There is an uncomfortable truth Nigerians have come to recognise, even if many are reluctant to say it, that in Nigeria, urgency is often reserved for the privileged. The rest must wait, sometimes indefinitely. From healthcare to infrastructure and economic policy, responses are frequently shaped not by the scale of a problem but by who is affected by it.
- +Nigeria’s annoying double standards in public health and governance
This is the essence of the ‘double standards’ that continue to define public life in Nigeria, a reality that echoes the ‘two cities’ metaphor popularised by A Tale of Two Cities.
This is the essence of the ‘double standards’ that continue to define public life in Nigeria, a reality that echoes the ‘two cities’ metaphor popularised by A Tale of Two Cities. In one Nigeria, the elite experience efficiency, swift intervention, and policy responsiveness. In the other, the majority endure neglect, delayed action, and systemic indifference.
Nowhere is this contrast more evident than in public health.
For over five decades, diseases like malaria and Lassa fever have plagued communities across Nigeria. They kill quietly, disproportionately affecting the poor, rural dwellers, and those without access to quality healthcare. Despite their devastating toll, these diseases have never triggered the kind of national emergency response that signals true political will. They are treated as routine, almost inevitable, a tragic but accepted part of Nigerian life.
Yet, when Ebola surfaced in West Africa, Nigeria’s response was swift, coordinated, and decisive. Institutions mobilised, borders were monitored, isolation centres were activated, and public awareness campaigns intensified almost overnight. The involvement of the World Health Organisation and the designation of Ebola as a global threat elevated its urgency, but there was also a more uncomfortable factor – Ebola posed a direct risk to the elite.
Unlike malaria or Lassa fever, Ebola did not respect class boundaries. It threatened international travel, diplomatic engagements, and the global mobility of Nigeria’s political and economic class. Suddenly, the machinery of state worked at full throttle.
Today, as the Nigeria Centre for Disease Control and Prevention activates emergency protocols in response to a new regional Ebola alert, the contrast is once again glaring. The agency has directed state governments to strengthen surveillance, activate emergency operations centres, and prepare isolation facilities. Borders are being monitored, healthcare workers are on high alert, and systems are being stress-tested.
All of this is commendable. In fact, it demonstrates that Nigeria has the institutional capacity to respond effectively to public health threats. But it also raises a critical question: why is this level of preparedness not the standard for diseases that kill far more Nigerians every year? The answer lies in incentives and in whose lives are perceived to matter most.
This same pattern extends beyond healthcare. Consider the aviation sector. When the cost of aviation fuel surged, threatening flight operations, the response from the government was immediate. Interventions were introduced, suppliers were engaged, and measures, including subsidies, were explored to stabilise the situation. Air travel, after all, is essential to the political class and business elite, particularly in a nation where road travel is increasingly unsafe.
Contrast this with the state of Nigeria’s roads. Despite the daily toll of accidents, kidnappings, and infrastructure decay, interventions remain slow and inconsistent. For the average Nigerian who relies on road transport, hardship is normalised.
It is difficult not to recall the words of Bob Marley: “You can fool some people some time, but you can’t fool all the people all the time.” Nigerians are increasingly aware of these disparities, and the patience that once muted public frustration is wearing thin.
Globally, nations that have made significant progress in public health and governance have done so by adopting a principle Nigeria has yet to fully embrace – universality. In nations like the United Kingdom, the National Health Service (NHS) operates on the premise that healthcare is a right, not a privilege. In Rwanda, one of Africa’s most notable success stories in health reform, community-based health insurance ensures that even the poorest citizens have access to care. The result is not just better health outcomes but greater social cohesion and trust in government.
Similarly, during the COVID-19 incidence, nations that responded most effectively did not wait until the elite were directly threatened. They acted early, invested in systems, and prioritised the collective good. The lesson is simple – when governance is inclusive, resilience follows.
Nigeria, by contrast, often operates reactively. Crises become priorities only when they intersect with elite interests or international attention. This approach is not only unjust, but it is also inefficient. Diseases left unchecked among the poor do not remain confined; they spread, evolve, and eventually threaten everyone. Infrastructure neglect in rural areas ultimately constrains national productivity. Economic policies that favour a few undermine long-term stability.
