Nigeria’s infrastructure dilemma isn’t just about concrete and steel—it’s a political chess game where every road built or left unbuilt tells a story. President Bola Tinubu’s recent remarks to state governors about halting unnecessary flyovers in low-traffic zones feel less like a budgetary directive and more like a veiled rebuke to entrenched power dynamics. Here’s the thing: when a leader tells governors to stop spending on flashy projects and instead invest in foundational networks, they’re not just talking about traffic flow. They’re talking about control, accountability, and the quiet redistribution of influence. I’ve seen this pattern before. Infrastructure projects often serve as political trophies, but Tinubu’s push for artery roads and security access hints at a deeper strategy—one that prioritizes functional governance over symbolic gestures.
Let’s unpack this. The president mentioned states now receiving four to five times their previous federal allocations. That’s a staggering sum, yet the focus remains on flyovers. Why? Because flyovers are visible, tangible, and easy to politicize. They become monuments to a governor’s legacy, even if they’re built in areas where traffic doesn’t justify them. But Tinubu’s argument is simple: if you have the money to build a bridge over a dirt road, why not fix the roads that connect people to hospitals, schools, and markets? Personally, I think this is a masterstroke. By redirecting funds to arterial networks, he’s forcing states to confront the real needs of their citizens—needs that can’t be ignored without consequences. It’s a subtle but powerful way to shift priorities from image-making to impact.
Then there’s the Oriire school abductions. Tinubu’s refusal to negotiate with terrorists is bold, but it’s also a calculated risk. When he says, ‘We refuse to pay ransom,’ he’s not just making a moral stand—he’s sending a message to both criminals and his own security forces. This isn’t just about saving lives; it’s about redefining the terms of engagement. What makes this particularly fascinating is the contrast between his hardline stance and the logistical realities of Nigeria’s security landscape. The military’s expansion from eight to twelve divisions isn’t just about numbers; it’s about creating a psychological edge. If you’re a terrorist, knowing that the state is now capable of rapid, coordinated responses might deter you. But if you’re a citizen, you’re left wondering: does this mean more boots on the ground, or more bureaucracy?
The mention of state police raises another layer of complexity. Establishing local police forces sounds like a good idea, but the history of Nigerian law enforcement is littered with examples of institutional abuse. Tinubu’s assurance that these forces will have ‘guardrails’ against misuse is reassuring, but let’s be honest—guardrails are only as strong as the will to enforce them. What many people don’t realize is that this move could either decentralize power effectively or create new pockets of corruption. Traditional rulers being given a role in security is equally intriguing. Are they being positioned as mediators, or as extensions of state control? It’s a delicate balance, and one that could either strengthen community trust or deepen existing divides.
Finally, the regional security context can’t be ignored. Tinubu’s acknowledgment of instability in Mali, Burkina Faso, and Niger isn’t just geopolitical window-dressing. It’s a recognition that Nigeria’s problems are part of a larger Sahel crisis. But here’s the rub: while expanding military capacity is necessary, it’s not a silver bullet. The real challenge lies in addressing the root causes—poverty, education, and governance—without which even the most well-equipped forces will struggle. What this really suggests is that Nigeria’s security strategy is a work in progress, one that will require more than just new divisions and police stations. It’ll need a cultural shift, a willingness to confront uncomfortable truths, and a commitment to long-term solutions over short-term fixes. And that, frankly, is the hardest part of all.
