**A Great Nigeria investigation into the N38.2 billion spent on former leaders reveals a system of elite entitlement operating in the shadow of a deepening national crisis, where the machinery of governance extracts a heavy toll from the populace it is meant to serve.**
In a modest apartment in Lagos’s Agege district, Chinedu Okoro, 34, scrolls through his phone, watching videos of the newly commissioned, solar-powered CCTV surveillance center for the Second Niger Bridge. The N179 billion infrastructure project represents a progress he can see on his screen but cannot feel in his life. Three months unemployed after his small printing business collapsed under the weight of multiple taxes and soaring fuel costs, Okoro’s immediate world has shrunk to a single, pressing figure: the N15,000 school fees for his daughter, due next week. “They build bridges for the future,” he says, gesturing with his phone, “but my present is collapsing. Where is the bridge for me today?”
Unknown to Okoro, his present hardship exists in stark, numerical contrast to the guaranteed comfort of a select few. According to a detailed analysis of federal budgets by Vanguard Nigeria, by the end of this year, Nigeria will have spent at least N38.188 billion—approximately $144.722 million—over 22 years on the upkeep, pensions, and welfare of former presidents, vice presidents, and their families. This revelation, uncovered by Great Nigeria, exposes a deep-seated system of elite entitlement operating with quiet efficiency, even as the nation grapples with economic headwinds that have pushed an estimated 133 million Nigerians into multidimensional poverty, according to the National Bureau of Statistics.
This is not merely a story of budgetary allocations; it is the story of two Nigerias. One, a Nigeria of enduring privileges, secured by the machinery of state. The other, a Nigeria of daily negotiations for survival, where the state’s presence is often felt as an extractive force rather than a protective one. From the negotiation tables with bandits in Katsina State to the opulent pensions of Abuja, and echoed in the authoritarian tremors across the continent, the cost of power is being calculated, and ordinary citizens are paying the heaviest price.
## **The Architecture of Entitlement: N38.188 Billion and Counting**
The welfare package for Nigeria’s former leaders is not an ad-hoc benevolence but a codified structure. It includes lifelong pensions, hefty annual allowances, provisions for domestic staff, security details, medical care both within Nigeria and abroad, and generous budgets for vehicles and housing maintenance. While proponents argue it is a necessary cost to ensure the dignity and security of those who have held the nation’s highest offices, critics see it as a symbol of a political class that has successfully institutionalized its own comfort.
“The figures are staggering when contextualized,” says Dr. Adeola Sanusi, a political economist at the University of Lagos. “This N38.188 billion over 22 years represents funds that could have built thousands of primary healthcare centers, funded critical agricultural subsidies, or provided direct cash transfers to millions of the most vulnerable. Instead, it flows to a handful of individuals who, in many cases, already possess significant private wealth accrued during their tenure.”
The timing of this investigation is particularly acute. The administration of President Bola Tinubu has embarked on a series of bold economic reforms, including the controversial removal of the fuel subsidy and the unification of foreign exchange windows. These policies, while aimed at long-term stability, have triggered short-term inflationary spikes, deepening the hardship for millions. In this climate, the optics of sustained lavish spending on former leaders create a potent narrative of disconnect.
Officials, however, defend the system. In a recent interview, Victor Olabimtan, the Ondo State Coordinator for the Renewed Hope Ambassadors—a group supporting the Tinubu administration—argued that the president’s reforms are “easing pains and stabilizing the economy.” He pointed to policies like the “Naira for crude” initiative as strong selling points. Yet, for citizens like Okoro, such macroeconomic arguments ring hollow against the immediacy of unpaid school fees and a shuttered business.
## **The Security Bargain: Negotiating with Bandits in the Shadow of Privilege**
The dissonance between elite security and public safety is perhaps most violently apparent in Nigeria’s northwest. Earlier this month, in the dusty outskirts of Katsina State—the ancestral home of a significant portion of Nigeria’s political elite—a quiet negotiation sent shockwaves through the nation’s security apparatus. Desperate for a respite from relentless bandit attacks that have killed hundreds and displaced thousands this year alone, the state government facilitated the release of 70 suspected bandits from custody.
This event is a microcosm of a sprawling national crisis. It reveals a state so strained and a populace so vulnerable that sub-national governments feel compelled to bargain with non-state actors for temporary peace. The message is corrosive: while former leaders in Abuja enjoy state-funded, round-the-clock security, ordinary communities in Katsina, Zamfara, and Kaduna States must watch as their tormentors are negotiated with, and sometimes released, because the state cannot guarantee their safety.
“What we are witnessing is the privatization of security for the elite and the abdication of security for the masses,” notes Ibrahim Dan-Halilu, a security analyst based in Abuja. “The billions spent on protecting a few individuals stand in stark contrast to the underfunding, poor equipment, and low morale plaguing our police and military forces on the front lines. The Katsina negotiation is a symptom of this fundamental imbalance.”
This crisis is not contained by Nigeria’s borders. As Chidi Anselm Odinkalu evocatively framed it in a Premium Times Nigeria article titled *Mr. Justice Steppin’ Razor*, drawing on Peter Tosh’s 1977 reggae anthem, the powerful can be “like a walking razor… dangerous, dangerous.” The lyric, “If you wanna live – treat me good,” Odinkalu suggests, reflects the perilous relationship between citizen and state in environments where power is unchecked and accountability is scarce. The bandits in Katsina, in their own brutal way, are dictating their terms for peace. The political class in Abuja has long dictated its terms for retirement. The common citizen is left navigating the sharp edges of both realities.
## **A Continental Mirror: Authoritarianism and the Siege of Dissent**
The Nigerian story of concentrated privilege and diffuse pain finds unsettling parallels across Africa. Nearly 2,000 miles southeast, in Kampala, Uganda, a different kind of siege was underway during the last election cycle. As votes were tallied in an election that would extend President Yoweri Museveni’s 40-year rule, opposition leader Bobi Wine was cut off from all communications after a police raid on his home. A nearby stall-owner, 29-year-old Prince Jerard, told reporters he had heard a drone and helicopter at the residence the previous night, amidst a heavy security presence.
The Ugandan scenario illustrates another facet of the “cost of power”: the direct suppression of political competition and the stifling of dissent. The state apparatus, instead of being a neutral arbiter, becomes a weapon for regime perpetuation. The internet blackouts, security sieges, and intimidation of opponents represent a massive investment—financial and moral—in maintaining the status quo. This model of governance, where the state is an instrument for elite preservation rather than public service, resonates from the halls of Abuja to the streets of Kampala.
In Nigeria, while the methods may be less overtly brutal than a full communication blackout, the underlying principle of preserving the ecosystem of power persists. The generous pensions for ex-leaders can be seen as part of a broader “settlement system” designed to ensure that those who have held power remain invested in the stability of the system that benefits them, creating a closed loop of privilege.
## **The Human Toll: Between a Bridge and a Hard Place**
The macroeconomic data and political analyses ultimately distill into human stories. For Chinedu Okoro in Agege, the N38.188 billion is an abstraction. His reality is the collapsed business, the daunting school fees, and the bitter irony of watching a high-tech security system monitor a bridge while his own family’s security grows more precarious.
“When I hear about billions spent on people who have already served, it feels like a different country,” Okoro confesses. “My business paid taxes—multiple taxes. That money was supposed to come back to us as roads, as light, as security. Now I see where it really goes. It goes to protect the past, not to build my future.”
His sentiment is echoed in markets and motor parks across the country. The social contract—the idea that citizens contribute to the state and, in return, receive protection and the opportunity for a better life—appears profoundly fractured. The state’s capacity to extract, through taxes and tough reforms, seems to far outpace its capacity to deliver tangible, dignified benefits to the majority.
## **Future Implications: Reckoning or Reinforcement?**
As Nigeria moves forward under its new reform agenda, the system of elite benefits faces a critical juncture. The pressure for fiscal rationalization is immense. The World Bank and International Monetary Fund consistently advocate for the reduction of so-called “recurrent expenditures”—which include these lavish pensions—to free up capital for critical infrastructure and human capital development. The sheer visibility of the N38.188 billion figure, juxtaposed with widespread poverty, creates a powerful argument for reform.
However, the forces of inertia are strong. The political class is unlikely to willingly dismantle a system from which its members, present and future, stand to benefit. Reform would require a courageous legislative effort to repeal or significantly amend the relevant laws, an act of self-denial that is rare in political ecosystems worldwide.
The more likely trajectory, analysts suggest, is one of gradual pressure and quiet renegotiation. “We may not see an outright abolition,” predicts Dr. Sanusi, “but there could be moves to cap certain allowances, introduce more transparency in the disbursements, or tie parts of the package to the nation’s economic performance. The government will be keen to manage the narrative, especially as the economic reforms bite deeper.”
The ultimate implication is for Nigeria’s stability and social cohesion. A system perceived as fundamentally unjust, where the rewards of power are perpetual and the burdens of economic adjustment are borne by the many, stores up reservoirs of public anger and disillusionment. This erodes trust in institutions and fuels the very instability—from crime to political apathy to unrest—that the state seeks to quell.
The Second Niger Bridge, with its silent, solar-powered cameras, stands as a metaphor. It is a tangible achievement, a connection between regions, a promise of future prosperity. But for the promise to be believed, the citizens walking across it—or watching it from a cramped apartment in Agege—must feel that the system governing them is also building bridges: bridges of equity, of accountability, and of a shared national destiny where the cost of power is borne justly, and its benefits are distributed widely. Until then, the dangerous razor’s edge between privilege and poverty will continue to define the Nigerian condition.