How Nigeria’s Wealthy Class Wields Power Without Purpose and Why It Fails to Shape the Nation’s Future [OPINION]

 

Nigeria’s Power Class: Wealth Without Vision, Status Without Substance

A glittering car fleet in Banana Island. A granite-topped kitchen in a Maitama mansion. The constant buzz of political names whispered over cigars and whisky at exclusive Lagos clubs. On the surface, these symbols might suggest the existence of a Nigerian elite—a ruling class with wealth, influence, and vision. Scratch beneath, however, and a much bleaker picture emerges: a privileged class consumed not by public interest or legacy, but by an unrelenting fear of personal ruin.

This paradox lies at the heart of Nigeria’s persistent dysfunction. Across countries with stable democracies or even structured autocracies, elite classes tend to shape and define the national direction. They build institutions, craft ideologies, and enforce long-term policies—sometimes self-serving, often nation-defining. Nigeria, on the other hand, boasts a class of wealthy and powerful individuals who act more like survivors of a never-ending crisis than architects of a collective future.

What passes for Nigeria’s elite are not stewards of society or thought leaders. They are, as commentator David Hundeyin incisively argues, little more than former hustlers in designer suits—haunted by the specter of poverty and driven by an exhausting need to hold onto power and wealth for dear life. Their politics, economic choices, and social influence all orbit one goal: staying afloat in a country where the absence of systems means that yesterday’s mogul can become today’s beggar.

Speak with Lagos socialites or Abuja insiders, and you hear the same refrain—grumbling about “our leaders” or “the system.” But who are these leaders, if not their friends, former classmates, and military coursemates? Who exactly is “the system” if not the very individuals complaining about it at multimillion-naira weddings and closed-door business meetings?

What is most striking is the insecurity that permeates even the most comfortable Nigerian boardrooms. A billionaire can hold a conversation about oil block allocations and private jet logistics while simultaneously worrying about being “finished” if a new government emerges without their people. Retired generals, former state governors, ex-bank chiefs—people who held immense power—often find themselves suddenly shunned and irrelevant, like faded actors after the curtain falls.

The reality is brutal: power in Nigeria is not institutional or ideological; it is personal, raw, and fleeting. Once it slips from one’s hands, so does the deference, the deals, the drivers, and the handshakes. Status in Nigeria does not reside in ideas or contributions to the nation’s growth—it resides in being able to command respect through proximity to money or political clout. Without either, one becomes a ghost, even within one’s own family.

This tragic insecurity gives rise to a culture devoid of continuity or vision. While elites elsewhere forge legacies—founding think tanks, investing in public education, influencing global debates—Nigeria’s power class trades loyalties like used cars. Political affiliation is dictated by convenience, not ideology. Today’s opposition leader is tomorrow’s ruling party appointee. The word “decamp” is thrown around as casually as weekend travel plans.

What this all creates is not a society led by an elite class but one trapped in a feedback loop of survivalism. It’s a country where status is chased for its own sake, where flashy lifestyles mask psychological panic, and where development is perennially sacrificed at the altar of personal security.

This isn’t to say there aren’t intelligent, visionary Nigerians. There are professors crafting policy blueprints in anonymity, technocrats sidelined for refusing to play dirty, and young people trying to rebuild from the grassroots up. But they are rarely allowed into the halls of true influence. The gatekeepers—those with the access, the clout, the cash—have no intention of allowing any change that might threaten their fragile hold on privilege.

So Nigeria floats—a giant, chaotic space of brilliant people mismanaged by a class that fears change more than it fears failure. A class that may live in Ikoyi but whose mindset remains in Mile 12: counting every naira, mistrusting every ally, fearing every tomorrow.

Until a new generation of Nigerians dares to define elite status not by what one owns, but by what one builds and sustains, the country will continue to suffer a leadership vacuum disguised as affluence.

A nation of 200 million is waiting—not for saviors, but for people of means and vision to finally act like the elite they claim to be.

*written by DAVID HUNDEYIN