EVERY holiday season, Nigeria plays host to scenes that could rival the most extravagant movie productions. Reunions at airport terminals end in tears and embraces, champagne flows freely in Lagos’ most exclusive clubs, and A-list Afrobeats stars dominate stages packed with partygoers. It’s a spectacle driven by the return of Nigerians from abroad—known locally as the I Just Got Backs, or IJGBs.
These returnees, typically from the UK, US, and Canada, bring more than just bulging suitcases. Their Western accents, sometimes punctuated with playful bursts of Pidgin English, and wallets padded by foreign exchange rates inject life—and money—into Nigeria’s economy. But beneath the glitz lies a more uncomfortable reality: IJGBs are both boosting and widening Nigeria’s stark wealth divide.
As reported by the BBC, residents of cities like Lagos and Abuja increasingly feel alienated in their own spaces, particularly during festive periods such as Christmas and New Year, locally dubbed Detty December. During this time, the influx of affluent returnees drives up prices in restaurants, hotels, and event venues, leaving many locals feeling excluded.
Detty December: a celebration for some, exclusion for others
For many Nigerians who live and work in the country, earning in the ever-weakening naira, the holiday season has become an exercise in endurance rather than celebration. A popular Lagos-based radio presenter, speaking anonymously to the BBC, described the city during Detty December as ‘almost unliveable’ for locals. ‘Traffic is horrible, prices inflate, and businesses stop prioritising their regular customers,’ he said.
The IJGB phenomenon has sparked debate about whether these returnees are bridging Nigeria’s class divide or deepening it. ‘Nigeria is very classist,’ the presenter added. ‘Ironically, we’re a poor country, so it’s a bit silly. The wealth gap is massive. It’s almost like we’re worlds apart.’
Nigeria’s widening wealth gap
Despite being Africa’s largest economy and its most populous country, Nigeria’s economic inequality is stark. More than 230 million people live in the country, yet huge challenges persist. According to Oxfam, the wealth gap in Nigeria has reached ‘crisis levels’.
Figures from the World Inequality Database in 2023 paint a sobering picture: over 10 percent of Nigerians control more than 60 percent of the nation’s wealth. And while many Nigerians struggle to find work, that same 10 percent claim 42 percent of the country’s income. The World Bank estimates that 87 million Nigerians live below the poverty line—making it the world’s second-largest poor population after India.
Nowhere is this divide more visible than in Lagos. Luxury apartment complexes rise behind sprawling slums like Makoko, where entire communities live in stilted shacks above polluted lagoons. Professor Martins Ifeanacho, a sociologist at the University of Port Harcourt, believes Nigeria’s deepening class divide stems from decades of economic mismanagement. ‘We have a political elite that bases its calculations on how to acquire power and amass wealth,’ he told the BBC. ‘The ordinary people are left out of the equation.’
IJGBs: fuelling inequality or fulfilling dreams?
The class system in Nigeria, however, is not just about wealth. It is about perception, and the presence of IJGBs amplifies this reality. Status is often displayed through luxury cars, designer clothes, and foreign accents—real or imitated. ‘At restaurants, if you show up in a Range Rover, you’re seated immediately,’ explained the Lagos radio presenter. ‘Arrive in a Kia, and you might wait all night.’
For many Nigerians, social mobility remains elusive. The World Bank cites ‘weak job creation and entrepreneurial prospects’ as key reasons why 3.5 million young Nigerians enter the labour force each year with little hope of finding work. This has fuelled the phenomenon known as japa—a Yoruba term meaning ‘to escape’—which describes the growing trend of emigration.
According to a 2022 survey, at least 70 percent of young Nigerians say they would relocate if given the opportunity. Among them is 28-year-old Lulu Okwara, a recruitment officer who studied finance in the UK. Now one of the IJGBs herself, she has returned home three times since relocating in 2021. ‘It’s success or nothing,’ she told the BBC. ‘There is no room for failure.’
The cost of success
For many Nigerians, success is a matter of survival. Prof Ifeanacho explains that when members of the diaspora return home, they are often treated as heroes. ‘The type of welcome they receive, the children running towards them—it’s something they cherish,’ he said. But the pressure to maintain appearances can be overwhelming.
Foreign accents are a form of currency in Nigeria, sometimes even more valuable than actual wealth. ‘People fake accents to get access,’ said Prof Ifeanacho. ‘The more you sound British, the higher your social status.’ He recalled a local pastor whose flawless American accent led many to believe he had lived abroad—until they discovered he had never left Nigeria.
Social media and the performance of wealth
Social media is rife with pushback against IJGBs, with some accusing them of putting up façades of wealth. Bizzle Osikoya, the founder of The Plug Entertainment, told the BBC he had seen IJGBs attend lavish concerts, only to later dispute credit card charges when they returned abroad. ‘They went back to the US and Canada and put a dispute on their payments,’ he said.
This behaviour points to the immense pressure on Nigerians abroad to perform success, even if it’s only skin deep. Afrobeats stars like Rema and Burna Boy may headline massive shows in Lagos, but for many, the party masks a deeper struggle. In Nigeria’s competitive social landscape, performance is often the key to climbing the class ladder.
As the country heads toward Easter and the busy summer holidays, many locals are asking whether the return of IJGBs is a blessing or a curse. Their spending undoubtedly boosts the economy during peak periods, but it also underscores a growing divide between Nigeria’s haves and have-nots.
