, human trafficking, or cybercrime could face longer restrictions, while those deported for minor infractions might undergo rehabilitation programmes before reinstatement. The law could also include a right of appeal, ensuring that justice remains corrective rather than vindictive.

Ultimately, Nigeria’s challenge is not about passports alone but also about identity and credibility in a rapidly changing world. The green passport has long symbolised both the promise and the paradox of the Nigerian state, proud in potential, yet burdened by perception. Restoring its dignity requires more than punitive laws. It demands moral leadership, institutional reform, and an unwavering commitment to fairness. The Senate’s concern is valid, but the method must be smarter, fairer, and rooted in human rights.

The danger of reactionary legislation is that it mistakes appearances for substance. The true strength of a nation lies not in how harshly it disciplines its citizens but in how justly it governs them. Nigeria will command global respect not when it bans more passports, but when it builds a society where fewer citizens feel compelled to tarnish the nation’s name abroad.

Dangote vs PENGASSAN: When Labour Rights Collide with National Dreams

By Alabidun Shuaib AbdulRahman

The simmering conflict between the Petroleum and Natural Gas Senior Staff Association of Nigeria (PENGASSAN) and the Dangote Refinery is not just another workplace quarrel. It is a test case for how Nigeria intends to balance labour rights with its desperate need for industrial transformation. The refinery, a 650,000 barrels-per-day behemoth hailed as Africa’s largest, is meant to save Nigeria from the chokehold of fuel importation. But now, just as its promise begins to unfold, it is caught in the turbulence of labour agitation.

At the core of the dispute is PENGASSAN’s demand for recognition and collective bargaining rights for its members within the refinery. Reports suggest that Dangote Industries Limited has been reluctant to fully embrace union representation, raising questions about compliance with Nigeria’s labour laws and international conventions that guarantee workers the freedom of association. For PENGASSAN, which has long stood as a formidable force in Nigeria’s oil and gas sector, this is not simply about one employer. It is about setting a precedent in a sector that could define Nigeria’s industrial future.

Although globally, these issues are common in large refinery operations. India’s Paradip Refinery experienced a massive strike in 2021 involving over 10,000 workers demanding better conditions. Brazil’s Petrobras has repeatedly faced union pushback, including a 2015 strike that cut production by 20 percent. In South Africa, chemical and refinery workers have staged strikes that paralysed supply until wage agreements were reached. The lesson is clear: mega refineries and mega unions often collide, and resolution depends on structured dialogue rather than confrontation.

Nigeria’s own history mirrors this global trend. Chevron, Shell, and other multinationals have clashed with PENGASSAN and NUPENG over welfare, pensions, and layoffs. In many cases, government intervention has served as the dealbreaker, with the Ministry of Labour stepping in to mediate. The Dangote Refinery dispute, however, is unique because of its dual nature — a privately owned enterprise with public ownership through NNPCL’s 20 percent stake. This means that the Nigerian state cannot sit idle while the project wobbles under labour unrest.

The facts speak loudly. According to the National Bureau of Statistics, industrial disputes cost Nigeria over N1.3 trillion between 2016 and 2021, with oil and gas taking the lion’s share. Global data from the International Trade Union Confederation further show that countries with robust collective bargaining systems — like Sweden and Denmark — record fewer strike days and higher productivity. Nigeria, with its fragile economy, can ill-afford prolonged shutdowns at the refinery that has been billed as the silver bullet for its foreign exchange crisis.

The International Labour Organization (ILO) conventions 87 and 98, both ratified by Nigeria, enshrine workers’ rights to organise and bargain collectively. If Dangote Industries ignores these obligations, it risks international criticism, reputational damage, and domestic instability. Yet, PENGASSAN also has a responsibility to frame its demands within the context of national economic realities. Striking a balance between workers’ rights and the refinery’s survival is the only path forward.

This is where lessons from global practice become crucial. In Germany, labour disputes in refineries are addressed through codetermination, where unions sit on company boards, ensuring dialogue before crisis. In Brazil and India, strikes often end with phased agreements that allow employers time to adjust while workers secure incremental gains. Nigeria must look in this direction, creating a structured negotiation platform that protects workers without crippling the refinery.

For Dangote, recognising PENGASSAN is not capitulation; it is an investment in industrial peace. For PENGASSAN, pressing its case should not come across as a political siege but as a constructive effort to align the refinery with global best practices. And for government, silence is not an option. With NNPCL as a shareholder, Abuja must assume its statutory role in preventing a strike that could cripple the very project marketed as Nigeria’s energy salvation.

The bigger picture cannot be ignored. The refinery was sold to Nigerians as a symbol of hope, a project that would slash fuel import bills, stabilise forex, and create jobs. But if its foundation is marred by labour unrest, it risks becoming another symbol of Nigeria’s chronic inability to balance growth with fairness. The refinery must not be allowed to mirror the failures of Ajaokuta Steel, where poor labour and policy management condemned a massive project to decades of waste.

The PENGASSAN–Dangote imbroglio is therefore not just about wages or recognition. It is about whether Nigeria can truly run world-class industrial projects without sacrificing the dignity of its workers. It is about whether labour rights and national dreams can co-exist. The choice before both sides is stark: confrontation that could stall progress, or dialogue that could set a benchmark for labour relations in Africa’s largest refinery.

History offers a blunt truth: great refineries around the world have all faced labour disputes. What distinguishes successful ones is not the absence of conflict but the maturity of resolution. Nigeria has a chance to show such maturity now. If PENGASSAN and Dangote sit across the table and forge an agreement, they will not only save a refinery but also script a new chapter in Nigeria’s industrial history. If they do not, the dream of energy independence could collapse under the weight of industrial disharmony.

In the end, the refinery must not only refine crude oil; it must also refine Nigeria’s labour practices. That is the true test of national transformation.