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Corruption in Nigeria is not just an economic issue; it is a cultural and political crisis. But more than that, it is an identity crisis. While citizens lament the theft of billions from the national treasury, the outrage is never universal. It is selective, tribal, and often hypocritical.
In the Nigerian political imagination, corruption ceases to be a moral wrong when the perpetrator shares one’s surname, tongue, or lineage. Instead, the thief is baptised as “our son” or “our daughter,” whose sins must be excused because “others are doing worse.”
The recent controversy around an Igboman who attempted to crown himself the “Obi of Lagos” has once again revealed these fault lines. His arrest for alleged fraudulent intentions was met with glee in some quarters, especially among Yoruba social commentators, many of whom interpreted the attempted title as a form of insolence. The accused himself is said to have confessed that it was nothing but a scam. Yet the outrage was disproportionately amplified, far more than comparable Yoruba transgressions often are.
This brings us to a pressing question: Why is it that when Igbos are caught in corruption or scandal, the story is loudly paraded as a collective embarrassment, while Yoruba culprits often enjoy muted treatment? And more broadly, what have the Igbo people done to attract such peculiar animosity, such that their every misstep becomes an occasion for collective heckling?
Let us first clarify the recent controversy. The “Obi of Lagos” saga is a fraud for a nonexistent throne. The individual in question was a private Igbo man accused of planning to fraudulently install himself as the “Obi of Lagos,” a title that has no recognition in Yoruba traditional structures and no bearing on Nigeria’s chieftaincy laws.
The man was not sent by the Igbo as a people. According to reports, he has even admitted that it was a scam. In other words, this was not a serious attempt at cultural conquest but a fraudulent scheme. Yet the Yoruba reaction was one of widespread indignation, as though Igbos collectively sought to create a rival throne in Lagos.
This outrage, however, invites comparison. The Yoruba themselves have installed Obas and Baales in communities outside their ancestral homeland. For example:
The Oba of Yoruba in Kano is a recognised traditional head for the Yoruba community in Kano State.
There are Yoruba chiefs and Obas in Ilorin (Kwara State), a historically contested cultural space.
Even in distant parts of the North like Sokoto and Kaduna, Yoruba cultural heads, sometimes styled as Oba or Baale, function as rallying figures for Yoruba migrants.
Ironically, the Yoruba also have Obas in Igbo land- in Enugu and Awka, for example – and nobody is complaining.
These are accepted as legitimate cultural institutions, yet an Igbo man’s fraudulent attempt at styling himself “Obi of Lagos” sparked disproportionate anger. Why? Because Nigeria’s ethnic relations are shaped not only by law but by suspicion, rivalry, and prejudice.
Why is the Igbo case different? It is worth asking. What have the Igbo done to warrant so much collective hostility? Why does every individual Igbo misdeed become a lightning rod for scorn?
There are several factors responsible for this, chief among which is envy. The Igbo thrive where others whittle because of their resilience and never-say-die spirit. Instead of applause, other tribes are embittered and seek opportunities to do them in. That is why, unfortunately, Igbo names feature prominently in stories of financial scams, both locally and abroad. Though fraud is hardly an Igbo monopoly – Yoruba “Yahoo Boys” are globally notorious – when an Igbo is caught, it is celebrated with a kind of moral glee, as if it proves a long-held stereotype.
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One could only imagine what the reaction would be if the Yoruba oba jailed for fraud in the US were to be Igbo. Even the kingmakers have refused to replace the man. However, it would be silly to tag all Yoruba obas as fraudsters simply because of the misdeed of one.
Prominent Yoruba politicians have been indicted for monumental fraud, yet the ethnic defence mechanism quickly shields them. Some have even been jailed, but their release from prison is celebrated with fanfare, as if they had returned from exile rather than punishment for corruption. The same goes for northerners who are welcomed home by crowds as heroes after corruption entanglements.
These are not isolated incidents. The Yoruba, like every other ethnic group, often protect their own. Yet when an Igbo politician or businessman faces similar charges, the celebration of his downfall is louder, sharper, and more malicious.
Sadly, the media has not lived up to its billing in this. Its coverage also reflects these biases. A Yoruba caught in corruption is framed as “a politician” or “a businessman.” An Igbo caught in corruption is often highlighted as “an Igbo man.” This is so even among public officials. The ethnic label is not incidental; it is central to the story. This framing feeds stereotypes and fuels collective disdain.
This is why the “Obi of Lagos” saga, despite being an inconsequential scam, became such a lightning rod. It was not about the man; it was about the symbol. It was presented as an Igbo attempt to overstep boundaries, even though Yoruba chieftaincy installations in other regions are accepted as normal.
The truth is that corruption is a national, not tribal, plague. The tragedy of this ethnicisation is that it distracts from the true issue: corruption is Nigeria’s biggest enemy, regardless of who commits it. The billions looted annually are not stolen in Igbo, Yoruba, or Hausa interest; they are stolen for private enrichment. The child who dies in a dilapidated hospital in Enugu is no less a victim than the one who perishes on a bad road in Ibadan or Kano.
By making corruption a tribal contest, Nigerians have become sufferers of Stockholm Syndrome and are complicit in their own oppression. Instead of demanding accountability, they defend “our thief” while mocking “their thief.” This double standard is why impunity thrives.
If Nigeria is to move forward, Igbos and Yorubas must resist the voices of bigotry. Neither group benefits from hostility. Lagos, for instance, thrives precisely because it is multi-ethnic. Igbos have invested heavily in Lagos real estate, commerce, and industry, while Yorubas remain its political and cultural custodians. The city’s prosperity lies in this partnership, not in division.
Bigots who fan ethnic flames do so for political gain. They exploit stereotypes to distract from failures in governance. But ordinary Yoruba and Igbo citizens share more in common than they admit: both are victims of corrupt elites who loot without regard for tribe. They have mastered the art of knocking heads together to distract and have a field day looting the public till.
The lesson, therefore, is simple: A thief is not your tribesman; he is your oppressor. Whether Igbo, Yoruba, Hausa, or otherwise, the corrupt elite does not steal for the tribe; he steals for himself.
The “Obi of Lagos” scandal should have been dismissed as the fraudulent scheme of one man. Instead, it became a stage for old prejudices to reemerge. This selective outrage is dangerous, for it deepens Nigeria’s tribal wounds and prevents true accountability.
Igbos should not be collectively blamed for the misdeeds of individuals, just as Yorubas or Hausas should not be excused when their leaders plunder the treasury. Nigeria’s path to unity lies not in defending corrupt sons and daughters but in building a culture where corruption, no matter the surname of the culprit, is seen for what it is: theft of the common future.
Let Igbos and Yorubas, two of Nigeria’s most dynamic peoples, refuse to be divided by the politics of scapegoating. Let them stand together against corruption, rather than against each other. For only in coexistence, not in rivalry, can Nigeria find peace and prosperity.
NB: By the way, the Igbo have far more existential challenges to contend with than these irrelevant titles in the Diaspora. It is not part of Igbo culture. Why not Onye Ndu Ndigbo (Igbo leader)? Whoever wants to be crowned an Obi, Igwe, or Eze should go back home and vie for the throne. Assuming such thrones, whether in Yoruba land, Sokoto, or even Ghana, is all showmanship by mentally insecure people seeking validation.
