Life would be far simpler if we all truly realised that our time on earth is fleeting. A man once came to me, visibly troubled, to share a disturbing tale about how deeply corruption has eaten into the soul of Nigeria. He recounted how he had entered a gentleman’s agreement with a director in a federal agency after securing a contract—an agreement to part with 15% of the contract’s total value as kickback.
All documents were signed, the deal sealed. But after receiving his first payment, the director suddenly informed him that there was a new minister in charge and that the agreed bribe had been increased from 15% to an outrageous 40%. The contractor was left baffled and shaken. How could he possibly fund the execution of the project after surrendering nearly half of the contract’s worth?
They called a meeting. The solution? Inflate the contract from N25 billion to a staggering N107 billion and resubmit it for approval. Everyone in the loop—directors, ministry aides, and even clerical staff—was reportedly jubilant when the new figure was approved. They continued with the plan, greedy and blind to the consequences.
But fate struck with chilling precision. The director and his son died in a ghastly motor accident just weeks later. Years passed. Then came a shocking letter from the late director’s widow, demanding the balance of the “deal”—a whooping N27 billion. Unknown to the contractor, the vague agreement he signed never clearly stated what the payment to the director was for.
The matter escalated quickly. The family, through their lawyer, had allegedly connived with a judge. Within three months, the court ruled in their favour, ordering the contractor to pay the director’s family N27 billion. No questions were asked about how a civil servant could lay claim to such vast wealth. Not even a whisper of concern from the bench.
The contractor appealed. He lost again.
But when the case reached the Supreme Court, a panel of five justices took a stand. They declared it fundamental to establish the origin of the N27 billion in question. Where was the proof? Where were the receipts? Where did a federal director get such wealth? They ruled that no one can build something on nothing. Without any documents backing the family’s claims, the apex court dismissed the case and fined the director’s family for wasting judicial time.
This incident mirrors a larger tragedy in Nigeria: a nation where many civil servants enter public office poor and leave as multi-billionaires, owning mansions in Abuja, Dubai, and London. We have seen directors in the Ministry of Works own fleets of cars while project sites rot. Top officials in health agencies stash millions meant for rural clinics. Education boards inflate budgets for ghost schools. Yet, they still wear white agbada in church and mosque, hailed as philanthropists.
Nobody seems to love this country anymore. The rot in Nigeria’s civil service has reached a scandalous peak. Everyone’s mantra appears to be: “Steal now, become a saint later.”
Sadly, after all his troubles, the contractor was killed by bandits last week along the Akure-Ilesha road. One thought struck me like lightning: what became of the wealth they had amassed so fraudulently? It remains here—untouched, unclaimed, useless. Both principal actors—director and contractor—have left it behind to meet their Creator.
We chase shadows, we betray our conscience, we ruin generations unborn, forgetting that life is a fleeting whisper. Power, wealth, influence—they all end in the grave. Nothing we gain dishonestly lasts forever.
Let this story haunt the hearts of those who still think corruption is a clever game.
Mogaji Wole Arisekola writes from Ibadan.
