In Nigeria today, it’s no longer news that light is a luxury, but what is shocking is that even the high and mighty now groan under the weight of electricity bills that look more like ransom notes. The Punch recently carried a headline that could have passed for satire: “DisCo hiked my bill from N2.7m to N29m – Lagos deputy gov.” At first glance, one might think it’s a typo, or perhaps a Nollywood script. But no—it was a real-life lamentation from none other than Obafemi Hamzat, the deputy governor of Lagos State.
At a roundtable on April 14, 2025, in Victoria Island, Hamzat did not mince words. Representing Governor Sanwo-Olu, he recounted his own ordeal with Eko DisCo. In March, the bill was N2.7 million. By April, it skyrocketed to N29 million. “I actually procured a prepaid meter,” he said. “But to convert it? Wahala!” His tone? Equal parts disbelief, frustration, and a bitter chuckle that many Nigerians know too well.
But Hamzat’s voice was not just that of a privileged politician—it echoed the wails of millions. He spoke of a tenant in Coker Aguda whose power bill was N2.8 million while his rent stood at N2 million. Yes, you read that right: electricity costs more than shelter.
Just days ago, I reached out to my friend Abdulmalik in Bosso Low Cost, Niger State. I was lucky he picked up, and his response was a thunderbolt of truth. “Walahi,” he sighed, “we’ve not seen light in four days. I only managed to charge my phone at the mosque. Everything has shut down. We now buy water from vendors at ridiculous prices. We are suffering.”
And he’s not alone. That pain, that helplessness, is a daily soundtrack across Nigeria. It’s so dire that some now say it’s better not to have light at all—because when the power does come, even if for four hours a day, the bill that follows is enough to trigger high blood pressure.
The illusion that prepaid meters are the magic solution is fast evaporating. Whether you’re on estimated billing or prepaid, the suffering now wears different faces but speaks one language: agony. Prepaid users find their units vanishing like air in a punctured tire. The cost of powering a home has become a financial crisis, gnawing at family budgets and business plans alike.
This isn’t just about discomfort. It’s a full-blown socioeconomic emergency. Government ministries, hospitals, schools—even the institutions meant to serve the public—are crumbling under electricity debts. There are reports of hospitals demanding that patients bring their own generators for surgery or delivery. Though later denied, the fact that such a story felt plausible speaks volumes about how far we’ve sunk.
The heat doesn’t help. With temperatures climbing, Nigerians can barely sleep, breathe, or function. Water pumps don’t run. Fans and fridges stand still. Phones and laptops die silently, and with them, productivity. Farmers and food processors struggle without power, pushing up prices of staples like rice and maize. Even the economy’s heartbeat is tied to a flickering light switch.
Electricity has become the ultimate scorecard of governance. Forget flowery speeches and glossy billboards—Nigerians measure performance in megawatts. If students can read at night, if hospitals can perform surgeries, if businesses can stay open, then yes, the government is working. If not, every other achievement is noise.
Some argue that insecurity is Nigeria’s number one problem. But think again. What if the root of insecurity lies in the darkness? How do you deploy technology for security without reliable electricity? How do you monitor borders, track kidnappers, or run forensic analysis when the power is out?
To break Nigeria’s cycle of failure, any serious government must first break the jinx of power failure—the so-called witches and wizards who have conspired to keep the nation in darkness. This is why many Nigerians, though not necessarily fans, are now nostalgic about Mallam Nasir El-Rufai. They believe that if President Tinubu had handed him the power ministry, the nation might have witnessed the same transformation El-Rufai brought to Kaduna. His record is visible. So is his defiance. Now outside the government, he has become a thorn in the side, a bold voice rallying a coalition of dissent and opposition.
Interestingly, the same people criticizing Nyesom Wike can’t deny his visibility in FCT projects. Imagine a duo—Wike and El-Rufai—channeling their combined energy toward solving the power nightmare. It would be less about politics and more about progress.
The noise is getting louder. From elite quarters to urban slums, the chorus is the same: Nigeria needs power, not promises. No amount of government PR can overshadow the reality that without fixing electricity, every other claim of success feels hollow. The heat burns equally. The water crisis chokes everyone. And in this digital age, even social media influencers need light to remain relevant.
So, yes, it’s no longer just the poor who are groaning. When the rich begin to cry foul, you know the system has truly collapsed. In Nigeria today, darkness is not just a lack of light—it is the weight pressing down on every hope, dream, and ambition.
