I have always believed that a passport is more than a booklet of paper; it is a key, a symbol, a bridge between where we are and where we dream to be. It is a tangible manifestation of the social contract between the individual and the state, a promise of protection and identity in a world of borders. Growing up, I remember how my elder cousin clutched his first Nigerian passport like a prized possession, his eyes lit with the hope of studying in the United States. For him, it was not just a document—it was the embodiment of possibility, a ticket out of the suffocating limitations of our environment, a shield against the existential dread of being stateless in a world of nations. Years later, I watched another friend lose out on a life-changing scholarship abroad because his passport renewal was delayed for months, caught in the web of institutional inefficiency, bureaucratic apathy, and the quiet, corrosive corruption that has long plagued the Nigeria Immigration Service (NIS). These moments have stayed with me, crystallizing my understanding of how something as seemingly mundane as a passport can alter the course of a life, define one’s opportunities, and measure one’s worth in the eyes of one’s own government. So when the government announced yet another seismic hike in passport fees, I felt compelled to interrogate not just the policy itself, but the deeper meanings and consequences it carries for ordinary Nigerians. This is not merely an economic analysis; it is an investigation into the very soul of modern Nigerian citizenship and the alarming price tag now attached to the right to belong.
The recent decision by the Nigeria Immigration Service (NIS) to raise passport fees to ₦100,000 for a standard 32-page booklet and a staggering ₦200,000 for the enhanced version has sparked rightful outrage across the country. To contextualize this, one must understand that this is not an isolated event but the latest and most brutal spike in a relentless upward trajectory. In 2021, the cost of a standard passport was increased from ₦25,000 to ₦35,000—a 40% rise that was met with grumbling but accepted as part of a grim new normal. In 2022, the price of the 64-page passport, often used by frequent travellers and the diaspora, jumped from ₦70,000 to ₦100,000, another significant leap that further stratified access. Each time, the official justification was a familiar mantra: modernization, enhanced security features, operational efficiency, and the noble, perennial goal of eliminating corruption. Each time, Nigerians, resilient and weary, grumbled, adapted, and paid, their protest absorbed by the sheer inertia of the system. But this latest increase is qualitatively different. It is not just another adjustment; it is a leap so staggering that it feels punitive, a deliberate act of exclusion masquerading as policy. A near 200% increase for the standard booklet in less than three years is not reform—it is the financialization of citizenship and exclusion by design.
The government’s rationale, as articulated by officials and their apologists, rests on a cynical and deeply flawed refrain: Nigerians were already paying these sums, or even more, unofficially through bribes, “express processing” fees, and the notorious “mobilization” payments to touts and officers. The argument posits, “Why not formalize this process, redirect these funds into the public coffers, and clean up the system in one stroke?” On a superficial level, it sounds almost pragmatic, a realist’s approach to a problem deemed intractable. In practice, however, this logic is not just flawed; it is morally bankrupt and institutionally catastrophic.
By institutionalizing the inflated costs that corruption created, the government is not dismantling the corrupt system—it is legitimizing and sanctifying it. It is telling citizens that instead of fulfilling its fundamental duty to fight graft, strengthen institutions, and serve the public, it will simply absorb the dysfunction, baptize it with official stamps, and pass the entire burden on to the people. This is governance turned upside down, a perverse inversion where the state rewards its own inefficiency by monetizing it. It creates a vicious cycle: corruption inflates the real cost of a service — the government, instead of curing the corruption, raises the official price to match the corrupt rate — officials, now deprived of their illicit income stream, invent new avenues for extortion (e.g., “you must have a ‘verification number’ from a ministry official,” or “the system is down, but for a fee I can push it manually”) — the real cost rises again — the government uses this new inflated cost to justify another future price hike. This cycle doesn’t eliminate corruption; it merely elevates and entrenches it, transforming petty bribery into state-sanctioned extraction.
The effects of previous hikes should have served as a stark warning. After the 2021 and 2022 increases, data from immigration offices showed a sharp drop in applications from low-income earners, students, and those in rural areas. Middle-class Nigerians increasingly relied on connections—“I know a guy at Immigration”—or were forced back into the very informal, corrupt channels the price hike was supposed to eliminate. The hikes did not reduce corruption; they simply created new, more expensive layers of it, as officials exploited the heightened desperation of those who could not afford the new official fees but whose circumstances demanded the document. Now, with the current hike, the gap between those who can and cannot access a passport will widen from a crack into a chasm. The passport, once a universal document affirming the rights of all citizens, is fast becoming a luxury good, a class marker reserved for the economic and political elite.
To fully grasp the impact of this policy, one must move beyond economics and into the realm of psychology and social identity. A passport is a profound symbol of belonging. It is proof that you are a recognized entity, a citizen with a home country that, in theory, guarantees your right to return and your right to leave. For young Nigerians, securing that first passport is a rite of passage, a tangible step into adulthood and global citizenship. It represents hope, ambition, and agency. By placing it behind a paywall that is insurmountable for a vast segment of the population, the state is not just limiting physical mobility; it is curtailing psychological horizons and reinforcing a brutal class structure.
This has a chilling effect on the national psyche. It sends a clear message: your dreams of education abroad, of medical treatment, of international business, or even of tourism are valid only if you can afford the entry ticket. For the millions of talented, ambitious young Nigerians from middle and lower-class backgrounds, this is a message of profound exclusion. It tells them that the global arena is not for them, that their aspirations must be scaled down to fit within national borders that are themselves plagued by insecurity and economic hardship. The much-discussed japa wave—the exodus of young Nigerians seeking better lives abroad—may indeed cool, not because opportunities have improved at home, but because the upfront cost of leaving has been raised beyond reach. This does not mean the brain drain will end; it will simply become more elitist. The emigrant profile will tilt decisively toward the wealthy, the urban, and the well-connected. We will cease to export a cross-section of our best and brightest and instead only export those who could already afford to buy their way out. The inequality within Nigeria will be projected onto the global stage, and the privilege of mobility will become the ultimate marker of class, creating a self-perpetuating cycle where the wealthy gain global experience and networks, further widening the gap with those trapped at home.
At its core, this policy represents a profound breach of the social contract and a glaring symptom of institutional decay. The Nigerian state is struggling with a fundamental crisis of legitimacy. Citizens are increasingly alienated from a government that is perceived as extractive rather than facilitative, a predator rather than a protector. The passport fee hike risks being the final straw for many, shattering whatever remnants of trust still exist in public institutions.
The government’s promise—higher fees in exchange for faster processing, better technology, and a corruption-free experience—rings hollow to a populace that has heard these promises before. Where is the evidence of improved efficiency? The application process remains notoriously cumbersome, often requiring multiple visits to understaffed and poorly equipped immigration offices. The promised online systems are frequently glitchy or incomplete, forcing applicants back into the physical queues where corruption thrives. There is no transparency on how these new funds will be specifically allocated and audited. Without a clear, measurable, and accountable plan, citizens rightly perceive the move as what it appears to be: a cynical revenue grab, another instance of the state squeezing its citizens without offering value in return.
This erosion of trust has long-term consequences that extend far beyond passport services. When citizens believe their government sees them not as constituents to be served but as resources to be extracted, it undermines the very foundation of civic life. It discourages tax compliance, weakens national solidarity, and fuels social unrest. Why should a young Nigerian feel patriotism towards a nation that seems to actively price them out of their own future?
Perhaps one of the most economically shortsighted aspects of this policy is its impact on the Nigerian diaspora. Nigerians abroad are a vital national asset, contributing over $20 billion in remittances annually—a figure that consistently rivals or surpasses oil revenues as the largest source of foreign exchange for the country. This lifeline stabilizes the naira, supports millions of families, and fuels countless small businesses. The diaspora also serves as a crucial bridge for knowledge transfer, investment, and cultural influence.
Alienating this group is an act of profound economic folly. The new fee structure, particularly the exorbitant cost for the 64-page passport popular with frequent travellers abroad, will be perceived as a cynical targeting of a captive, relatively wealthier demographic. It sends a message: “We see you not as valued citizens contributing to the homeland, but as ATMs to be drained.” When diasporans feel exploited by homeland policies they had no say in shaping, their willingness to engage can quickly turn to resentment. Their civic and emotional bonds to Nigeria, already strained by distance and sometimes by negative experiences with officials at embassies and immigration desks, risk being severed. A decline in remittances, investment, and diaspora engagement would be catastrophic for an economy already on its knees. It is the equivalent of biting the hand that feeds the nation, and the teeth marks will be visible in the declining foreign reserve figures.
The most galling irony of this entire situation lies in the global context of passport power. A passport’s value is not determined by its cost but by the access it grants. On this metric, the Nigerian passport is one of the weakest in the world. According to the Henley Passport Index, it grants visa-free or visa-on-arrival access to only about 46 countries, mostly within Africa and a handful in the Caribbean and Asia. This places Nigeria around 95th in the global rankings, in the company of states like South Sudan (rank 94) and Eritrea (rank 96). It sits just above war-torn and politically pariah states like Afghanistan, Iraq, and Syria, whose citizens can access only 28 to 30 countries.
Contrast this with the global elite. Citizens of Japan, Singapore, and South Korea can travel to over 190 countries without a prior visa. Germans, Italians, and Spaniards enjoy similar access. These passports are near-universal keys, opening doors effortlessly across continents. Crucially, the cost of these powerful passports is often a fraction of Nigeria’s new fee. A Japanese passport costs approximately ¥11,000 (about ₦50,000), for a document that unlocks the world. A German passport costs €81 (about ₦80,000). Nigerians are now being asked to pay a premium price—₦100,000 to ₦200,000—for a document that delivers economy-class access.
This decline is not merely a numerical statistic; it is a stark, quantitative measure of Nigeria’s diminishing global standing over the past two decades. According to data from the Henley Passport Index, the Nigerian passport has fallen a staggering 32 places in the global rankings since 2006, plummeting from 62nd to 94th place by 2025 . This precipitous drop occurred despite the passport gaining visa-free or visa-on-arrival access to 11 additional destinations, bringing its total to 46 countries. This paradox—gaining ground yet falling further behind—graphically illustrates a simple fact: while Nigeria has stood still or advanced incrementally, the rest of the world has accelerated its integration, signed more reciprocal agreements, and strengthened its international reputations. The green passport now sits in the company of nations like South Sudan and Eritrea, a humbling placement for a country that once styled itself as the “Giant of Africa” .
The destinations accessible to Nigerian passport holders paint a telling picture of its limited reach. The list is overwhelmingly concentrated within Africa, thanks to regional ECOWAS agreements, and includes a smattering of island nations in the Caribbean and Oceania like Barbados, Dominica, and Vanuatu . Conspicuously absent are the economic and educational powerhouses of North America, Europe, and much of Asia. This access map effectively traces the boundaries of opportunity for the average Nigerian citizen: largely confined to the African continent, with arduous, expensive, and often humiliating visa processes acting as the primary barrier to the rest of the world. The passport, therefore, becomes not a key to the world, but a geographical determinant of destiny.
The official government response to this decline, as reported, often retreats into a defensive posture, highlighting technical compliance over diplomatic failure. Former officials of the Nigeria Immigration Service (NIS) have argued that the Henley ranking “does not necessarily reflect the true strength of a passport,” pointing instead to Nigeria’s membership in the International Civil Aviation Organization’s (ICAO) Public Key Directory (PKD) since April 2009 . The PKD is a critical system that allows for the authentication of electronic passports (e-passports) by verifying the digital signatures on their chips, a key security feature that prevents forgery . This technical achievement is not insignificant; it signifies that Nigeria’s document meets certain international security standards. However, it is a profound error to conflate the technical security of a document with its geopolitical power. A passport can be perfectly secure and yet utterly weak if the country that issues it is perceived as a source of illegal immigration, security instability, or economic migration. The NIS’s focus on ICAO compliance is necessary but woefully insufficient; it is like perfecting the ink and paper of a business card while ignoring the bankrupt reputation of the company it represents.
Indeed, the root cause of the passport’s weakness is not technical but profoundly political. As research director Charles Onunaiju succinctly stated, the measly visa-free access “reflects the country’s internal challenges” . The Henley Index itself confirms that a passport’s strength is directly tied to a nation’s “diplomatic relations, modernise its visa processes and improve security measures at its borders” . On every count, Nigeria is failing. The government’s own multi-billion-naira border surveillance system, launched in 2019, has been revealed to be largely ineffective, with illegal migrants—including identified bandits and terrorists—continuing to cross daily from neighbouring countries . This catastrophic security failure directly undermines global trust. When a nation cannot secure its own borders, why would any other country trust its travel documents or welcome its citizens without stringent checks? The perception of Nigeria as a source of insecurity and irregular migration becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy, leading to more visa restrictions, which in turn further diminishes the passport’s value. The fee hike, therefore, is not just a tax on mobility; it is a penalty that ordinary Nigerians are forced to pay for their government’s failures in diplomacy, security, and nation-building. They are being charged a premium for a product whose value their own leaders have systematically degraded.
This disparity is not accidental. Passport power is a direct reflection of a country’s global standing, shaped by factors like:
· Diplomatic Relations: The reciprocity of visa-waiver agreements.
· Perceptions of Security: The risk of visa overstay, illegal immigration, and crime associated with a country’s citizens.
· Economic Stability: The perceived risk of economic migrants using tourism as a backdoor.
· International Cooperation: A country’s record on issues like extradition and information sharing.
Nigeria struggles profoundly on all these fronts. Its battered international image, persistent security challenges from terrorism to internet fraud, and limited diplomatic leverage have left its citizens with a travel document that is both astronomically costly and painfully restrictive. The symbolism is crushing. The fee hike is not just a financial burden; it is a constant, humiliating reminder of Nigeria’s diminished standing in the world. Nigerians are forced to pay a premium for the consequences of their government’s failures.
The right to a passport is intricately linked to the fundamental human right to leave any country, including one’s own, as enshrined in Article 13 of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights. While states have the right to regulate this through documentation, using that regulation to effectively deny the right through prohibitive costs moves into ethically dubious territory. There are dark historical precedents for this.
In the latter days of the Soviet Union and its Eastern Bloc satellites, passports and exit visas were fiercely controlled by the state. They were not rights but privileges granted to those deemed politically loyal. The state used the control of mobility as a tool of political suppression and social control. While Nigeria is not a totalitarian state, the move to price a passport beyond the reach of millions shares a philosophical kinship with these practices. It represents a shift from viewing mobility as a right of citizenship to viewing it as a privilege to be sold, a commodity to be allocated by the market rather than guaranteed by the state. This is a dangerous path for any nation that claims to be a democracy.
The anger on the streets and on social media is justified, but outrage alone is not a strategy. There are concrete, viable alternatives to this punitive policy. The government must undertake a fundamental rethink, not just of the fee structure, but of the entire philosophy governing citizenship services.
- Tiered and Subsidized Pricing: A civilized society recognizes that access to fundamental rights cannot be subject to pure market forces. A tiered pricing system is essential. Students with valid admission letters, low-income earners with verifiable proof, and first-time applicants should pay a heavily subsidized rate, perhaps even at cost. The standard fee could be maintained at a reasonable level for the middle class, while the enhanced 64-page version for frequent business travellers and diasporans could carry a higher premium to offset some costs. This is not radical; it is compassionate and smart policy.
- Radical Investment in Efficiency and Digitization: The real solution to corruption and high costs is not higher fees but radical efficiency. The entire application process—from online forms and payment to biometric capture and scheduling—must be streamlined into a seamless, end-to-end digital platform. This reduces human contact, which is the primary vector for corruption. Investment must be made in modern equipment, adequate staffing, and training. The savings from reduced corruption and increased efficiency will be far greater than the revenue from punitive fees.
- Transparency and Accountability: The NIS must publish a clear, itemized breakdown of the cost of producing a passport. If the new fees are to be accepted, citizens deserve to know exactly what they are paying for. An independent audit of the NIS’s finances and a public roadmap for how the new revenue will improve services are non-negotiable prerequisites for building trust.
- Diplomatic Offensive: Instead of taxing Nigerians for the passport’s weakness, the government should embark on a relentless diplomatic offensive to strengthen it. This means improving international cooperation on security and data sharing, negotiating reciprocal visa-waiver agreements, and most importantly, tackling the internal issues of insecurity and corruption that tarnish the country’s image abroad. A stronger passport is an outcome of a stronger nation, not a revenue stream to compensate for a weak one.
The debate over passport fees is about much more than naira and kobo. It is a referendum on what it means to be Nigerian in the 21st century. It is about whether citizenship is a shared identity with mutual rights and responsibilities or a transactional relationship where every right must be purchased from a state that has forgotten its duty to serve.
Nigeria’s profound image crisis, both domestically and internationally, cannot be solved by squeezing its citizens for more money. It can only be solved by the painstaking work of building trust, delivering competent services, upholding the rule of law, and restoring dignity to the idea of citizenship. A passport should not be the price of belonging—it should be the promise of it. It should be a document that fills its holder with pride, not resentment; with hope, not despair; with a sense of possibility, not a reminder of limitation.
Until Nigeria’s leadership embraces this fundamental truth, it will continue to lose not only the faith of its people and the capital of its diaspora, but also the respect of the world. The bridge to the future must be built on the foundation of inclusion and justice, not tolled as a luxury expressway for the elite. The key to a better Nigeria lies not in locking its people in, but in empowering them to fly—and ensuring they always have a home worth returning to.
