A post has been making rounds across social media—one that lists the new directors appointed by the Central Bank of Nigeria (CBN) under Governor Yemi Cardoso. The names, sixteen in all, have been dissected with surgical precision, and the conclusion that’s gone viral is this: ten are Yoruba, while the Hausa and Igbo share the remaining six equally. And with that, the ever-familiar cry resurfaces—Tinubu’s government is nepotistic, or, as some have mockingly put it, he is “the president of the Oduduwa Republic.”
In truth, verifying the exact ethnic identities behind every name is tricky. But the appointments did happen—around March this year—and the political and emotional waves they’ve stirred are real and loud. This article doesn’t aim to validate numbers or statistics; rather, it seeks to understand why such reactions always seem inevitable and why the ghost of nepotism haunts every Nigerian administration, even before its first anniversary.
At the heart of growing anti-government sentiment under President Bola Ahmed Tinubu are two combustible forces: the suffocating weight of economic hardship and the creeping sense of exclusion. The removal of fuel subsidies, the naira’s painful float, and ballooning debt have not yielded the expected economic benefits. Inflation bites, despair spreads, and food prices defy logic. But while those economic blows can be attributed to inherited rot or global pressures, the perception of nepotism is seen as a deliberate choice—one that lies entirely in the president’s hands.
This is what puzzles many. Tinubu, after all, was marketed as a bridge-builder, a veteran strategist with friends and allies from every region. His marriage to Oluremi Tinubu—Christian, pastor, and of South-South origin—is often cited as proof of his pan-Nigerian spirit. So why, many ask, does his government increasingly appear regional, tribal, and insular?
To answer that, we must look beyond the man and stare directly into the mirror—the Nigerian society itself.
Every leader, no matter how noble, finds themselves battling the same accusations: favoritism, marginalization, tribalism. This isn’t just about presidents. It’s a systemic pattern that plays out in appointments, school admissions, and government contracts. The idea of federal character—a noble attempt to ensure inclusiveness—was born from the fear that power, in the wrong hands, would be used to benefit “our people” at the expense of others. But this solution, though well-intentioned, birthed new expectations: if you’re in power, you owe your people.
And so, the game of ethnic chess continues. People cheer when one of their own clinches a position of influence, not because they trust their integrity or competence, but because it signals access to resources and patronage. In many communities, leaders who “bring something home” are heroes—regardless of how they did it. But when those same communities find themselves excluded, they cry foul and preach equity.
Take a look around: in Niger State, zoning helped calm ethnic tensions. But in Benue, the Tiv dominance is often criticized as monopolistic. The Igala once held sway in Kogi until Yahaya Bello shattered that pattern. South-West elites often scoff at zoning for school admissions yet rally behind calls for a rotational presidency. The hypocrisy is national.
This contradiction is so entrenched that nepotism, far from being an anomaly, is the expected norm. And that is the tragedy.
We expect the president to rise above the ethnocentric competition that consumes us all, even though we would hardly do differently in his place. In fact, ask any ordinary Nigerian: if they became president tomorrow, wouldn’t they be tempted to favor friends, classmates, family members—even out of sheer gratitude or emotional connection? I once jokingly asked a former classmate what he’d do if he ever became president. Without missing a beat, he “appointed” six of us to imaginary ministerial positions. I got “Minister of Communication.” We laughed—but there was an uncomfortable truth beneath that humor.
This isn’t just about emotion; it’s about survival, loyalty, and the unwritten obligations of kinship. And this emotional wiring doesn’t disappear in high office. Even Nasir El-Rufai, when once accused of awarding contracts only to his friends, reportedly quipped, “Should I give them to my enemies?” That joke, dark as it may seem, resonates with many Nigerians—because it’s how the system actually works.
Of course, none of this is to defend nepotism. It’s corrosive, unjust, and antithetical to the very idea of a functional state. But to uproot it, we must confront the reality that it is not just the leaders who are guilty—it is all of us.
We apply double standards. We expect fairness from others but applaud favoritism when it benefits us. We scream “marginalization” when we’re outside the circle and chant “our turn” when we’re inside. Worse still, societal pressure often punishes leaders who try to do the right thing. A governor handing over to his deputy while traveling might be seen as weak—or worse, inviting betrayal—if the deputy hails from a different ethnic group.
We have created a society where equity is admirable in theory but punished in practice.
Even relationships perpetuate favoritism. Under Buhari, Prof. Ibrahim Gambari, despite his credentials, wielded less power as Chief of Staff than his predecessor, Abba Kyari—largely because Kyari was in the president’s inner circle. In every office, every classroom, every committee, people gravitate toward those they know, like, or share history with. Leadership is no different.
And so, if we truly want to understand why nepotism persists, we must admit the uncomfortable truth: we have created a system where it is almost inevitable. Faulty societal values, emotional expectations, and tribal calculations have made it so. Laws exist, yes, but laws cannot operate efficiently in societies where morality is relative and self-interest reigns supreme.
Tinubu, it must be said, has not done enough to erase the perception of favoritism. His controversial Muslim-Muslim ticket created unease, and his appointments, so far, have done little to allay fears of regional bias. The Southeast in particular remains notably underrepresented, and that silence is growing louder, now echoing across streets, screens, and stomachs.
But if we want to change that narrative, if we truly want to demand fairness from our leaders, we must first demand it from ourselves.
Until then, nepotism won’t just survive—it will thrive, because we have made it not a vice, but a virtue, wrapped in cultural pride and political convenience.
Mohammed can be reached at bagudumohammed15197@gmail.com and 07034943575
