In point of fact, Lagos State is beyond a state. And, that is written without any sense of exaggeration. Lagos is more or less a country. The state can be compared to the other countries in Africa, especially along the continent’s west coast. Take a look at the state’s GDP and compare to Liberia, Sierra Leone and Togo’s figures.

The state’s economic indices completely outclass theirs while competing favourably with even Ghana or Cote D’Ivoire’s. Analogously, the Federal Capital Territory – (not yet recognised as a state) – Abuja – perhaps, with no one noticing – is rapidly morphing, racing up the path that shaped the Lagos’ development trajectory.

The end outcome is for time to reveal. And, it surely will. Comparatively, the other thirty-five states in the Nigerian federation are less than what one would call a state in terms of revenue generation, infrastructural presence and the other state-determinant economics and features, as they are straddled by very weak eco-financial profiles.

In fact, their Treasuries are often said to be in chaos, which I think should be some wake-up call to all their stakeholders. For instance, benchmarking the VAT and IGR (largely driven by consumption and the spate of economic engagements) numbers across the states in Nigeria presents another vivid revelation of immense size.

The disparity between Lagos and Abuja’s VAT and IGR figures, on the one hand and the other 35-states’ is frankly too dizzying for comfort and should raise some concern. Some (constitutional – largely fiscal) arrangements must have led to this.

Therefore, truly concerned elected political office-holders and economic planners should know it’s time they spoke up. Their continued silence rewards no one, not even the present benefitting states, especially in the long range.

The gap also does not speak in favour of country-wide development, especially when it negates the exact arrangements the nation badly and urgently needs.

Of many of the factors driving the unwholesome developmental optics, the structure of the country’s tax (particularly the PAYE system – how this is shared) can be considered to be at the heart of this misnomer.

Nigeria, Stakeholder Concerns and Taxes
Interestingly, Nigeria is a federation of states. Our federating structure is like no other in the world. How most of its holding pillars are defined are not evolving. They are stuck in their original letters, negatively impacting real development.

The Nigerian constitution recognises the clearly inflexible dichotomy between state of origin and state of residence for various reasons. There is also an aspect of the Nigerian state that is often de-emphasised in discourses even though it’s an integral part of its politico-administrative architecture – the local government.

Every economically-engaged Nigeria (especially in the formal sector) is at least a stakeholder in the three politico-administrative jurisdictions of state of residence, state and local government of origin. But of all the three, allegiance is most tightly expressed in one’s state of origin.

How deeply true is this when the PAYE-tax structure favours the state of residence while neglecting his supposed allegiance to his state of origin?

To help the government at each of the levels – federal, state and local – meet with their responsibilities and duties, every working/ earning adult is, amongst others, expected to be tax-responsible as a citizen-stakeholder.

Nigeria has adopted the PAYE-tax structure for its workers. Don’t we know that tax is a sine qua non for development? The existing PAYE-tax architecture is defective. It directs that PAYE-tax should be on the basis of the state of residence (where the typical worker is domiciled).

It does not take into consideration the many ‘fates’ of the Nigerian worker outside his state of origin and his stakeholder responsibility bent. In other words, the PAYE-tax structure demands him to be tax-responsible to a state where he is more or less regarded as a ‘stranger’.

That way, he is therefore tax-irresponsible to his state and local government area of origin, where according to the Nigerian constitution he also has some stakes.

The drawbacks of this long-standing arrangement are so easily seen and they are enormous, reflecting in the development hiatus between the two (of Lagos and Abuja) and the rest.

The development gap also comes with its socio-economic challenges if we think in terms of migration. On the other hand, a critical evaluation will also reveal that, like some have argued, Lagos and Abuja’s development is at the price being paid by the other 35-states.

For instance, a Deltan living and working in Abuja can be tax-responsible to the FCT while being tax-irresponsible to Delta State – where he is also a stakeholder (isn’t it wrong to be a stakeholder only on paper?). How this insalubrious tilt has remained the case for too long is what I do not know.

The existing PAYE-tax arrangement completely turns its back on many of our highly engraved and pronounced peculiarities as a nation, which should not be.

A Fairer PAYE-TAX Structure for Nigeria
It is time everyone – the politicians and economic planners – sat at the roundtable to develop a new and more equitable PAYE-tax sharing arrangement, which must take into reckoning our many oddities as a nation.

Furthermore, it must also align with the stakeholder leanings of the average Nigerian worker, which in the final argument will benefit country-wide development.

Argue against this if you can. A stitch, like they say, can actually stop the necessary need for nine.

Tony Monye Publisher
The TMBC Business

By Emeka Monye

In 1988, as international pressure against apartheid reached a crescendo, South Africa’s then State President Pieter Willem Botha allegedly declared that Black Africans lacked the capacity to govern themselves.

The statement, widely circulated but never verified in an official transcript, was stark: “Black people cannot rule themselves because they don’t have the brain and mental capacity to govern a society.

Give them guns, they would kill themselves; give them power, they will steal all the government money; give them independence and democracy, they will use it to promote tribalism, ethnicity, bigotry, hatred, killings and wars.”

A longer version of an alleged 1985 speech described Black people as “a symbol of poverty, mental inferiority, laziness and emotional incompetence.”

Botha was the architect of “reform apartheid” — a policy that eased some racial restrictions while entrenching white minority rule. He legalized interracial marriage, relaxed the Group Areas Act, and granted limited political rights to Coloured and Indian South Africans.

But he drew the line at Black majority rule, refusing to negotiate with the African National Congress or release Nelson Mandela for most of his tenure.

His words, whether authentic or apocryphal, reflected the ideological core of apartheid: that white minority rule was necessary because Black Africans were incapable of self-governance.

More than three decades after apartheid ended and South Africa became a democracy, that assertion has resurfaced in public discourse — not from white supremacists, but from some Africans reacting to a painful reality: the periodic eruption of xenophobic violence against fellow Africans in South Africa.

Since 2008, South Africa has witnessed repeated waves of attacks on African migrants. Shops owned by Nigerians, Somalis, Zimbabweans, and Mozambicans have been looted and burned. Foreign nationals have been beaten, killed, and displaced from townships.

In September 2019, mobs targeted foreign-owned businesses in Johannesburg and Pretoria, forcing hundreds to flee. In 2021 and again in 2023, similar violence flared in Durban and Gauteng, often justified by perpetrators as a response to unemployment and crime.

The victims are not Europeans or Asians. They are Africans — fellow members of the African Union, fellow signatories to the African Continental Free Trade Area, fellow citizens of a continent that preaches Pan-African solidarity.

The irony is bitter. A country that itself endured decades of racial exclusion now finds sections of its population directing similar exclusion toward other Black Africans.

This is the context in which Botha’s alleged statement is being recalled. For some commentators, the attacks are not just criminal acts.

They are seen as evidence of a deeper dysfunction — a failure of governance, social cohesion, and civic responsibility that extends beyond South Africa’s borders and into the broader African experience.

Africa is the world’s youngest continent, with 60 percent of its population under 25. It is also the richest in natural resources, holding 30 percent of the world’s mineral reserves and 65 percent of its arable land.

Yet it remains the least developed continent on nearly every index — from GDP per capita to healthcare, education, and infrastructure.

The reasons are complex and historical. Colonialism dismantled indigenous governance structures, imposed arbitrary borders, and created extractive economies designed to serve European powers.

Post-independence, many African states inherited weak institutions and were immediately confronted with Cold War proxy conflicts, debt burdens, and the challenge of nation-building across diverse ethnic groups.

The result has been a pattern of instability: civil wars in Liberia, Sierra Leone, Rwanda, and Sudan. Military coups in Mali, Burkina Faso, Niger, and Guinea. Election rigging, corruption, and weak rule of law in numerous countries. Banditry and insurgency in the Sahel and North-East Nigeria.

These are not abstract problems. They have consequences — for economic development, for migration, and for the way Africans are perceived both at home and abroad.

South Africa has not been immune. Despite its advanced infrastructure and democratic institutions, it struggles with inequality, unemployment hovering above 30 percent, and high levels of violent crime. In this environment, foreign nationals often become scapegoats.

They are accused of taking jobs, running informal businesses without permits, and contributing to crime. The narrative is familiar: when institutions fail to deliver economic opportunity, blame is shifted to the outsider.

The core of Botha’s argument — and the uncomfortable question it raises today — is about institutions. Governance is not just about holding elections. It is about building systems that protect property rights, enforce contracts, deliver public services, and hold leaders accountable.

It is about a culture where the rule of law supersedes tribal loyalty, where constitutional authority is respected, and where citizens feel safe and included.

In many African countries, those institutions remain weak. Courts are slow or compromised. Police are under-resourced and often seen as predatory. Civil service is politicized. Corruption is normalized. When the state fails to provide security and economic opportunity, informal power structures — ethnic militias, vigilante groups, criminal gangs — fill the vacuum.

South Africa’s xenophobic attacks reveal the same deficit. The state has been slow to prosecute perpetrators. Political leaders have at times used anti-foreigner rhetoric for political gain.

Communities feel abandoned by law enforcement and take justice into their own hands. The result is a breakdown of social order that mirrors the instability seen in other parts of the continent.

To raise this question is not to endorse Botha’s racism. His worldview was rooted in white supremacy and designed to justify domination. History has disproven him in the most fundamental way: Black Africans have governed themselves since independence, building nations, universities, businesses, and cultural institutions.

Countries like Botswana, Rwanda, Ghana, and Mauritius have shown that stable governance and economic growth are possible in an African context.

But it is also true that self-governance has not delivered the prosperity and unity that early independence leaders like Kwame Nkrumah, Julius Nyerere, and Patrice Lumumba envisioned. Instead, many African states remain trapped in cycles of conflict and underdevelopment. The African Union’s Agenda 2063 speaks of a “peaceful and prosperous Africa,” but the reality on the ground often falls short.

The xenophobic attacks in South Africa force a difficult conversation. If Africans cannot protect other Africans within their own borders, what does that say about the project of African unity? If economic competition between Africans leads to violence rather than cooperation, how can the continent achieve meaningful integration under the African Continental Free Trade Area?

Botha’s assertion was meant to deny Africans agency. The proper response is not to accept it, but to confront the failures that give it superficial resonance.

That means African governments must do more to strengthen institutions, protect migrants, and address the economic grievances that fuel xenophobia.

It means civil society must challenge hate speech and promote a culture of tolerance. It means citizens must hold leaders accountable for delivering governance that works.

It also means rejecting the temptation to generalize. South Africa’s attacks do not represent all South Africans. Many South Africans have condemned the violence, sheltered foreign nationals, and called for solidarity.

Similarly, Africa’s governance challenges do not define all 54 countries on the continent. There are islands of stability and progress that offer a counter-narrative.

The real danger is silence — the refusal to acknowledge that something is broken. Africa cannot afford to normalize dysfunction or to dismiss criticism as neo-colonialism. Self-determination comes with responsibility: the responsibility to build societies that are just, safe, and prosperous for all who live within them, regardless of nationality.

Pieter Willem Botha’s words were born out of prejudice and intended to perpetuate oppression. They should be rejected for what they are — a justification for racial exclusion. Yet the recurring xenophobic violence in South Africa, and the broader governance challenges across Africa, demand honest reflection.

The path forward lies not in proving Botha right, but in proving him wrong through action. That means building institutions that work, economies that create opportunity, and societies that uphold the dignity of every person — African or otherwise. Until then, the question of Africa’s capacity to govern itself will remain open, not because of race, but because of the unfinished work of state-building.

Africa’s renaissance will not come from denying its problems. It will come from facing them, learning from them, and resolving to do better. That is the only answer worthy of the continent’s future.

Emeka Monye Is A Journalist

*By Emeka Monye*

As the race for the 2027 presidential election gathers momentum, Nigeria’s political landscape is already shifting like a chessboard before the first move.

Major political bigwigs are jostling for party tickets, testing alliances, and calculating the odds of securing the ultimate prize: Aso Rock. Permutations have begun in earnest, with analysts and party insiders reading between the lines of every handshake and every press statement.

At the center of these calculations are some of the most recognizable names in Nigerian politics: former Vice President Atiku Abubakar, former Anambra Governor Peter Obi, former Transport Minister Rotimi Amaechi, and former Kano Governor Rabiu Kwankwaso.

Each of these men carries political weight, regional influence, and a base that believes he represents the best chance to dislodge the incumbent, President Bola Tinubu. Tinubu himself is widely regarded by political observers as a master strategist, a man who understands the mechanics of power better than most.

Beating him will not be easy. It will require not just popularity, but structure, resources, and most importantly, unity among opposition forces. Whether that unity will materialize remains the great unknown of 2027.

The most delicate variable in this equation is the willingness of these aspirants to step down for one another under the banner of a single party. Right now, much of the speculation centers on the African Democratic Congress, ADC, which has quietly become a possible platform for an opposition coalition.

But the question hanging over the ADC is simple: who will blink first? And more importantly, who will be willing to sacrifice personal ambition for the greater good of a unified front?

Atiku Abubakar remains a central figure in this debate. The former Vice President has pursued the presidency since 1992, and his ambition has not dimmed with age.

For Atiku, 2027 may represent one last shot at realizing a lifelong dream. But his candidacy faces a structural hurdle: the argument that it is still the turn of the South to produce the president. After eight years of Muhammadu Buhari from the North, many within the political class believe power should remain in the South for another term.

That arrangement does not favor Atiku, and whether he will adhere to it in principle is a matter of political conscience. Based on history, many doubt he will. Atiku’s camp has always played hardball, and stepping down for a southern candidate would require a level of self-restraint he has not shown before.

This is where Peter Obi enters the frame. Obi’s performance in the 2023 election proved that he commands a movement that transcends traditional party lines. His supporters, often called the “Obidients,” see him as the face of a new Nigeria, one less tethered to the old guard. But Obi’s path to the ADC ticket is far from clear.

The party’s structure, insiders say, is already leaning toward Atiku. For Atiku, Obi’s movement represents a useful support base to stay afloat, but not necessarily a platform he is willing to surrender. If Atiku remains a stumbling block, Obi may be forced to look elsewhere.

That “elsewhere” could be the National Democratic Congress, NDC. Unlike the ADC, the NDC is currently free of the kind of internal infighting that has plagued other parties. It has no entrenched godfather dictating its direction, no legacy structure dominated by a single aspirant.

For now, it is clean. But that could change the moment Obi walks in. His arrival would bring with it the same energy and attention he brought to the Labour Party in 2022, when he left the PDP and captured national imagination. That move shocked the political establishment. A move to the NDC in 2027 could do the same.

There are strong pointers that Obi will not secure the ADC ticket. The party’s machinery is gradually being aligned with Atiku’s network, and it is unlikely that Atiku will hand over the reins without a fight.

If Obi stays and loses the primary, he risks being sidelined. If he leaves, the NDC offers a ready-made alternative, a platform where he can once again define the narrative on his own terms. It would be a repeat of 2022, but with higher stakes and greater visibility.Kwankwaso’s role in this unfolding drama cannot be ignored.

The former Kano Governor commands significant influence in the North, and his political base remains loyal. Like Obi, he is also weighing his options. A joint ticket or alliance between Obi and Kwankwaso under the NDC would be a game-changer. It would combine Obi’s southern and youth appeal with Kwankwaso’s northern structure, creating a formidable challenge to both Tinubu and any coalition the ADC manages to build.

The NDC, in that scenario, would transform from an obscure party into a national force overnight.Of course, this is all speculation for now. Politics in Nigeria is fluid, and alliances can shift in weeks, sometimes days.

But the underlying reality is clear: the opposition’s best chance in 2027 lies in unity. Divided, they will hand Tinubu an easy victory. United, they could force a real contest.

The ADC was supposed to be that unifying platform, but with Atiku’s shadow looming large, it may end up replicating the same internal conflicts that weakened the opposition in previous cycles.Obi’s supporters argue that he has already shown he is willing to sacrifice for the greater good by engaging across party lines.

But they also insist that sacrifice must go both ways. If Atiku refuses to step aside, they say, Obi owes no one the duty to play second fiddle. The NDC then becomes not just an option, but a necessity. For Kwankwaso, the calculation is similar.

He has always positioned himself as an alternative to the status quo, and joining forces with Obi under a new banner could finally give him the national reach he has long sought.

The NDC’s advantage is its neutrality. It is not burdened by the baggage of the PDP or the APC. It has no history of failed primaries or bitter court cases. It offers a fresh start, and in Nigerian politics, fresh starts can be powerful.

Voters are tired of recycling the same faces under different party logos. A new platform with new energy could capture that fatigue and turn it into votes.

But fresh starts come with risks. Building a party structure from scratch is expensive and time-consuming. It requires funding, grassroots mobilization, and a clear message.

Obi proved he could do it in 2023 with limited resources. Kwankwaso has the network to complement that effort. Together, they could make the NDC a serious contender.

Alone, each risks splitting the opposition vote and handing victory to Tinubu on a silver platter.This is why the next few months will be crucial. Party primaries, backroom negotiations, and public statements will all serve as indicators of where these aspirants are headed.

Atiku will test his influence within the ADC. Obi will test the patience of his movement. Kwankwaso will test the waters for a broader coalition. And Tinubu, from his vantage point, will watch it all unfold, ready to exploit any cracks.

For now, the signal is clear: I see Obi and Kwankwaso moving toward the NDC. It is not yet a done deal, but the logic is compelling. The ADC may offer a coalition on paper, but in reality, it looks like another battleground for old rivalries.

The NDC offers something different: a clean slate, a chance to rewrite the rules, and an opportunity to build something new.

Whether Obi and Kwankwaso will seize that opportunity remains to be seen. But if they do, 2027 will not just be another election.

It will be a referendum on whether Nigeria’s political future belongs to the old guard or to a new generation willing to break away and chart its own course.