Nigeria’s Federal Government Has Found Money for God While Nigerians Wait for Water

 

Nigeria is borrowing trillions, citizens are drowning in poverty, yet Abuja keeps finding billions for religion. When government funds prayers before necessities, something is dangerously wrong.

I have finally discovered one of Nigeria’s great economic miracles. We may not have enough hospitals. We may not have enough classrooms. We may not have reliable electricity. Millions of Nigerians still struggle with poverty. Government debt keeps climbing. But apparently, somewhere inside Abuja, somebody looked at this magnificent national emergency and said:

“You know what Nigeria needs right now? More government-funded religious projects.”

Amen.

Or perhaps I should say, Allahu Akbar.

Because Abuja appears determined to make sure nobody feels left out.

Tracka, BudgIT’s accountability platform, examined the 2026 federal budget and found about ₦8.05 billion earmarked for religious infrastructure: ₦6.14 billion for 52 mosque-related projects and ₦1.91 billion for 7 church projects. The International Centre for Investigative Reporting independently reported the same figures. Even more astonishing, these 59 projects sit inside a 2026 spending plan of about ₦68.3 trillion carrying a projected deficit of ₦31.45 trillion.

Read that again.

Nigeria is borrowing heavily, yet we have found room in the national wallet for churches and mosques. This is fiscal comedy wearing agbada. I can almost hear the budget meeting.

“Sir, the people need water.”

“Noted.”

“Sir, they need hospitals.”

“Very important.”

“Sir, electricity?”

“Absolutely.”

“Schools?”

“Certainly.”

“Jobs?”

“We are working on it.”

“Mosques and churches?”

“Release the money!”

And there lies the madness.

I am not attacking Christianity. I am not attacking Islam. Faith matters deeply to millions of Nigerians. Churches and mosques provide community, charity, comfort and moral guidance. But that is precisely why government should keep its political fingers out of their collection plates.

The Nigerian Constitution itself creates a clear wall. Section 10 says the government of the Federation or a state shall not adopt any religion as state religion. Yet Nigeria has developed a strange political habit: government does not officially establish a religion, but somehow taxpayers keep finding themselves financially involved in religious activities.

That is like a man announcing that he has stopped drinking while ordering another bottle “for administrative purposes.”

The problem becomes uglier when I look outside the stained-glass window. Nigeria’s own National Bureau of Statistics found in its 2022 Multidimensional Poverty Index that 63% of Nigerians—about 133 million people—were multidimensionally poor. The survey covered more than 56,000 households. That is not opposition propaganda. That is arithmetic.

A hungry child cannot eat a renovated mosque.

A woman in labor cannot receive an emergency Caesarean section from a church public-address system.

A village without clean water cannot drink holy water every morning and call the sanitation crisis solved.

And darkness does not disappear because somebody shouts, “Let there be light!” NEPA—or whatever respectable name Nigeria’s electricity troubles wear these days—still has to supply it.

This is what makes the ₦8.05 billion figure so offensive. Money has opportunity cost. Every naira spent in one place cannot simultaneously be spent somewhere else. Economists have taught this simple principle for generations, yet Nigerian budgeting sometimes behaves as if money reproduces overnight behind the Central Bank.

It does not.

The Debt Management Office reported that Nigeria’s total public debt had already reached about ₦152.40 trillion by June 30, 2025. That included roughly ₦71.85 trillion in external debt and ₦80.55 trillion in domestic debt. So this is not spare change falling from heaven. Nigeria is a country carrying enormous obligations while still budgeting billions for projects that religious congregations can finance themselves.

Then comes the familiar Nigerian plot twist: explanation.

The Office of Deputy Speaker Benjamin Kalu argued that its controversial allocation was not really direct religious financing. The office said the relevant amount was ₦780 million after deductions and that the money would support a youth reorientation program against drugs and crime through more than 130 churches. References to public-address systems and evangelical instruments were blamed on a technical error.

Ah, yes. The technical error. Nigeria’s most hardworking invisible civil servant. Whenever something smells strange inside official paperwork, Technical Error arrives wearing dark glasses.

“Who put that there?”

“Technical error.”

“Why does the description say this?”

“Technical error.”

“Who approved it?”

“We are investigating.”

At this rate, Technical Error deserves a pension. But even if I accept the explanation completely, another question walks through the door. Why put a public youth program inside religious allocations in the first place? If government wants to fight drug abuse, budget transparently for drug prevention. If it wants youth rehabilitation, fund the responsible public agency. If churches, mosques or civil-society groups will implement parts of the program, establish clear competitive rules, measurable outcomes, audited contracts and public reporting. Do not bury public policy inside religious expenditure and then act shocked when taxpayers smell incense.

Nigeria has been down this road before.

In 2024, President Bola Tinubu’s government approved a ₦90 billion subsidy for the 2024 Hajj pilgrimage, according to multiple contemporary reports. The decision came after the naira’s fall sharply increased pilgrimage costs. Whatever humanitarian or political argument was offered, the principle remained troubling: taxpayers were again being asked to cushion the cost of religious travel.

I keep asking the simplest question.

Why?

If I want to visit Jerusalem, why should a farmer in Benue help pay? If another Nigerian wants to perform Hajj in Mecca, why should a struggling trader in Enugu subsidize the journey?

Religion is sacred precisely because belief is personal. The moment politicians start financing faith, faith risks becoming another constituency to purchase. And Nigerian politicians understand constituencies.

A road does not vote.

A hospital bed does not attend rallies.

A borehole does not endorse candidates.

But religious communities contain millions of voters.

Suddenly the political arithmetic becomes less mysterious.

Give here.

Commission there.

Take photographs.

Shake hands with clerics.

Mention God repeatedly.

Then wait for election season.

I cannot prove that every religious allocation is designed to buy political loyalty, and it would be irresponsible to pretend otherwise. But I can say the structure creates that suspicion. When government distributes scarce public resources through politically valuable religious networks, especially as the 2027 elections approach, Nigerians are entitled to ask hard questions.

The irony is brutal. The same government tells citizens that reforms require sacrifice.

Fuel subsidy? Sacrifice.

Currency reform? Sacrifice.

Higher transportation costs? Endure.

Expensive food? Be patient.

Economic pain? Tomorrow will be better.

Then citizens open the budget and discover that sacrifice apparently has exemptions. The poor must tighten their belts while Abuja searches for another hole in its own. That is why this debate is bigger than ₦8.05 billion. It is about what government thinks government is for. Government exists to provide public goods that individuals cannot efficiently provide alone: roads, security, public health, education, water systems, infrastructure and functioning institutions.

God does not need an appropriation bill.

Citizens do.

The tragedy is that Nigeria has extraordinary religious energy. Churches overflow. Mosques fill. Prayer camps multiply. Vigils continue through the night. Nigerians pray for electricity, jobs, security, good roads, affordable food and competent government.

Then government arrives and says, in effect:

“We heard your prayers. Here is money for another religious project.”

No.

That is not an answered prayer.

That is satire writing itself.

Let congregations build their places of worship. Let believers finance pilgrimages. Let government protect everybody’s freedom to worship—or not worship—without fear. Then let Abuja do its own job.

Give Nigerians functioning hospitals.

Give children decent schools.

Give communities clean water.

Give businesses electricity.

Give young people an economy capable of rewarding work.

Give taxpayers transparent budgets.

And if ₦8.05 billion is sitting somewhere looking for something holy to do, I know a sacred cause: Try keeping Nigerians alive.

 

For readers interested in a separate line of thought, the titles in my “Brief Book Series” are available on Google Play. Read them here on Google Play or in Barnes & Noble bookstore: Brief Book Series.