By Agbeze Ireke Kalu Onuma, AI-KO
Over several weeks in the past month, I watched as government officials and their apologists commandeered prime-time slots on TV and radio in an elaborate campaign meant to sell the 2025 budget. In the midst of well-rehearsed promises and lofty claims of progress and development, I pored over budget documents and scrutinized every official statement. I’m no mathematician or statistician—my grasp on the numbers might be limited—but reading the comments, listening to officials, and engaging with fellow citizens on the streets, all while confronting the stark truth revealed by my own pocket and account balances, I realized how screwed we are by this government and its budget.
Every polished statement felt as if it were detached from the everyday struggles that define our lives. I see firsthand the soaring food prices that push families to skip meals and the rampant unemployment that robs our youth of promise and purpose. The more I dug into the data, the more apparent it became that no one in power was genuinely listening to the people. Instead, we were being presented with an expensive charade of financial planning—a performance designed to dazzle on television while the real issues remain unaddressed.
This reflection essay is not simply an analysis of figures or allocations; it is a personal reckoning with the broken promises embedded in the 2025 budget. My own journey through these fiscal plans revealed a stark disconnect between the government’s grand proclamations and the harsh realities of my everyday life. As I faced the undeniable evidence of misdirected funds and systemic neglect, I felt compelled to share my insights and demand accountability—a call to expose the profound failure of a system that seems more intent on maintaining privileges than on enacting genuine progress.
The 2025 Nigerian budget, a document ostensibly crafted to steer the nation toward stability and prosperity, instead stands as a grotesque monument to systemic corruption, fiscal recklessness, and the brazen exploitation of public trust. At its core lies a labyrinth of padded figures, politically motivated insertions, and costs so inflated they border on parody—a cruel joke played on a populace already buckling under the weight of economic hardship, insecurity, and crumbling infrastructure. The numbers, when parsed with even a modicum of scrutiny, reveal not a roadmap to development but a feeding frenzy for political elites, a calculated plunder of resources that should uplift millions but instead enriches the few. Consider, for instance, the allocation of N393.29 billion for 1,477 streetlights, a figure that translates to an astronomical N266 million per light. In a nation where entire communities languish in darkness, where children study under kerosene lamps and roads become death traps after sunset, this allocation is not merely absurd—it is an indictment of a system that has lost all pretence of serving the people. Streetlights, even those adorned with gold-plated poles and diamond-encrusted bulbs, do not—cannot—cost N266 million each. The arithmetic alone betrays the truth: these figures are not rooted in engineering estimates or market realities but in the cold calculus of graft, a deliberate overvaluation designed to siphon funds into opaque channels.
In the sweltering heat of Lagos, where street vendors hawk pure water and akarato survive, a mother of four named Aisha sits on a cracked pavement, fanning her child with a torn newspaper. The headline reads: “N266 Million Per Streetlight: Nigeria’s Budget of Shame.” She scoffs, muttering, “If one streetlight costs more than my entire village’s income in 10 years, then darkness is cheaper than light in this country.” Her words, bitter and raw, echo the fury of millions of Nigerians who see the 2025 budget not as a roadmap to progress but as a ledger of looting.
This budget, bloated with N6.93 trillion in politically motivated insertions, is a slap to the face of ordinary Nigerians . Take the N393.29 billion allocated for 1,477 streetlights—enough to install the sun itself, as social media users joke. Yet, in Makoko, a sprawling Lagos slum, children still study under flickering kerosene lamps. “We hear about billions for ‘light,’ but our lives are darkness,” says Tunde, a local mechanic. “If one streetlight truly costs N266 million, let them install it in my shop. I’ll charge politicians N500,000 to come pose here take photo!”
This pattern of fiscal vandalism repeats itself across every line item. Take the 538 boreholes earmarked for N114.53 billion, averaging N213 million per borehole. Borehole drilling, even in challenging terrains, typically costs a fraction of this sum. Communities across Nigeria have long relied on NGOs and local cooperatives to drill functional boreholes for less than N5 million each. Yet here, the state—tasked with stewarding public funds—somehow arrives at a figure 40 times higher. The absurdity deepens. N114.53 billion for 538 boreholes translates to N213 million per hole—a figure so ludicrous it would make even the most cynical contractor blush. In rural Katsina, where women trek miles for water, Hajiya Fatima asks, “Are these boreholes made of gold? Or is it our suffering they’re mining?”Her question cuts to the heart of a system where budgets are crafted not for development but for diversion.
The implication is unavoidable: these projects are not about providing water but about laundering money through inflated contracts, a sleight of hand that transforms public need into private gain. Similarly, the 2,122 ICT projects valued at N505.79 billion—N238 million per project—defy logic in an era where digital solutions are celebrated for their scalability and cost-efficiency. Are these projects developing cutting-edge AI systems or building server farms capable of hosting global tech giants? The budget offers no clarity, only the stench of opportunism. Even the 43 community town halls priced at N17.23 billion (N401 million each) and the 32 traditional ruler empowerment projects costing N6.74 billion reek of excess. What manner of town hall requires nearly half a billion naira to construct? What form of “empowerment” for traditional leaders justifies such lavish spending while millions of their subjects languish in poverty?
The health and education sectors, already crippled by decades of neglect, are similarly weaponized for financial extraction. N420.09 billion for 319 health projects translates to N1.32 billion per initiative. In a country where hospitals lack basic supplies and doctors routinely strike over unpaid salaries, this allocation is not just ironic—it is an act of violence against the sick and vulnerable. Education fares no better: 561 projects allocated N179.96 billion (N320 million each) in a system where classrooms lack roofs and students sit on bare floors. These figures are not mere line items; they are confessions of a state that has abandoned its duty to protect and uplift its citizens. Even the 24 security vehiclespriced at N11.7 billion (N487.5 million each) stretch credulity. Are these armored tanks or luxury convoys? In a nation where police stations are routinely overrun by bandits due to inadequate equipment, such profligacy is not just wasteful—it is treasonous.
Behind these numbers lies a deeper malignancy: the institutionalization of budget padding as a political ritual. The National Assembly’s insertion of 11,122 projects worth N6.93 trillion—12.5% of the total budget—exposes a machinery of exploitation that operates with impunity. Lawmakers, shielded by legislative immunity and procedural opacity, have transformed the appropriation process into a marketplace for patronage. Projects are not evaluated based on developmental impact but on their utility as vehicles for kickbacks. The N1.44 trillion allocated to 1,380 road projects, for instance, sounds laudable until one realizes that these funds are dispersed without transparent tendering processes, often to phantom contractors or cronies who deliver substandard work or vanish entirely. The result is a nation littered with abandoned projects and decaying infrastructure, a physical manifestation of budgetary betrayal.
The distortion extends to sectoral allocations. The Ministry of Agriculture’s capital budget ballooned from N242.5 billionto N1.95 trillion through the forced insertion of 4,371 projects. This is not an investment in food security but a raid on the treasury, a brazen hijacking of funds meant to alleviate hunger. Similarly, the Ministries of Science and Technology and Budget and Economic Planning saw their allocations inflated to N994.98 billion and N1.1 trillion, respectively, through projects unrelated to their mandates. Agencies like the Nigerian Building and Road Research Institute and the Federal Cooperative College, Oji River, were burdened with tasks far beyond their scope—N3 billion for utility vehicles, N1.5 billion for rural electrification, N1 billion for solar streetlights—a clear abuse of institutional frameworks. These insertions are not anomalies but part of a systemic rot, where budgets are treated as personal fiefdoms rather than instruments of public policy.
The human cost of this plunder is staggering and incalculable. While lawmakers debate the cost of streetlights, 39.93% food inflationravages household budgets, and 24.48% headline inflation erodes purchasing power. Farmers, deterred by banditry and kidnapping, abandon their fields, exacerbating food shortages. Schools and hospitals, underfunded and overburdened, fail to meet basic needs. Yet the budget, instead of addressing these crises, funnels resources into opaque projects that serve political, not public, interests. The N4.91 trillion allocated to defense and security, while necessary, risks becoming another black hole of expenditure unless paired with accountability. Without transparency, even well-intentioned allocations are vulnerable to mismanagement.
Historically, Nigeria’s budgeting process has been a theater of the absurd. From the N3.7 trillion padding scandal of 2024 to the N40 billion inserted for personal gain under former Speaker Dogara, the National Assembly has repeatedly demonstrated its willingness to prioritize self-enrichment over national development. The executive branch, complicit through silence or acquiescence, shares blame. President Tinubu’s refusal to address BudgIT’s findings or demand accountability perpetuates a culture of impunity. The Senate’s dismissal of these revelations as the work of “dark angels of falsehood” only deepens public cynicism. When those entrusted with oversight become architects of graft, democracy itself is hollowed out.
The streets are boiling over.
In a neglected classroom in a suburb in Enugu, Mrs. Ngozi, a weary public school teacher, strains to write on a chalkboard that crumbles with each stroke. Despite the government’s budget allocation of N179.96 billion for 561 education projects, her students haven’t seen a new textbook in years. “They say education is a priority, but our priority is survival,” she laments, wondering aloud whether these projects ever trickle down to the schools in need or if they exist solely for the benefit of lawmakers’ children.
Farther north in Benue, a region celebrated as Nigeria’s food basket, Yusuf, a farmer, surveys his parched fields, his frustration mounting. With a Ministry of Agriculture budget soaring to N1.95 trillion, one would expect robust support for farmers like him. Instead, the funds seem to be funneled into scholarships and streetlights, leaving him baffled. “They’ve turned farming into a joke,” he mutters angrily. “Why does a cocoa institute in Ibadan receive millions for solar lights in Lagos? Is sunlight now a crop?”
At a struggling clinic in Kano, Nurse Amina fights to save lives with barely any medical supplies. The health sector supposedly benefits from N420.09 billion spread across 319 projects, which should amount to N1.32 billion per project. Yet, her clinic can’t even afford basic painkillers like paracetamol. “Our leaders are healthy thieves,” she declares bitterly. “They allocate billions to imaginary hospitals while we watch patients die on floors.”
Across the country, discontent festers. Gabriel Okeowo of BudgIT brands these budget insertions “an assault on fiscal responsibility,” but ordinary citizens see it in starker terms. “They’re eating our future,” Musa, an okada rider in Abuja, states bluntly. His anger is justified—N6.74 billion earmarked for “empowering traditional rulers” while millions remain without electricity, N11.7 billion dedicated to purchasing just 24 security vehicles at an exorbitant N487.5 million each while bandits ravage villages, and N1.44 trillion promised for roads that remain hazardous, like the Lagos-Ibadan Expressway, infamous for its tire-swallowing potholes.
The National Assembly, in its defense, dismisses critics as “dark angels of falsehood,” but their rebuttal rings hollow. “If angels are dark here, it’s because they’ve stolen the light,” quips Chidi, a Lagos-based activist, his words carrying the sting of a painful truth.
To the government, this moment demands more than rhetoric about “Renewed Hope.” It requires an unwavering commitment to dismantle the structures enabling this theft. Independent audits of all inserted projects must be conducted, with findings made public. The Attorney General must seek constitutional clarity on the National Assembly’s authority to unilaterally insert projects. Anti-corruption agencies must investigate these insertions, recover misappropriated funds, and prosecute offenders—regardless of political stature. The Presidency cannot remain a passive observer; it must leverage its moral and legal authority to restore integrity to the budgeting process.
To the National Assembly: The time for denial is over. Lawmakers must confront their role in this travesty and enact reforms to prevent future abuses. Constituency projects, while legitimate in theory, must be subjected to rigorous cost-benefit analyses and public scrutiny. A collaborative framework, involving civil society and technical experts, should guide project selection and implementation. Transparency portals detailing project locations, contractors, and progress updates should be mandatory. The legislature’s legitimacy hinges on its ability to serve as a check on executive excess, not a complicit partner in fiscal fraud.
To the Nigerian people: Passive outrage is no longer enough. This budget is not an abstract document but a blueprint of priorities—priorities that glaringly exclude the masses. Citizens must organize, leveraging digital tools and grassroots networks to demand accountability. Social media campaigns, peaceful protests, and targeted advocacy can amplify pressure on lawmakers. Civil society groups like BudgIT, already leading the charge, require public support to sustain their watchdog efforts. The media must deepen investigative reporting on budget implementation, naming and shaming those who profit from this exploitation. Electoral consequences should follow for officials implicated in padding—a clear message that public office is a privilege, not a license to steal.
The budget’s cruelty is magnified by Nigeria’s harsh economic realities. Food inflation, now at 39.93%, forces families to skip meals, while unemployment rates nearing 40% leave young people with few options—risking a turn toward crime or protest. Even as debt servicing consumes N14.32 trillion, lawmakers lavish funds on extravagant “utility vehicles” meant for agencies like the Federal Cooperative College, which is tasked with rural electrification. Dr. Adeola, an economist at the Nigerian Economic Summit Group, condemns this mismanagement: “This isn’t governance; it’s gangsterism. When you allocate N505.79 billion for 2,122 ICT projects without a single functional tech hub in Aba or Kano, you’re not building a digital economy—you’re building offshore accounts.”
Across the nation, from the danfo buses of Lagos to the mai shayi stalls of Sokoto, ordinary Nigerians are demanding accountability. There is a rising call for the government to audit every project and publish the contracts, the contractors, and the costs, in line with the Open Government Partnership’s recommendations for mid-year reviews, audit reports, and asset disclosures. Discontent roils the streets as voices like that of Aisha, a Lagos mother, cry out: “Stop turning budgets into ATMs for your cronies.” CUPP’s Chief Peter Ameh adds to the chorus, insisting, “Reform constituency projects—no more N344.85 billion for phantom boreholes!” The collective rallying cry is clear: organize, protest, and vote out those deemed responsible. “If they won’t fix the budget, we’ll fix the system,” urges Chidi, echoing the resolve of an increasingly impassioned people.
In Abuja, a graffiti artist sprays a message that reads, “N266 Million Per Light? We’ll Light the Fire of Revolution.” The 2025 budget, meant to project power and promise, risks becoming the spark that ignites a nationwide reckoning. For every padded contract, a protester rises; for every phantom project, a citizen demands answers. The streets have spoken: this betrayal must end. Citizens are calling for decisive reforms—independent audits by the ICPC or EFCC to vet all budget insertions in real time, digital transparency through platforms like BudgIT’s Tracka to monitor projects publicly, and mandated grassroots participation in the budget drafting process. There is also a push for judicial clarification of constitutional limits on legislative padding and a call to redirect borrowed funds toward tangible infrastructure rather than political slush funds. As Hajiya Fatima succinctly concludes, “A budget that robs the poor to feed the rich is no budget at all—it’s theft, and thieves, no matter how powerful, always meet their day.”
The path to reform is arduous but not insurmountable. A transparent budgeting process, anchored in citizen participation and real-time oversight, must replace the current opacity. Digital platforms enabling Nigerians to track expenditures and report discrepancies could democratize fiscal governance. Legislative reforms mandating pre-budget public consultations and post-implementation audits would institutionalize accountability. Above all, a cultural shift is needed—one that rejects the normalization of graft and demands ethical leadership.
In the end, this budget is more than a financial plan; it is a mirror reflecting Nigeria’s deepest contradictions. A nation blessed with abundant resources and human capital remains shackled by the greed of its custodians. The streetlights, boreholes, and town halls listed in this document are not mere line items—they are symbols of a broken covenant between the state and its citizens. To accept this status quo is to surrender to despair. But to challenge it—to demand accountability, transparency, and justice—is to reclaim the promise of Nigeria. The light of the world cannot be bought with stolen funds; it must be kindled through the collective resolve of a people determined to build a future worthy of their aspirations.
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