By Busayo Cole

There’s an unacknowledged marvel in Nigeria, a national institution so revered and influential that its very mention invokes awe; and not a small dose of amnesia. I’m speaking, of course, about the glorious Memory Loss Clinic for the Elite, a facility where unsolved corruption cases go to receive a lifetime membership in our collective oblivion.

Take a walk down the memory lane of scandals past, and you’ll encounter a magical fog. Who remembers the details of the N2.5 billion pension fund scam? Anyone? No? Good. That’s exactly how the clinic works. Through a combination of political gymnastics, endless court adjournments, and public desensitisation, these cases are carefully wrapped in a blanket of vagueness. Brilliant, isn’t it?

The beauty of this clinic lies in its inclusivity. From the infamous Dasukigate, which popularised the phrase “arms deal” in Nigeria without actually arming anything, to the less publicised but equally mystifying NDDC palliative fund saga, the clinic accepts all cases with the same efficiency. Once enrolled, each scandal receives a standard treatment: strategic denial, temporary outrage, and finally, oblivion.

Not to be overlooked are the esteemed practitioners at this clinic: our very own politicians and public officials. Their commitment to forgetting is nothing short of Nobel-worthy. Have you noticed how effortlessly some officials transition from answering allegations one week to delivering keynote speeches on accountability the next? It’s an art form.

Then there’s the media, always ready to lend a hand. Investigative journalists dig up cases, splash them across headlines for a week or two, and then move on to the next crisis, leaving the current scandal to the skilled hands of the clinic’s erasure team. No one does closure better than us. Or rather, the lack thereof.

And let’s not forget the loyal citizens, the true heroes of this operation. We rant on social media, organise a protest or two, and then poof! Our collective short attention span is the lifeblood of the Memory Loss Clinic. Why insist on justice when you can unlook?

Take, for example, the Halliburton Scandal. In 2009, a Board of Inquiry was established under the leadership of Inspector-General of Police, Mike Okiro, to investigate allegations of a $182 million bribery scheme involving the American company Halliburton and some former Nigerian Heads of State. Despite Halliburton admitting to paying the bribes to secure a $6 billion contract for a natural gas plant, the case remains unresolved. The United States fined the companies involved, but in Nigeria, the victims of the corruption: ordinary citizens, received no compensation, and no one was brought to justice. The investigation, it seems, was yet another patient admitted to the clinic.

Or consider the Petroleum Trust Fund Probe, which unraveled in the late 1990s. Established during General Sani Abacha’s regime and managed by Major-General Muhammadu Buhari, the PTF’s operations were scrutinised when Chief Olusegun Obasanjo assumed office in 1999. The winding-down process uncovered allegations of mismanagement, dubious dealings, and a sudden, dramatic death of a key figure, Salihijo Ahmad, the head of the PTF’s sole management consultant. Despite the drama and the revelations, the case quietly faded into obscurity, leaving Nigerians with more questions than answers.

Then there is the colossal case of under-remittance of oil and gas royalties and taxes. The Federal Government, through the Special Presidential Investigatory Panel (SPIP), accused oil giants like Shell, Agip, and the NNPC of diverting billions of dollars meant for public coffers. Allegations ranged from falsified production figures to outright embezzlement. Despite detailed accusations and court proceedings, the cases were abandoned after the SPIP’s disbandment in 2019. As usual, the trail of accountability disappeared into thin air, leaving the funds unaccounted for and the public betrayed yet again.

Of course, this institution isn’t without its critics. Some stubborn Nigerians still insist on remembering. Creating spreadsheets, tracking cases, and daring to demand accountability. To these radicals, I say: why fight the tide? Embrace the convenience of selective amnesia. Life is easier when you don’t worry about where billions disappeared to or why someone’s cousin’s uncle’s housemaid’s driver has an oil block.

As World Anti-Corruption Day comes and goes, let us celebrate the true innovation of our time. While other nations are busy prosecuting offenders and recovering stolen funds, we have mastered the fine art of forgetting. Who needs convictions when you have a clinic this efficient? Oh, I almost forgot the anti-corruption day as I sent my draft to a correspondent very late. Don’t blame me, I am just a regular at the clinic.

So, here’s to Nigeria’s Memory Loss Clinic, a shining beacon of how to “move on” without actually moving forward. May it continue to thrive, because let’s face it: without it, what would we do with all these unsolved corruption cases? Demand justice? That’s asking a lot. Better to forget and focus on the next election season. Who knows? We might even re-elect a client of the clinic. Wouldn’t that be poetic?

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a new scandal to ignore.

Busayo Cole is a Branding and Communications Manager who transforms abstract corporate goals into actionable, sparkling messaging. It’s rumored that 90% of his strategic clarity is powered by triple-shot espresso, and the remaining 10% is sheer panic. He can be reached via busayo@busayocole.com. 

By Prince Charles Dickson, PhD

The inability to pronounce the letter r is called rhotacism—a quiet irony in speech pathology, where sufferers lack the tongue to name their condition. Nigeria today appears afflicted by a similar policy disorder: an incapacity to articulate the real threats to learning, safety, and development, while endlessly announcing their symptoms. The reflexive closure of schools across states, often with the Federal Government’s blessing, is not merely a security response; it is a linguistic failure of governance. We cannot pronounce the problem, so we silence the classroom.

At surface level, school closures masquerade as prudence. No leader wants abducted children, grieving parents, viral outrage. But development practice teaches us to distrust surface logic. If classrooms are unsafe, what calculus deems campuses secure? If primary schools are closed in the name of vulnerability, why do lecture halls hum, convocation grounds fill, churches and mosques swell, markets bustle, and political rallies roar? The policy geometry is incoherent. Risk does not dissolve with age brackets or academic levels; it migrates along opportunity lines. Violence, like water, flows where barriers are weakest—not where regulations are loudest.

The headline figures tell a damning story. Over 42,000 schools categorized as vulnerable. A $30 million Safe School Initiative announced, lauded, and then largely evaporated into PowerPoint memory. What exactly has closure achieved in this arithmetic? If risk prompted closure, closure must prompt mitigation. Yet what we witness is substitution, not solution. Strategy is replaced by symbolism. Doors are shut to demonstrate action while the engines of threat, the logistics, financing, intelligence gaps, and ungoverned spaces remain scandalously intact.

The first ethical question is not poetic distrust; it is arithmetic ethics. How many days of learning are lost per closure? How many children drift permanently out of school into child labor, early marriage, recruitment pipelines, or migration traps? Empirical evidence across fragile contexts, from the Sahel to Northeast Nigeria, shows that prolonged closures fracture educational trajectories irreversibly. A classroom shut today becomes a livelihood foreclosed tomorrow. When education systems stall, insecurity does not retreat; it recruits.

Development is not administered by press statements. It is built through boring, relentless infrastructure—data infrastructure, trust infrastructure, and response infrastructure. Consider Community Early Warning Systems (CEWS). Where they exist and function, attacks are anticipated, routes mapped, and escalation interrupted. Where they are absent, closure becomes the blunt instrument of last resort. Yet how many states have meaningfully integrated CEWS into school security architecture? How many have empowered bodies to convene multi-actor protection coalitions that include women, youth, traditional leaders, transport unions, and faith networks? The chalk does not hold risk; the cheque does. And the cheque has been shamefully mute.

Security is not the absence of pupils; it is the presence of intelligence. Closing schools without opening data is policy rhotacism. We cannot pronounce “threat mapping,” so we mouth “shutdown.” We cannot say “transport node vulnerability,” so we say “holiday.” We cannot articulate “perimeter hardening and community interception routes,” so we declare “postponement.” The oxygen of risk—enrolment points, travel corridors, marketplaces abutting school fences requires monitoring in real time. If threat mapping did not intensify the moment schools closed, then the threat merely changed address, not behavior.

The contradiction deepens when worship spaces remain open. Christian Association of Nigeria congregations gather. Nigeria Supreme Council for Islamic Affairs convenes faithful. If the doctrine is crowd risk, the exemptions are indefensible. If the doctrine is youth vulnerability, then universities must not be exempt. If the doctrine is intelligence deficit, then closure is an admission of systemic failure. You cannot claim safety by relocating learning into chaos. Faith spaces recognize a truth policy forgets: protection flows from relationship density. The congregation knows its strangers. Does the school gate?

Globally, contexts plagued by school-related violence have moved in the opposite direction—not toward retreat, but toward smart hardening. Drone reconnaissance over school corridors. AI-assisted risk scoring that fuses incident data, weather, market days, and movement patterns. Platforms to defuse land, grazing, and community disputes before they metastasize into school-adjacent violence. Psychosocial resilience units embedded in schools. Community rangers trained, insured, and supervised, not as vigilantes but as guardians accountable to law. Transparent pilots with public dashboards. Sanctions for local leaders who ignore warning signals. None of this is theoretical.

Because closure is administratively convenient. It transfers responsibility from execution to explanation. Once schools are shut, failure becomes abstract. Metrics blur. When exactly did the risk reduce? Who measures it? At what threshold does reopening occur? Without benchmarks, closure becomes the chief KPI of insecurity governance. That is not security architecture; it is security bureaucracy—forms without force, memos without muscle.

Local Government Areas on volatile frontiers—whether in Niger State or Kogi are living laboratories of conciliation culture. Traditional dispute resolution, faith mediation, women-led early warning, youth intelligence networks; these are not weaknesses to be ignored until Abuja’s biro approves boots on the ground. They are strengths to be funded, trained, and supervised. Development practice demands co-design. Are LGA leaders co-authoring protection protocols, or passively awaiting circulars? Centralization kills time; time kills children’s futures.

The opportunity costs of closure are staggering and gendered. Girls pay first and longest. Distance learning fantasies collapse where electricity, devices, and safety at home are uneven. Boys drift into non-state labor or armed networks promising income and belonging. Teachers disengage. Trust between communities and state frays further. When schools finally reopen—if they do—the damage is cumulative. Closure does not pause risk; it compounds it.

There is also a moral hazard. Normalizing closure teaches adversaries what works. Disrupt learning to extract concessions. Threaten the symbol to paralyze the system. Deterrence requires resilience. A state that keeps schools open while hardening them sends a different signal: intimidation will not erase futures.

To be clear, this is not romantic defiance. There are moments when temporary closure is warranted. But temporary requires temporality: timelines, triggers, alternatives. Closure without an accompanying surge in intelligence, infrastructure, and accountability is futility dressed as care. It is rhotacism—the inability to name and thus cure the disease.

So, the unperfumed questions must persist. What exactly is being done differently today that was not urgent yesterday? Where are the transparent pilots funded by the Safe School Initiative? Who owns the dashboards? Which perimeters were hardened, which routes monitored, which sanctions enforced? Who measures risk reduction, and when is bureaucracy upgraded into architecture?

Shutting schools may shelter minds briefly. But without strategy that attacks the root—financing of violence, data blindness, local exclusion, and accountability gaps—it only shelters the conscience of policy. Until answers arrive with evidence of execution, Nigeria’s schools are not closed for safety. They are closed for convenience. And convenience, like rhotacism, leaves us unable to pronounce the truth. May Nigeria win.

By Blaise Udunze

Nigeria’s national mood is tense. The country is facing economic hardship, insecurity, public distrust in institutions, and an increasingly widening gap between citizens and their government. Yet, in the midst of this fragility, a quiet administrative action by the Federal Inland Revenue Service (FIRS) has sparked a storm of public concern, political accusations, and renewed debate over who truly controls Nigeria’s revenue system.

The controversy began when the FIRS quietly announced the appointment of Xpress Payment Solutions Limited, a fast-rising Nigerian fintech company, as a Treasury Single Account (TSA) collecting agent, effectively giving the company authority to process federal government tax payments through the TaxPro Max platform. With this appointment, taxpayers can now remit Company Income Tax, Value Added Tax, Withholding Tax, and other federal payments using XpressPay or the company’s in-branch e-Cashier platform.

At first glance, the move appears technical and harmless, perhaps even a necessary step to modernize Nigeria’s digital tax infrastructure. But almost immediately, outrage erupted across political, civil society, and economic circles. And within hours, the debate had escalated into what is now being framed as a national question: Is Nigeria witnessing the quiet re-emergence of a revenue cartel, this time on a federal scale?

A Tax Gatekeeper Emerges Silently

Xpress Payments is not an unfamiliar name in Nigeria’s fintech landscape. Incorporated in 2016, the company has grown steadily, offering secure payment gateways, switching services, and enterprise financial solutions. Its Acting Managing Director, Wale Olayisade, expressed delight at the appointment, describing it as a major milestone, “We are honoured to be selected by FIRS. Our systems are built to ensure ease, speed, and security for every transaction.”

He insisted that taxpayers would enjoy a seamless, transparent, and reliable experience.

Ordinarily, such remarks should settle nerves. But the public response was anything but calm. Citizens and political stakeholders immediately raised a torrent of questions:

–       Why was this appointment announced quietly, without public consultation?

–       What new value does Xpress Payments add that existing TSA channels, such as Remita, do not already provide?

–       Were there competitive bids?

–       What are the contract terms, and who benefits financially?

–       Why concentrate such a sensitive national function in private hands at a time when transparency is already strained?

The silence from government circles only deepened the suspicion. In governance, especially around revenue, silence is not neutrality; it is oxygen for mistrust.

Atiku Abubakar Explodes: “This Is Lagos-Style State Capture”

The loudest reaction came from former Vice President Atiku Abubakar, who issued one of his most forceful statements in recent years. Atiku accused the Federal Government of attempting to replicate the same at a national scale. The controversial Lagos revenue model was dominated for years by Alpha Beta, a private firm accused of enjoying a monopoly over the state’s revenue pipeline.

In his words, “This is the resurrection of the Alpha Beta revenue cartel. What we are witnessing now is an attempt to nationalise that template.”

Atiku warned that the move could concentrate power around politically connected private actors, enabling them to sit at the centre of federal revenue flows. He questioned the timing, calling it insensitive given the nationwide grief over insecurity, “When a nation is mourning, leadership should show empathy, not expand private revenue pipelines.”

He issued five demands:

1. Immediate suspension of the Xpress Payments appointment
2. Full disclosure of contract terms and beneficiaries
3. A comprehensive audit of TSA operations
4. A legal framework preventing private proxies from controlling public revenue
5. A shift in national priorities toward security and transparent governance

His final warning was blunt, “Nigeria’s revenues are not political spoils. They are the lifeblood of our national survival.”

The Ghost of Alphabeta: Why Nigerians Are Worried

For many Nigerians, this controversy triggers painful memories of earlier private-sector dominance over public revenue. The “Alphabeta era” in Lagos is widely remembered, fairly or unfairly, as a time when a single private company appeared to dominate the state’s tax collection landscape, shrouded in secrecy and controversy.

Nigeria’s fear is simple:

–       If revenue collection becomes controlled by one or two private companies, transparency dies, and corruption flourishes.

–       Allowing private entities to sit between taxpayers and government can create:

• Monopoly power
• Inflated service fees
• Data privacy concerns
• Political weaponization of revenue information
• Institutional dependency
• Centralization of sensitive national data

Each of these risks has real consequences for economic stability.

FIRS’ Defence: “It Is Only an Additional Option”

To be fair, the FIRS insists that Xpress Payments is only one of several available channels, not the exclusive gatekeeper. Remita and other payment service providers remain operational.

According to FIRS, the move is part of a broader effort to modernize and expand taxpayer options within the TSA. In a functional environment, this would be welcomed as healthy competition. But Nigerians are not reacting to the announcement; they are reacting to the pattern:

–       Sudden appointments

–       Lack of transparency

–       Political undertones

–       Private-sector centralization of public revenue

–       Timing that coincides with widespread economic strain

The concern is not the company itself; it is the impenetrability surrounding how such decisions are made.

The Big Tax Picture: Major Reforms Coming in January 2026

While the Xpress Payments controversy rages, Nigeria is simultaneously preparing for the most ambitious tax reform in decades, one that may change how individuals and businesses perceive taxation entirely.

The reforms, spearheaded by the Presidential Fiscal Policy and Tax Reforms Committee, chaired by Mr. Taiwo Oyedele, will take effect in January 2026, and they promise sweeping changes.

1. Drastic Reduction of Tax Burden on 98 percent of Nigerians

Oyedele has repeatedly emphasized, “You will pay less or no tax if you are in the bottom 98 percent of income earners.” Under the new regime:

–       Workers earning below N800,000 annually pay zero personal income tax.

–       Basic food, healthcare, education, and public transport become VAT-exempt, lowering living costs.

–       Small companies (turnover ≤ N100m) will pay zero corporate tax, zero capital gains tax, and be exempt from the new 4 percent development levy.

2. Consolidation of Multiple Tax Laws

The reform merges numerous existing laws, CITA, PITA, VAT Act, CGT Act, into a unified tax code. This eliminates duplication, confusion, and overlapping mandates that have plagued Nigeria for decades.

3. Increased CGT for Companies, Fairer Rates for Individuals

–       Companies now pay 30 percent CGT.

–       Individuals pay CGT based on their income band.

4. Tax on Digital and Virtual Asset Profits

The reforms modernize the tax base to include digital transactions and virtual assets.

5. Export Incentives

Profits from goods exported will now be income tax-free, provided proceeds are repatriated legally.

6. Stronger Tax Institutions

A new Nigeria Revenue Service (NRS) will become the sole federal tax collector, while the Tax Ombudsman will resolve disputes.

7. President Tinubu Sets Up an Implementation Committee

To ensure smooth rollout, President Tinubu has approved the National Tax Policy Implementation Committee (NTPIC) chaired by Joseph Tegbe and supervised by Minister of Finance, Wale Edun.

The goal:

Improve compliance, reduce leakages, and reinforce fiscal sustainability.

So, Why Are Nigerians Still Worried?

Because reform alone does not guarantee trust. Nigerians welcome the promise of lower taxes, simpler laws, and less harassment. But they fear that while the tax burden may be reduced, the control over tax collection may be quietly shifting into private hands.

The unsettling question persists:

–       How can a nation modernize its tax system while simultaneously outsourcing its revenue gateways?

–       What Exactly Is the Risk?

1. Over-Centralization of Revenue Gateways

Even if Xpress Payments is “an option,” such appointments can slowly evolve into de facto monopolies, especially in Nigeria, where political influence often determines market dominance.

2. Data Privacy and National Security

Tax data is deeply sensitive. It reveals income patterns, business operations, sectoral flows, and strategic economic information. Consolidating such data under private firms raises major cybersecurity concerns.

3. Potential for Political Capture

The fear is not that Xpress Payments lacks capacity; the company is reputable, but that future actors may exploit such arrangements for political financing or influence.

4. Risk of Middlemen Profiting from Public Revenue

If service fees or transaction charges apply, taxpayers may indirectly fund private intermediaries for basic access to government services.

5. Erosion of Public Trust

A tax system must be trusted to function. When people sense secrecy, they resist compliance.

What Nigeria Needs Now: Full Transparency, Not Silence

To rebuild confidence, the federal government must take immediate steps:

1. Publish All Contract Details

Service fees, revenue-sharing models, data access permissions, contracts’ duration, and ownership disclosures must be made public.

2. Conduct an Independent Audit of TSA Payment Providers

This should include Remita, Xpress Payments, and all other agents.

3. Prevent Monopolies in Revenue Collection

No single company should control more than 30 percent of federal tax traffic.

4. Strengthen FIRS Capacity

Modern digital tax administration should rely primarily on state capacity, not outsourcing.

5. Establish a Legal Framework for Digital Tax Contractors

To regulate:

–       Data usage

–       Infrastructure standards

–       Profit margins

–       Conflict-of-interest rules

Without such laws, Nigeria remains vulnerable.

A Nation at a Revenue Intersection

Nigeria stands at a defining moment. The 2026 tax reforms promise hope: lower taxes, simpler rules, better compliance, and reduced harassment. They present an opportunity to reset the social contract around taxation.

But that promise is threatened by the unsettling perception that tax collection is quietly being privatized, again. The public narrative is now locked in a dangerous contradiction; the government promises tax relief, while citizens fear revenue capture.

Until transparency is restored, the controversy surrounding Xpress Payments will not disappear. It has grown beyond a payment gateway issue. It has become a test of Nigeria’s commitment to:

–       Accountability

–       Institutional integrity

–       Democratic oversight

–       And the protection of national revenue

A country cannot modernize its tax system while leaving its revenue gateways in the shadows. Nigerians want answers. They want openness. And they want assurance that the era of revenue cartels, real or perceived, will never return. Anything short of full disclosure leaves the nation with a painful question: Who is truly controlling Nigeria’s money?

Blaise, a journalist and PR professional, writes from Lagos, can be reached via: [email protected]