We like to lie to ourselves in this country. We clutch tight to sentimental stories of a united Nigeria and pretend that tribalism is a political invention, conjured up by greedy elites. “It’s the politicians,” we say, “they are the ones dividing us.” And to prove our innocence, we share tales of solidarity: how strangers rush to save victims of a fire or accident, how people of different tribes mourn a lost child like their own. We showcase those fleeting moments of shared humanity as if they erase centuries of deep, complex mistrust.
But beneath the surface of those touching anecdotes lies a quiet epidemic we don’t like to talk about. Ethnicity is not just alive—it thrives in whispers, in glances, in family meetings, and especially when it comes to marriage. We blame the politicians to cleanse ourselves of guilt, but we all carry the virus of tribal sentiment in some form. And nothing exposes this better than the idea of intertribal marriage.
I once replied to a comment online, where someone quoted Sanusi Lamido Sanusi to argue that ethnicity is an illusion. I posed a simple question: “Would you let your son or daughter marry outside your tribe without resistance?” The silence that followed was thunderous. No one replied. That’s how the conversation ended—not with fire, but with fear. Fear of the truth.
Recently, that truth surfaced again, not from a politician, but from a respected academic, a lecturer at Lagos State University. Dr. Adeyinka Bello, while reacting to Davido’s declaration of being “Igbo by blood,” made it clear: all her children must marry Yoruba, even if from Cuba or Brazil. “I’m 100% Yoruba,” she wrote. “Awon omo mi gan must all be Yoruba.” No shame. No apology. No pretense.
She shared how she once excitedly welcomed a young lady who came for a university collaboration. The lady bore a Yoruba name. The lecturer, thrilled, insisted on speaking Yoruba. But the visitor quickly clarified: “My mum is Delta, I speak her language more.” Just like that, the woman’s excitement faded. “Minus one,” she sighed. Her Yoruba name wasn’t enough. And this, she concluded, was why her children would marry Yoruba, and only Yoruba.
Is Dr. Bello alone in this belief? Hardly. What sets her apart is the courage to say it aloud. Many share her sentiment but mask it with political correctness. They smile at other tribes, laugh with them, even do business together—but when it comes to marriage, they close the gate. Her honesty is rare, not because her belief is rare, but because most of us are too scared or too hypocritical to admit it.
This sentiment echoes everywhere. In schools, students sit with their own. At offices in Abuja, a receptionist once looked at me and instantly said, “Ah, you are Nupe! Wait, let me call your tribal brother.” And when he arrived, there was warmth—no questions asked. Ethnicity can feel like home. But it can also build walls higher than we like to admit.
We have grown so used to tribal solidarity that we now romanticize it. It becomes a badge of loyalty. But what we really do is build invisible cages for ourselves. Even our senators, workplace cliques, neighborhood preferences, and school choices for our children often reflect ethnic leanings more than merit or convenience. We condemn religious bigotry publicly, but ethnic bias quietly rules our private choices.
Those who choose intertribal marriage, who dare to love beyond tribal lines, are often the unsung heroes of national unity. Take Mrs. Betty Akeredolu, wife of the late Ondo State Governor. In the days of her husband’s sickness and after his death, she faced mockery and accusations. “How can a Yoruba man marry an Igbo woman?” they sneered. Her love was doubted. Her loyalty questioned. Her identity, weaponized. They called her controlling. They said her husband died because he listened to her. Imagine grieving your partner while being demonized for your tribe.
Still think this isn’t serious?
Even public figures like Davido receive backlash for associating with certain ethnic groups. And when he declared his Igbo heritage, some recoiled. An academic even called him “typical to type”—as though bloodlines determine behavior.
We must ask: what are we afraid of? Misunderstanding? Culture shock? Loss of control? That’s what drives many against intertribal marriage. We dress our fears in the language of “compatibility” and “values,” but behind those curtains is good old-fashioned bias.
Look at the JAMB Registrar, Prof. Ishaq Oloyede. When technical issues forced some students to resit UTME, tribal tempers flared. One region cried foul, alleging conspiracy. Another claimed sabotage. Yet another declared solidarity with the Registrar, not because of logic, but because he was “their own.” In the end, nothing made sense. It was just raw ethnic paranoia, wearing a bureaucratic disguise.
Ethnicity isn’t just a northern or southern problem. It’s not even about religion. Even within one state, one religion, the battle lines are drawn. Different ethnic groups, same language, same faith, yet endless suspicion. What does that tell us?
And still, we look to leaders who rose above it. Obasanjo. IBB. Atiku. Rotimi Akeredolu. Men whose marriages crossed tribal lines, whose alliances reflected the whole nation, not just a corner of it. Even President Bola Tinubu, criticized for a Muslim-Muslim ticket, disarmed critics with his Christian wife from the South-South. These leaders are not perfect, but their intertribal choices carry symbolism—one that fosters a broader, more inclusive identity.
The real enemy isn’t tribe or religion. It’s our mindset. Our attitude. Our fear of the other. Our addiction to familiarity. We see this in cries for state creation, in local government rivalries, in even senatorial district tensions. We carry our biases everywhere.
International organizations like the International Crisis Group, Human Rights Watch, and the United States Institute of Peace have all confirmed it: ethnic divisions are a core reason for Nigeria’s slow growth, conflict, and social fragmentation. They document how access to resources, power, and justice often depends not on need or merit, but on tribe. It’s a wound we’ve nursed for too long.
So maybe it’s time we flip the script. Instead of mocking those who marry across ethnic lines, let’s celebrate them. Let’s name them. Prof. N.N. Wannang. Pharmacist Rukaiya Sule Saleh. Footballer Ahmed Musa. These are people who chose love, unity, and courage over fear, suspicion, and inherited prejudice.
If you still think it’s no big deal, answer me honestly: would you let your son or daughter marry outside your tribe?
Yes? Or no?
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