When the current administration unveiled its economic vision on May 29, 2023, many Nigerians hoped for a turning point. Branded as Jagabanomics, the policy agenda promised market-oriented reforms — from fuel subsidy removal to fiscal rebalancing and economic liberalisation. It was positioned as a bold departure from the past, a strategic roadmap to national renewal. Yet, two years down the road, it is not the elegance of the blueprint that matters, but the everyday reality of the people — and that reality tells a different story.
I remember the day vividly. On that very May 29, 2023, at exactly 11:45 AM, I stood at a filling station in Lugbe, Abuja, with ₦4,000 in hand, ready to buy 20.5 litres of petrol at ₦195 per litre. As the SUV before me was served, the pump attendant quietly adjusted the meter to ₦570 per litre. With the same amount, I received only 7.017 litres. Before the new president could finish his inaugural speech, the economic reform had already begun — abrupt, real, and deeply felt. I was, unwittingly, one of the first Nigerians to experience the impact of subsidy removal. As a Nigerian proverb says, “When the drumbeat changes, the dancer must change his steps.” That day, our national rhythm changed — and so did our daily struggles.
To be fair, no serious economist opposes the idea of subsidy reform. But as another local saying reminds us, “You don’t shave a man’s head in his absence.” Removing the subsidy without adequate public engagement or cushioning measures felt like policy imposed, not policy owned.
The economic consequences have since rippled across every layer of society. Under the Buhari administration, ₦24 trillion was borrowed in eight years, largely to fund the fuel subsidy. Now, with the subsidy gone, the current administration has borrowed over ₦57 trillion in just two years. If subsidy removal was meant to free up resources, why are we borrowing even more — and where are the visible investments to justify it?
Inflation has become a constant companion. Prices of food, transport, and basic services have soared. Workers’ earnings are being quietly eroded. A salary of ₦50,000 that once sustained a modest household can no longer buy even a single bag of rice in today’s market. What used to take care of rent, food, and transport now struggles to handle two. The average Nigerian now earns in naira but shops in a dollar-indexed marketplace. As Paul Krugman (1990) aptly put it, “Inflation is taxation without legislation.” In our context, inflation is a slow bleed on dignity. A Yoruba proverb reminds us, “The chicken sweats, but because of feathers, no one sees its pain.”
Just yesterday, I stopped by a pharmacy to buy some medication. As I parked, a well-dressed lady — not poorly clothed or disheveled — approached me politely. She asked, “Please, can you help me with something to eat? I’ve not eaten.” That moment was a striking reminder: this is the reality — not the rehearsed speeches or edited statistics. As an Igbo proverb says, “The one who fetches firewood infected with ants invites the lizard for a feast.” If policies invite hardship, people will inevitably cry out.
The situation is the same everywhere: market women can no longer restock, artisans can’t afford fuel, students can’t pay fees, and many workers walk to offices they can no longer afford to reach daily. The informal sector — which supports over 60% of the population — remains largely excluded from structured support. For many, hope is running low and faith is wearing thin.
This is why an economic policy is only as good as it is able to deliver the basic necessities of life — particularly to the poor. If a policy cannot put food on the table, keep children in school, and protect the value of honest labour, it fails its most important test. Unfortunately, Jagabanomics, despite its bold ideals, has yet to meet this minimum threshold.
Even more ironic was the celebration that greeted the recent naira rebasing — a technical exercise that merely adjusted figures for accounting purposes, without putting any food on the table of the common man. The excitement in government circles was both hollow and detached. In a season where families are skipping meals, a cosmetic tweak to currency valuation is not relief — it’s insult. The symbolism may excite spreadsheets, but it does nothing for empty kitchens.
Nigerians are resilient, but even resilience has a limit. As Amartya Sen (1999) notes, “Poverty is not just the lack of income but the denial of basic capabilities.” We are producing intelligent, hardworking citizens — but locking them out of opportunity.
Meanwhile, public officials still live comfortably — with long convoys, foreign trips, and inflated budgets — while ordinary Nigerians ration fuel, skip meals, and walk long distances just to save fare. As Joseph Stiglitz (2012) warned, “Economic reforms that do not prioritise equity and fairness end up entrenching injustice.”
There is still time to recalibrate. Economic reform is a process, not a one-time declaration. If Jagabanomics is to succeed, it must deliver real value — not just market theory. It must tackle inflation, stabilize the naira, reduce the cost of governance, invest in productive sectors, and give Nigerians tangible reasons to believe.
As Daron Acemoglu and James Robinson (2012) argue in Why Nations Fail, “Inclusive institutions are the foundation of prosperity.” Our policies must reflect shared sacrifice — not a system where the poor tighten belts while the powerful loosen theirs.
Nigerians are not asking for miracles — only for measurable progress. As another Nigerian proverb says, “When the soup is sweet, money is not the issue.” People will endure sacrifice if they see results. But if hardship continues without hope, frustration will replace faith — and no economy can survive that.
Until then, the real mirror of our economy is not on paper or PowerPoint — it is in the marketplace. Let those in power listen more to the people, and less to applause in the echo chamber.
