Freeloaders’ creed

Freeloaders’ creed

The story is as old as the first misstep of our fledgling republic. But the truth bears repeating because the wound festers still, growing deeper with each cut. While reporting recently on this very topic, I found myself drawn yet again to the performance and unholy alliance between the common man and the bureaucrat—each playing his part in a silent sabotage.

A recent tour of Lagos brought me face to face with the latest act in this ongoing drama. Electricity marketers and technicians spin their webs, bypassing meters as deftly as any thief might pick a pocket. The people nod approvingly, grateful for the temporary relief. The electricity they siphon becomes not a crime, but a necessity, a balm for their daily hardships.

“We had no choice,” they say, the mantra of a thousand justifications. But beneath this veneer of desperation lies a stark reality—every stolen kilowatt-hour is a dagger thrust into the heart of the nation’s future.

Francisca Pajok, a hairdresser in her mid-thirties, is one such character in this unfolding tragedy. In the dim light of her salon, her idle hands tell the story of a business that has learned to steal its survival. Her generator hums softly outside, its power fed not by the legitimate flow of electricity but by a covert artery—her tampered metre. Pajok feels no guilt, no shame, just revulsion over being found out and disconnected. She is a product of a society where it is not theft if it is survival.

It is this sentiment, this collective shrugging of responsibility, that has become the hallmark of our national psyche. Nigerians feel aggrieved, wronged by a system that promises much but delivers little. And perhaps, they are not entirely wrong. After all, the labyrinthine corridors of public governance in this country are filled with bureaucrats fattening themselves on the spoils of corruption. To dwell too long on their deviousness would be to digress—today’s focus is not the thieving civil servant but the citizens who have mastered the art of dodging their dues while loudly demanding services of the finest quality.

Yet, we cannot ignore the symbiotic relationship between the corrupt official and the citizen who thrive in the shadow of their malfeasance. For every Pajok bypassing her metre, there is a public utility official turning a blind eye, a hand outstretched for a cut of the spoils. This quiet complicity erodes the very foundations of our state. The roads crumble, the hospitals run dry, and the schools rot from within. But still, we demand more.

And what of the taxes, those lifeblood contributions every citizen owes their nation? Ah, taxes—the ultimate taboo in a country where everyone wants to benefit, but no one wants to pay, even corporate citizens, especially while profit is steady. This sentiment is shared by many, who feel the government is a monolith of ineptitude and corruption, undeserving of their hard-earned naira.

They argue, with some merit, however, that taxes are squandered by public officials who live in obscene luxury while the rest of the country suffers. But in this tangled dance of evasion and entitlement, we forget the simple truth: a government starved of revenue cannot function. Every dodged tax is a school unfunded, a hospital without medicine, a bridge left unbuilt.

The freeloading infects every corner of society, from the slums to the boardrooms and illicit black markets. Mohammed, for instance, lived off the widening gap between official and parallel exchange rates, amassing a fortune as he arbitraged Nigeria’s currency crisis. But President Bola Tinubu’s floatation of the naira has shrunk those margins. “It’s impossible to make any profit now,” Mohammed laments, blind to the larger truth—that his wealth was never built on real value, only on the quicksand of speculation.

Mohammed’s loss, like Pajok’s silent theft, is symptomatic of a larger sickness—a nation addicted to shortcuts. Instead of building real industries, creating sustainable businesses, or investing in infrastructure, Nigerians have long preferred the game of quick gains. The naira has become a mere token in this game, a fragile thing bet upon like dice in the hands of gamblers.

This, then, is the heart of the issue: a society caught in the cycle of evasion, from taxes to currency, from responsibilities to realities. Economic analyst, Tope Fasua, paints a bleak picture of a society betting against itself, citizens hoarding dollars and rooting for the collapse of their national currency. “When citizens lose faith in their own currency, all is lost,” he warns. The wealthy few who stockpile dollars cheer at the naira’s devaluation, blind to the ruin they are hastening. Their gains are short-lived; their profits, like smoke, vanish as inflation eats away at the nation’s lifeblood. Meanwhile, the masses—those without access to foreign currency—suffer the most, as the price of food, fuel, and basic necessities skyrockets.

Fasua’s words ring with eerie prophecy: “In time, the man with millions of dollars stashed away won’t be able to step out of his house, for there will be zombies waiting to devour him.”

It is a vivid metaphor for a society that has turned on itself, where the rich barricade themselves behind high walls, while the poor—zombified by poverty—lurk just beyond, hungry and desperate.

We have built for ourselves a fragile illusion, a fantasy where the government is an inexhaustible well of resources, and we are mere bystanders in the unfolding drama of national governance. But this illusion is crumbling.

Change must begin at the top. President Tinubu, in his sweeping reforms, has begun to address these issues. The removal of the fuel subsidy and the floatation of the naira are painful but necessary steps toward a more sustainable economy. But for these reforms to truly take root, the government itself must lead by example.

It is unconscionable to ask Nigerians to tighten their belts, while lawmakers and civil servants grow fat off the public purse. The salaries of public officials must be slashed, their perks curtailed. Only then can the government stand on moral ground when it asks its people to do their part. For as long as the ruling class lives in gilded bubbles, untouched by the stringent economic policies, the cycle of evasion will continue. Pajok will continue to steal electricity. Mohammed will find new ways to game the system.

The road to redemption will not be easy. It requires sacrifice—not just from the government, but from every Nigerian. Taxes must be paid. Services must be earned, not stolen. The freeloading must end. The light that Pajok steals is not just electricity; it is the future. The currency Mohammed traded in shadows is not just money; it is the potential for real growth that was squandered. The taxes they evade are not just funds—they are the schools, the roads, the hospitals that could lift this nation from its knees.

Nigeria’s future lies not in entitlement but in the hard work of every citizen, paying their dues, owning their responsibilities. Only then can we rise from the ashes of our own making.