In a country where the line between crime and leadership has grown so thin it’s practically invisible, the recent moral sermon by the chairman of the Economic and Financial Crimes Commission (EFCC), Ola Olukoyede, sounds like a bitter joke. Telling Nigerian students that they cannot hold public office once convicted is akin to preaching sobriety in a brewery. It is hypocrisy dressed in a fine agbada of irony. While the EFCC lectures children on the consequences of crime, the corridors of power are brimming with ex-cons, fugitives, and fraudsters.
Mr. Olukoyede, in his righteous thunder, declared: “Anyone who engages in financial crimes is on a path that leads to jail. Once convicted, such a person becomes an ex-convict and loses the opportunity to hold any public office in Nigeria.” Noble words. But in Nigeria, noble words often serve as the mask for ignoble deeds. They are empty platitudes tossed to the gullible while the political elite continues to gorge on impunity.
Let us begin with the man at the helm — President Bola Ahmed Tinubu. The same man who occupies Aso Rock with the swagger of a statesman, but with a shadowy past that refuses to stay buried. In 1993, Tinubu was fingered in a narcotics trafficking and money laundering investigation in the United States. He forfeited a whopping $460,000 to the U.S. government — not in tax, not in donation, but as part of a sealed deal in a case involving heroin trafficking. U.S. court documents are in black and white, detailing how the funds in several bank accounts linked to Tinubu were derived from drug-related proceeds.
No conviction? Perhaps. But forfeiture of drug money is not a clerical error. It is not a charity donation. In any functional democracy, this would have ended a political career before it began. In Nigeria, it became the springboard to the presidency. It’s like awarding a thief a medal for successful burglary. And now, this same country dares to lecture its youth about integrity?
And then there’s Senator Neda Bernard Imasuen — a man whose very presence in Nigeria’s Senate is a slap in the face of every citizen who still believes in justice. Mr. Imasuen, now the chairman of the Senate Committee on Ethics (what cruel irony), was disbarred for life by the New York Bar for stealing from a client. Not only that, but he was also indicted in a sprawling U.S. financial fraud ring that swindled over $25 million from American banks and institutions.
The court documents are clear: Imasuen absconded, ignoring subpoenas and court orders. Rather than facing justice, he jumped ship to Nigeria — a safe haven for political fugitives — and was embraced with open arms by a system addicted to criminality. Now he sits in the Senate, preaching ethics while reeking of felony. On June 12, the day Nigeria ironically celebrates “Democracy Day,” Imasuen announced his defection to the ruling All Progressives Congress (APC) — the same party of the President with a forfeiture history.
If crime truly disqualifies one from public office, how did these men rise to the summit of Nigeria’s political food chain? Are we to believe that selective morality is now official policy — where the poor thief is jailed, but the rich one is elected? Is the EFCC a watchdog or a lapdog? One must ask: who watches the watchmen?
Let us not forget Orji Kalu, a sitting senator and former governor, who was convicted for stealing N7.6 billion and sentenced to 12 years in prison. He was released on a technicality, not exonerated. Today, he is ready to die for APC because once you join the APC, your sins are forgiven. Or Abdulrasheed Maina, the pension fraud czar who vanished and reappeared like Houdini, only to be reappointed and protected until his eventual arrest.
The stench is everywhere. The APC — and to be fair, other parties too — has become a rehabilitation centre for criminal minds. Once you have a pending case, just defect. The EFCC will suddenly lose interest. Like magic, your sins are washed away in the holy water of political allegiance.
The problem is systemic. Our laws are not the issue — they are clear. What is broken is our will to enforce them. The people at the top are not interested in justice. They are interested in power — and power in Nigeria is best acquired through crooked means and maintained by institutional silence.
The younger generation is being force-fed lies. They are told crime doesn’t pay, yet every night on TV they see drug barons turned presidents, fraudsters turned senators, and looters turned lawmakers. Why should they believe in honesty when dishonesty is rewarded with immunity, luxury, and praise?
Mr. Olukoyede may mean well, but he must start from the top. Let EFCC show true courage. Let it reopen Tinubu’s case. Let it probe Imasuen. Let it revisit every politically shielded thief in the system. Until then, his words will be nothing more than a sermon in a circus.
You cannot warn children against crime while your leaders are graduates of criminal enterprise. That is not morality — that is mockery. And Nigeria, sadly, is the theatre where this tragic comedy plays out every election cycle.
Let it be known: if the rules only apply to the poor, they are not laws — they are tools of oppression. We must clean the house from the top down, or we risk turning the entire nation into one giant crime scene with a flag.
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
