Nigeria, blessed with abundant natural resources, a youthful and resilient population, a rich cultural heritage, and strategic geographical positioning, remains paradoxically underdeveloped. This underdevelopment is not merely a failure of capacity or circumstance—it is, in many respects, the outcome of deliberate actions and systemic dysfunctions embedded within leadership, institutions, and societal structures. Even more insidious is the resulting alienation of the people: politically, economically, culturally, and psychologically. The term “development of underdevelopment,” as conceptualized by scholars like Andre Gunder Frank, accurately captures this paradox—where development in certain quarters thrives only through the intentional suppression or neglect of others. In Nigeria, this phenomenon is starkly evident across political, socioeconomic, traditional, religious, and communal spheres.
At the core of Nigeria’s political dysfunction is a system that has turned governance into an exclusive club rather than a vehicle for service. The ruling class often manipulates electoral processes, suppresses opposition, and enacts policies with minimal public consultation. Power is centralized, and decision-making is frequently disconnected from the realities of the people. Nepotism, cronyism, and ethnic favoritism breed resentment and deepen the chasm between citizens and the state. The result is a political environment where most Nigerians feel excluded from governance, reduced to mere spectators in matters that determine their futures. The alienation is worsened by a lack of transparency, weak institutions, and impunity for corrupt leaders. Regions like the Niger Delta, South East, and parts of the North feel historically marginalized, fuelling separatist agitations and deepening the crisis of national identity.
The socioeconomic landscape is even more damning. Despite the immense wealth generated from oil and other sectors, Nigeria is home to one of the largest populations of people living in extreme poverty. As of 2024, over *71 million Nigerians* live below the international poverty line of $2.15 per day, according to the World Bank. However, this figure only scratches the surface of the real hardship experienced by most citizens. According to the National Bureau of Statistics, *about 133 million Nigerians*—nearly 63% of the population—are trapped in *multidimensional poverty*, a more holistic measure that includes lack of access to healthcare, education, clean water, sanitation, housing, and employment. This staggering figure paints a clearer picture of deprivation, showing that the crisis extends beyond income to include the total collapse of basic social infrastructure and opportunity. Nigeria remains the global epicenter of extreme poverty—surpassing even India, which has a significantly larger population. Public resources are routinely embezzled by those in power, while education, healthcare, infrastructure, and job creation remain neglected. Basic amenities like clean water, electricity, and decent roads are luxuries for many. The rich enjoy private security, international healthcare, and elite education, while the majority are left to navigate a broken system with minimal support. This economic exclusion is systematic. Access to opportunities is often determined not by merit or innovation but by connections to the elite circle.
Young Nigerians, in particular, are the victims of this system—they are unemployed, underemployed, and uninspired, leading many to seek dangerous migration routes abroad or turn to crime, drugs, and violence. Youth unemployment currently stands at *over 40%*, with a significant proportion of graduates unable to find decent jobs years after leaving school. The dream of a better life through education and hard work is dimming, replaced by desperation and disillusionment.
The situation is made worse by infrastructural decisions that displace and disempower the poor in the name of development. Across Nigeria, slums and informal settlements—where millions of the urban poor live—are demolished under the guise of urban renewal and beautification. According to Amnesty International and the Social and Economic Rights Action Centre (SERAC), *over one million people* have been forcefully evicted in Lagos alone in the last two decades. These areas are replaced with luxury housing estates that are neither accessible nor affordable to the displaced. No provisions are made for resettlement or low-income housing alternatives. Families who have lived in these communities for generations are evicted overnight without compensation or legal recourse, their homes bulldozed to make way for the rich. In cities like Lagos, Abuja, and Port Harcourt, this has become an unspoken policy—development for the wealthy, displacement for the poor.
Markets that once served as economic lifelines for low-income traders are razed to construct shopping malls, bus terminals, or “modern structures” that exclude the very people they once served. Hawkers, petty traders, and small business owners are chased off the streets in the name of orderliness, yet no inclusive economic strategy is put in place to absorb their loss. What is portrayed as progress becomes another face of alienation—a physical and economic erasure of the poor from public space. Road construction follows the same inequitable logic: roads are prioritized not based on traffic needs or socioeconomic value but on the status of residents. Streets where the wealthy or politically connected reside are paved and lit, while communities with urgent infrastructural needs are ignored, despite their contribution to local economies.
Even security is a privilege of the elite. While ordinary Nigerians face rising levels of crime, kidnapping, and communal violence with little to no state protection, the wealthy enjoy battalions of security personnel. Nigeria has an estimated *371,800 police officers* for a population of over 220 million—far below the *United Nations recommended ratio of 1 officer per 450 citizens*. However, according to civil society reports, nearly *one-third of these officers* are attached to political office holders, billionaires, and celebrities. In some instances, a single politician or businessman is escorted by convoys of armed police or military officers, leaving entire neighborhoods unguarded. The security architecture is skewed in favor of privilege, reinforcing the message that the state exists for the few, not the many. Public policing, where it exists, is reactive, underfunded, and often predatory, further eroding trust in state institutions.
These injustices are compounded by other related dynamics. Emergency responses and disaster relief efforts are similarly skewed—urban poor communities are left to fend for themselves during floods, building collapses, or market fires, while elite areas receive swift government attention. Access to justice mirrors this pattern: while the rich can afford expensive legal teams to navigate or manipulate the judicial system, the poor are trapped in prolonged pretrial detentions or denied access to legal representation altogether. The Nigerian Correctional Service reports that *over 70% of prison inmates* are awaiting trial—many for years—while corrupt politicians and affluent individuals walk free. Public health interventions are launched in flashy media events, yet the primary healthcare centers in rural and poor urban communities are understaffed, unequipped, and largely abandoned. Nigeria spends less than *4% of its national budget* on healthcare annually, falling far short of the *15% Abuja Declaration commitment*. In many rural areas, *83% of primary health centers* lack essential drugs, basic medical equipment, or qualified personnel.
Within traditional institutions, once revered as the guardians of communal values and justice, the story is equally troubling. Many traditional rulers, who should serve as bridges between the people and the state, have been compromised by the allure of political patronage. Palaces have become extensions of political machinery, and traditional leaders now often prioritize loyalty to political benefactors over the wellbeing of their communities. Their moral authority is eroded, and in many places, they are seen as complicit in the very oppression they were once expected to resist. The respect and trust they once commanded are giving way to skepticism and cynicism.
Religion, a powerful force in Nigerian society, has also not escaped the grip of underdevelopment and alienation. While faith continues to provide comfort and community for many, it has also become a tool for exploitation. Many religious leaders now preach prosperity messages that emphasize giving to the church or mosque in exchange for divine blessings, often enriching themselves while their congregations languish in poverty. Instead of advocating for justice, accountability, and social change, they too often align with the political elite, offering prayers and endorsements in exchange for patronage. The sacred is thus commodified, and the spiritual alienation of the masses deepens. Worshippers are taught to endure suffering passively, to spiritualize structural injustice, and to hope for rewards in the hereafter rather than demand change in the present.
At the community level, Nigeria has historically thrived on collective values—extended family systems, communal child-rearing, age grades, and shared responsibility for the vulnerable. These community structures once provided safety nets and a sense of belonging. But those fabrics are fraying. Poverty, mistrust, and individualism—fueled by systemic failures—have disintegrated many of these bonds. The youth no longer look up to elders, many of whom are seen as beneficiaries of a corrupt system. Communal decisions are increasingly undermined by money politics, and local disputes escalate into violence because traditional dispute-resolution mechanisms are weak or ignored. The people are not just materially impoverished but emotionally and socially dislocated.
This alienation is not accidental. It is a strategy. A disempowered, divided, and disillusioned population is easier to control. When people are stripped of education, denied economic opportunities, excluded from political participation, and made to question even their spiritual and communal anchors, they become pliable. The ruling elite maintains power by fragmenting national unity, suppressing dissent, and fostering cycles of dependency. Apathy, cynicism, and hopelessness replace civic engagement and social solidarity. This is the silent, ongoing violence of underdevelopment.
Yet, despite the bleak picture, there is hope. Change is possible, but it must begin with the recognition that the current system is fundamentally flawed. Leadership must be redefined—not as a position of privilege, but of service and sacrifice. There must be a commitment to transparency, accountability, and equitable development. Electoral processes must be reformed to reflect the true will of the people. Traditional institutions must return to their ethical roots, serving as true custodians of community values. Religious leaders must reclaim their prophetic role—challenging injustice, advocating for the poor, and nurturing civic responsibility. Communities must rebuild trust, revive collective consciousness, and reawaken the values that once held them together.
Most importantly, the Nigerian people must believe again—in their power, their voice, and their right to a better life. Development is not just about physical infrastructure; it is about dignity, justice, and the ability of every citizen to participate meaningfully in shaping their destiny. The task is urgent. The stakes are high. But the future can still be reclaimed—if we act, and act together. God is with us!
Prof. Chiwuike Uba, Ph.D.
