By Boma Lilian Braide Esq
There is a popular saying, repeated on the streets and across Nigerian social media, that perfectly captures our collective condition with uncomfortable precision. It says; “if you look at Nigeria and claim to understand how it works, you must be the one who has lost your mind”. It is perhaps the only phrase that adequately explains the disorienting reality of citizenship in this country, where survival itself often feels like a daily miracle.
Every morning, millions of Nigerians perform that miracle without applause. They navigate flooded roads that lead to shuttered factories, pay taxes to a government that cannot guarantee electricity, and hire private security to protect their families from roaming bandits. On the surface, we direct our frustration at the sitting President, at corrupt governors, or the different local government chairmen. We voice our anger across social media, demanding that those at the top change course. But we are, in large part, aiming at the wrong target.
The true villain in the Nigerian story is not a living person. It is a lifeless, heavy, fundamentally dishonest stack of paper bound together in Abuja. It is called the 1999 Constitution of the Federal Republic of Nigeria. This text is a democratic covenant in name only. It opens with a bold, theatrical declaration: “We the people of the Federal Republic of Nigeria… do hereby make, enact and give to ourselves the following Constitution.”
Who, precisely, are “the people”? Which Nigerian ancestor sat in the room where this text was drafted? The uncomfortable truth is that no citizen was present to debate its clauses, and none voted for its adoption. It was handed down like a conqueror’s edict. General Abdulsalami Abubakar and a small circle of military officers issued it as Decree No. 24 of 1999, mere days before transferring power to a civilian government. For nearly three decades, we have attempted to practise democracy using a blueprint designed for absolute military rule. The consequences of that historical error are visible across our collapsing national architecture, which functions less like a federal republic and more like a unitary state wearing federal clothing.
To understand why the country keeps faltering, we must stop treating our crises as mere failures of individual leadership and start recognising them as structural design flaws written directly into our supreme law. The 1999 Constitution is not simply outdated; it is an active engine of underdevelopment, insecurity and political paralysis.
Consider the foundational architecture of our federation. True federalism requires that constituent units generate their own resources, manage local security and remit an agreed share of their earnings to sustain shared national functions such as foreign policy and defence. The Nigerian constitution inverts this logic entirely. It strips states of economic initiative and reduces them to administrative dependents.
Section 162 establishes the Federation Account, a central pool into which all national revenue is deposited, then shared monthly among the 36 states and Abuja according to a fixed formula. This arrangement has systematically discouraged productivity across the country, turning governors into monthly supplicants in Abuja rather than builders of local economies. A state governor has little structural incentive to revitalise agriculture, attract industrial investment or expand employment, because political survival depends far more on the price of Brent crude oil in London than on the output of farmers in Benue or traders in Aba. The constitution effectively penalises resourceful states and rewards passivity, trapping the entire country in a cycle of dependency.
The most dangerous consequence of this military engineered document is the near total failure of our internal security architecture. Nigeria is currently under strain from every direction, as criminal networks, kidnappers and terrorist groups make routine travel between cities a genuine risk. Young Nigerians reasonably ask why their state governments cannot protect them, particularly given that governors routinely describe themselves as the Chief Security Officers of their states. That title, however, is largely symbolic.
Under Section 214, the constitution explicitly forbids the creation of any police force beyond the single, centrally controlled Nigeria Police Force, placing every officer under the command of an Inspector General based in Abuja. A governor in Zamfara or Oyo cannot deploy police to halt an unfolding attack in a local community without clearance from an office hundreds of kilometres away. The document names governors as Chief Security Officers while denying them the legal authority to command a single officer. This is not an oversight; it is a deliberate design choice intended to concentrate control among a small number of central actors. While the National Assembly delays meaningful reform, local communities are left exposed, forcing many states to rely on legally precarious vigilante groups simply to survive.
Thank God, the State Police Bill has now been passed by the National Assembly on June 11th, 2026 as the 6th Alteration Bill, 2026. But it is not yet fully law. We hope it will be approved by 2/3 of the State Houses of Assembly and receive the President’s signature in no time.
Until then, with the National Assembly’s delay in completing the process, local communities remain exposed. Many states are forced to rely on legally precarious vigilante groups just to survive.
Beyond security, this same centralising instinct has paralysed our judicial and local governance systems, undermining any real prospect of accountability. The National Judicial Council in Abuja holds near total control over the appointment and discipline of judges at both federal and state level. This bureaucratic bottleneck means that a straightforward commercial dispute between two traders in Calabar can take a decade to resolve, clogging a judicial pipeline that eventually reaches an overwhelmed Supreme Court. At the grassroots level, the picture is equally troubling. For decades, the constitutionally mandated State Joint Local Government Account allowed governors to divert funds intended for local councils, leaving rural communities without adequate healthcare, functioning schools or passable roads. Even recent Supreme Court interventions aimed at securing financial autonomy for local government have run up against the contradictory wording of the 1999 text, which continues to offer governors legal room to manoeuvre. The constitution does not facilitate justice or good governance; it manufactures structural gridlock that protects a ruling class while burdening ordinary citizens.
At present, the National Assembly is engaged in its familiar and costly ritual, the constitutional review process. Lawmakers hold public hearings, form committees and debate hundreds of minor amendment bills. This should not be mistaken for genuine reform. A cycle of piecemeal alteration cannot rescue a nation whose foundation is fundamentally unsound, in the same way that repainting a building does not repair a compromised structure beneath it.
Between 2007 and 2023, Nigeria conducted five separate rounds of constitutional amendment, consuming billions of naira in public funds. The return on that expenditure was largely cosmetic. Lawmakers readily support amendments that protect their own tenure, adjust election tribunal timelines or revise age requirements for office. Yet whenever structural, genuinely consequential proposals reach the floor, such as the devolution of policing powers, true fiscal federalism or a reduced exclusive legislative list, they are swiftly rejected by a conservative legislative majority unwilling to relinquish central privileges. The current review process is already losing momentum as attention shifts toward the 2027 electoral cycle. It is unrealistic to expect the political class to voluntarily surrender the very centralisation that sustains its comfort.
We must accept the difficult truth that the 1999 Constitution cannot be rescued through minor patches or periodic updates. A system whose core architecture is compromised cannot be repaired by adjusting its surface features. Nigeria does not need another modest amendment bill; it needs a genuine, comprehensive structural overhaul, undertaken without apology or hesitation.
This means substantially reducing the federal government’s authority by cutting the Exclusive Legislative List from more than sixty items to a lean core of perhaps ten, covering essential functions such as foreign affairs, national defence and monetary policy. Responsibilities including policing, resource control, electricity, rail transport, agriculture and education should be devolved to the states or regional blocs. States must be allowed to become genuine economic centres, retaining the majority of the wealth they generate and remitting a negotiated share to sustain the centre. Most importantly, any new constitutional framework must be subjected to a direct, transparent national referendum. The diverse nationalities that make up this country deserve the democratic right to negotiate the terms of their union and to vote on the supreme law that governs them. Sovereignty belongs to the people, not to a small circle of politicians in Abuja.
This is a serious and urgent call to action for every Nigerian citizen, professional body, civil society organisation and member of the diaspora. We must move beyond our preoccupation with the personalities of individual leaders and direct our collective attention to the structure of the state itself. We can no longer afford to watch passively while a fraudulent, military imposed document continues to constrain our economic future and expose our communities to preventable harm.
Constitutional restructuring must become a central condition for political engagement going forward. We must engage our representatives directly, challenge the elite consensus that protects the status quo, and demand a genuinely people driven constitution capable of unlocking the considerable potential this nation continues to hold in reserve.
The present course is unsustainable, and the cost of continued tolerance is national decline. We must summon the resolve to dismantle this blueprint for chaos, or accept that it will, in time, dismantle the country itself.
