When a government claims to have poured a staggering ₦419 billion into the pockets of “nearly 6 million Nigerians,” the natural question is simple: where are the faces behind the figures? Yet, as usual, what we are handed are numbers without names, promises without proof, and figures without flesh. Nigerians are expected to clap for statistics they cannot verify.
For decades, this country has danced in circles of phantom social welfare schemes. From “Operation Feed the Nation” of the late 1970s to the countless poverty alleviation programmes of subsequent administrations, the results have been the same: grandiose claims, massive budgets, but very little trickling down to the ordinary man on the street. The current Conditional Cash Transfer programme appears no different—it risks being another mirage shimmering in the desert of Nigerian poverty.
Let us be blunt: ₦419 billion is no small change. It is more than the annual budgets of some states. It is money that could overhaul Nigeria’s ailing health sector, resuscitate public schools, or fix parts of our collapsed road infrastructure. To simply wave such a figure before a hungry nation without providing verifiable details is not only insensitive—it is unacceptable.
The Minister of State for Humanitarian Affairs and Poverty Reduction, Tanko Sununu, may have meant well when he promised that future disbursements will be done “publicly,” with the press invited. But Nigerians have heard this song before, and the tune has always ended on a sour note. What citizens demand is not another round of promises, but evidence in black and white: names, addresses, and details of those who have benefited. Anything short of that is smoke and mirrors.
When the government says 71% of beneficiaries are in the North while 29% are in the South, what is the basis of that skewed distribution? Poverty is not a regional affliction—it cuts across every corner of this nation, from Sokoto to Calabar, from Maiduguri to Badagry. Without transparency, such statistics only fuel suspicion of bias, favoritism, or even outright fabrication. Nigerians are no fools; they can connect the dots.
Time and again, anti-poverty initiatives in this country have been marred by corruption, poor accountability, and ghost beneficiaries. We have witnessed fertilizer programmes that enriched middlemen, palliatives that disappeared into warehouses, and youth empowerment schemes that empowered nobody. If lessons have not been learned, then what guarantees do Nigerians have that this cash transfer is not another gravy train for the politically connected?
It is not enough to announce that each beneficiary will receive ₦75,000 in three tranches. Nigerians deserve to know who these beneficiaries are. Why should accountability be left to the World Bank when it is Nigerian taxpayers who bear the brunt of funding? Why should ordinary citizens be told to “trust the process” when the process has historically failed them? Trust is earned, not decreed.
The truth is bitter but must be told: without transparency, this cash transfer programme risks becoming a black hole swallowing public funds. If indeed 6 million Nigerians have already benefited, then the government should publish a comprehensive list of beneficiaries per state, per local government, and per community. Anything less is an insult to the intelligence of the people.
At a time when Nigerians are groaning under the weight of inflation, fuel subsidy removal, skyrocketing food prices, and a battered currency, every kobo matters. Announcing billions in disbursements without proof is like pouring water into a basket and expecting it to hold. The hungry mother in Aba, the struggling farmer in Zamfara, and the unemployed graduate in Ibadan need more than rhetoric—they need to see the impact in their lives.
Moreover, the government must remember that poverty is not solved by handouts but by systemic reforms. While cash transfers may offer temporary relief, they are not a substitute for job creation, agricultural investment, industrial growth, and credible social infrastructure. A nation cannot “dash” its way out of poverty—it must build its way out.
The time for half-measures and opaque figures is over. If the Tinubu administration truly seeks credibility, it must publish the names of beneficiaries, ensure independent verification, and subject the entire scheme to audit. Anything less is just another fairy tale written in billions.
Nigerians are weary of figures without faces, of numbers without names, of promises without proof. The ball is now in the government’s court: either publish the list of beneficiaries or accept that the people will dismiss this programme as another chapter in the long book of Nigeria’s unfulfilled promises.
Stanley Ugagbe is a seasoned journalist with a passion for exposing social issues and advocating for justice. With years of experience in the media industry, he has written extensively on governance, human rights, and societal challenges, crafting powerful narratives that inspire change. He can be reached via stanleyakomeno@gmail.com
