The Federal Government has once again mounted the podium with a trumpet of self-praise, announcing that it has disbursed a staggering N330 billion to 8.1 million households under the National Social Safety Net Programme.
The initiative, according to the authorities, is meant to cushion the biting effects of economic reforms on the poor. On paper, it looks like a noble venture. But scratch beneath the glossy announcement, and the cracks begin to show.
When it comes to public funds in Nigeria, the devil is always in the details. The Minister of Finance, Wale Edun, assured that biometric integration through NIN has “curbed leakages and political interference.” That sounds good, but Nigerians know all too well that what glitters is not always gold. The big question is: who exactly are these beneficiaries?
We are told that 19.7 million households—roughly 70 million Nigerians—are captured in the National Social Register. Out of these, 8.1 million have been reached. But by what yardstick did the government determine eligibility? Was it income level, employment status, or geographical spread? Or, as is too often the case, was it the usual Nigerian cocktail of political patronage and backdoor recommendations? The government owes citizens more clarity than broad statistics that fail to answer the real questions.
A breakdown of the disbursements exposes another sore point. The North-West alone gulped three million slots—72 per cent of the transfers—while the South shared the crumbs, just 28 per cent. How was this ratio arrived at? Poverty is not a northern preserve. The South is equally reeling under joblessness, hunger, and the rising cost of living. Was this a social protection scheme or a lopsided regional bonanza masquerading as equity? Nigerians deserve to know.
The government insists that the National Social Register is not a political tool. Yet, history offers little comfort. From fertilizer distribution to palliative sharing, we have seen supposedly neutral interventions swallowed by partisan interests. Can the Federal Government really beat its chest and say politics has not infiltrated the process? Nigerians need more than words—they need evidence.
Another matter of concern is transparency in monitoring. N25,000 per household may sound impressive on a press statement, but in reality, how far can it go in households battling food inflation above 30 per cent? Beyond disbursing cash, what mechanisms exist to ensure that the money is not diverted by intermediaries or that the poorest of the poor are not elbowed out by the well-connected?
The government also touts digital payments through banks and mobile wallets as proof of credibility. But what about Nigerians in remote communities without bank access, or those still struggling with unreliable mobile networks? Does exclusion by infrastructure not defeat the very essence of a safety net?
Let us not forget the $800 million World Bank loan propping up this initiative. If Nigeria is borrowing to hand out stipends, should we not be doubly sure the funds are reaching the right pockets? Cash transfers are not bad in themselves, but when borrowed money is doled out without watertight transparency, it raises the question: are we mortgaging the future to pacify the present?
The IMF has already sounded the alarm: social safety nets must go beyond tokenism to tackle widespread poverty and food insecurity. Yet, Nigeria seems stuck in the cycle of temporary relief without building sustainable pathways out of poverty. Can N25,000 truly transform the fate of a struggling family, or is it just pouring water into a basket?
What about sustainability? The minister says outstanding payments will be completed by the end of 2025. Fine. But what happens after that? Will this programme survive beyond the life span of one administration, or will it go the way of countless other abandoned interventions once political winds shift?
There is also the gender and age data. We are told 61 per cent of the households are female-headed, and the largest beneficiary group is between 51–65 years old. But what about unemployed youths, who form the bulk of Nigeria’s population and are most vulnerable to crime and migration risks? Why does the government’s own data suggest they are not the priority?
Most importantly, what is the bigger picture? If government continues to hand out stipends without tackling inflation, joblessness, and infrastructural collapse, then this is nothing but giving painkillers to a patient in need of surgery. The root causes of poverty cannot be papered over with stipends.
Yes, the government deserves credit for finally integrating NIN and BVN into social protection. That is progress. But progress without equity and accountability is little more than window dressing. Nigerians are not asking for miracles, only for fairness, transparency, and a genuine plan that goes beyond token cash handouts.
At the end of the day, N330 billion has left the government’s coffers. But have Nigerians truly felt the impact? That remains the elephant in the room. Until these questions are answered convincingly, the cash transfer programme risks being remembered not as a lifeline, but as another tale of sound and fury—signifying little.
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
