The Decline of Billionaire Rankings…

FACTFILE with Lanre Alfred

…truth behind the headlines, conspiracies, cover-ups, trials and triumphs

There is a quiet revolution happening in the Nigerian public square, a shift so subtle yet so seismic that even the loudest oligarchs have begun to feel the tremor beneath their polished Italian loafers. The country, once enthralled by the annual circus of who ranked were on Forbes or Bloomberg’s billionaire list, has finally outgrown its long-nursed obsession with billionaire worship. The fever has broken. The spell has lifted. And as someone who has watched this theatre of vanity for years, I can tell you: the audience is walking out. Yes!

For decades, we treated these global rankings as scripture. Every new list landed like a fresh tablet from Mount Sinai: “Behold the richest Nigerian.” “Behold the newest African entrant.” “Behold the one who fell by two slots.” It was gossip dressed as finance, but we journalists, readers, social media crusaders devoured it with the gluttony of a people starved of heroes. And why not? A country battered repeatedly by economic storms will cling to any emblem of success, even if it is simply varnished only on the surface.

But recently something shifted. Our collective fascination has dulled. The curiosity that once burned has cooled into mild amusement, even suspicion. Today, when a new ranking drops, you can almost sense the national shrug. Nigerians have begun to see the spectacle for what it truly is: a global gossip ledger wrapped in the illusion of economic analysis. More importantly, they’re beginning to recognise that true wealth, impact, and credibility cannot be validated or diminished by any alphabet soup magazine headquartered thousands of miles away.

And at the centre of this awakening stands one man who long understood the absurdity of the entire spectacle: Dr. Mike Adenuga, the reclusive, enigmatic, quietly thunderous Chairman of Globacom.

For as long as these rankings have existed, Adenuga has stood apart from them, not below or above them; simply outside their orbit entirely. He has never bowed before Forbes, never genuflected before Bloomberg, never chased their numbers or corrected their estimates. While other billionaires phoned editors,  commissioned analysts, or played soft politics with valuation consultants, Adenuga maintained a posture of majestic indifference. A kind of billionaire stoicism. A regal silence and confidence so self-contained that it made the lists look insecure, not the man.

And that, my dear reader, is what truly irritates his rivals—his refusal to care.

Because caring is their currency. Forbes is their mirror. Bloomberg is their validation machine. And some have become almost embarrassingly addicted to the spectacle. I have lost count of the times I have seen congratulatory articles, often sponsored by friends, cronies, political hangers-on, celebrating a billionaire’s “feat” of appearing on a ranking. In some cases, when the entourage wasn’t enthusiastic enough, the billionaire himself quietly footed the bill, ensuring the world saw his name on that list. If no one else would clap, he would clap for himself. Through proxies, of course. Respectability must be maintained.

Some even influenced their own valuations, nudging consultants, correcting “errors,” supplying figures that would place them just a notch higher than their business rival of the moment. The energy spent massaging these numbers could build a small refinery. One could almost forgive the behaviour if it weren’t so desperate and tragically comic.

But then you look at Adenuga. Here is a man who, despite towering wealth and sweeping influence, chooses to exist in quiet anonymity. No noise. No cloying displays. No self-congratulatory adverts. No press releases crafted to remind you he’s rich. No orchestrated campaigns to ensure a favourable billion-dollar estimate. He has never needed the world’s applause to authenticate his worth. His life, his work, his enterprises speak loudly enough.

While others preen before Forbes’ spotlight, Adenuga sits comfortably in the shadows, knowing the man matters more than the metrics.

And therein lies the real story. Adenuga has always understood a truth that many of his peers still struggle to grasp: Forbes and Bloomberg are businesses  and their currency is attention. Their product is vanity. Their consumers, unwittingly or not, are the very billionaires they rank. These lists are not sacred texts; they are monetised spectacles. Tools by which these organisations profit handsomely from the insecurities, ambitions, and ego complexes of the world’s wealthiest people.

Adenuga saw through this long ago. He understood that allowing strangers to define your worth is an invitation to eternal insecurity. He chose instead the harder, nobler path: to define his worth by his work, vision, and the tangible impact of his businesses, not by external applause.

But there’s something else at play.

Adenuga is too comfortable in his own skin to care for such trivialities. He understands that people who are truly wealthy, intellectually, spiritually, and financially, do not need to chase validation. The loudest billionaires are often the most uncertain. The quietest, the most powerful. Adenuga embodies this paradox so fully that it should be studied.

For all the theatrics of Nigeria’s nouveau-riche, who often treat wealth as a stage craft, Adenuga has always treated wealth as a private journey. It is almost maddening for those who crave public acknowledgement that the man with perhaps the broadest shoulders in the room refuses to show up to the parade.

And perhaps that is why Nigerians have outgrown these lists: because, consciously or not, we have begun to recognise the emptiness behind the ranking culture. We have begun to ask harder questions. What does being “number 1” actually do for society? How does being “worth $5 billion on paper” translate to jobs, stability, innovation, or national growth? What does a digital ranking add to the life of the average citizen teetering daily between hope and hardship?

More importantly, we have begun to realise that the billionaire worth celebrating is not the one with the loudest ranking, but the one with the deepest impact.

And now, the audience is wiser.

The obsession has faded. The spectacle has lost its shine. And in this new era of scepticism and clearer thinking, Adenuga’s philosophy finally makes sense to the wider public.

But if Nigerian billionaires are wise, and many of them are, they will take a page from the Adenuga handbook.

Beyond the allure of his mystique, there are deeper, more practical lessons that other billionaires could glean from Adenuga’s philosophy, lessons that transcend personal ego and speak to leadership, legacy, and the optics of maturity in an increasingly discerning society.

First, Nigerian billionaires must learn the art of prioritising work over spectacle. Adenuga’s empires—telecommunications, oil, real estate, finance—were not built from press conferences, curated photo-ops, or front-page displays of opulence. They were built from grit, risk, institutional discipline, and a relentless focus on execution. He has shown, time and again, that a businessman’s power is measured not by how loudly he speaks but by how deeply his work takes root in the marketplace. Other magnates, especially those obsessed with being seen, must remember that visibility is not synonymous with value.

Another lesson lies in the power of restraint, a virtue sorely lacking in Nigeria’s ultra-wealthy ecosystem. In a culture where every contract signing becomes a carnival, every acquisition a procession of sycophants, and every milestone a photo-shoot, Adenuga chooses silence. Silence as strategy. Silence as dignity. Silence as insulation. His refusal to participate in the theatre of wealth is not aloofness; it is discipline. It is the wisdom of a man who understands that the higher you climb, the less noise you need to make. Others would do well to adopt the same serenity, especially in a world where overexposure has become the fastest route to irrelevance.

Beyond restraint, there is also the lesson of authentic self-worth. Many billionaires perform wealth instead of embodying it. Their identity is tethered to headlines, their self-esteem to digital rankings, their confidence to the public’s applause. By contrast, Adenuga has shown that true self-worth is internal, not conferred. Others must learn to detach their sense of identity from the fickle approval of global financial magazines. True confidence is quiet, and internal stability is worth more than any valuation.

Then comes the lesson of institutional legacy. While others chase personal visibility, Adenuga builds the longevity of his institutions. He invests in systems, not spectacles. In businesses that can outlive their founders, not headlines that expire in twenty-four hours. Nigerian billionaires who genuinely desire influence beyond their lifetime must learn to shift from self-branding to institution-building. A man fades. A system endures.

There is also the lesson of disciplined anonymity, a concept that may sound paradoxical but is increasingly relevant. It protects his business interests, shields his private life, and prevents unnecessary scrutiny. Other billionaires, especially those who insert themselves into every public narrative, must understand that anonymity is not invisibility; it is both strategy and power.

Finally, there is the lesson of emotional independence, a trait rarely discussed but deeply evident in Adenuga’s conduct. His detachment from Forbes and Bloomberg’s rankings is not mere indifference; it is psychological freedom. It is the ability to operate without the anxiety of external judgment. It is what allows him to sleep soundly while others toss and turn over a shift in valuation. Nigerian billionaires must learn that emotional independence is not a luxury; it is a necessity for anyone who wishes to lead without being led by the insecurities of competitors or the expectations of the crowd.

In the end, Adenuga’s greatest lesson is simple: You do not need to be numbered to matter. You do not need global applause to be significant. You do not need a ranking to be relevant. Wealth is a tool, not a trophy. Influence is a responsibility, not a contest. And legacy is determined not by how loudly you are celebrated while alive, but by how quietly your work continues long after you are gone.

If Nigerian billionaires can learn even a fraction of this philosophy, perhaps we will finally usher in a generation of wealth creators whose footprints speak louder than their publicity, and whose worth no list can truly quantify.

Adenuga has nothing to prove. That is the lesson.

Others, however, must learn to unclench their grip on the rankings that have become their emotional oxygen. The public is no longer impressed. The readership now knows better. The spell is broken.

In a country battling inflation, insecurity, unemployment, and comatose institutions, the billionaire who sponsors adverts to congratulate himself for appearing on a list seems almost laughably out of touch. The ratings have become an inside joke the public no longer takes seriously.

The new question is no longer “Who is number one?”

The new question is “Who is building something that matters?”

And in that conversation, the rankings fade into irrelevance.