Dangote, Farouk Ahmed and Nigeria

By Olusegun Adeniyi

The Nigerian National Petroleum Company Limited (NNPC Ltd) General Manager for Strategic Communications, Ms. Onyi Sunday, insisted I speak at a capacity-building session for members of the media/PR team. So, I was at their headquarters in Abuja last Thursday where a few managers from other departments joined in. During the interactions that followed my presentation, I told them that a lack of transparency and accountability still defines oil sector operations in Nigeria. Of course, there was pushback as the officials attempted to enlighten me on the several industry changes, especially following the enactment of the Petroleum Industry Act (PIA) of 2021 which led to the introduction of new regulatory and fiscal frameworks.

However, Farouk Ahmed who was until yesterday the Chief Executive Officer of Nigerian Midstream and Downstream Petroleum Regulatory Authority (NMDPRA), has put a spotlight on the critical sector. The president of Dangote Industries Limited, Alhaji Aliko Dangote, who has had a long-drawn battle with Ahmed, wrote the authorities, calling for a probe of how a public official could allegedly be paying $5 million (that’s more than N7 billion) for his children’s school fees. And after a meeting with President Bola Tinubu yesterday, Ahmed reportedly resigned along with the CEO of the Nigeria Upstream Petroleum Regulatory Commission (NUPRC), Gbenga Komolafe.

Incidentally, shortly before that dramatic resignation, Ahmed had released a statement, expressing eagerness to clear his name on the “wild and spurious allegations made against me and my family and the frenzy it has generated.” Now that he is out of office, the former NMDPRA helmsman can face his accuser. When it comes to damaging allegations like these, whoever asserts must prove. Besides, it is possible to accuse Dangote of sour grapes, especially since he became a ‘whistle blower’ only after his refinery ran into regulatory roadblocks. But this does not detract from the fact that no sector exemplifies the failure of Nigeria more than the oil and gas industry.

For me, here is the key issue: In an era when the United States President Donald Trump has made economic nationalism a cornerstone of his second-term agenda, Nigeria finds itself grappling with a peculiar paradox. We mouth the right rhetoric while undermining the very industrial capacity that could anchor our own economic sovereignty. The specifics of the Dangote Refinery conundrum are well-documented. A $20 billion investment that promises to refine 650,000 barrels of crude oil daily, potentially ending Nigeria’s humiliating dependence on imported refined petroleum products, has faced a gauntlet of regulatory bottlenecks that even the most charitable observer would find curious.

Several questions beg for answers. First, why would a nation that has spent an estimated $25 billion on refinery rehabilitation over two decades with nothing to show for it, appear less than enthusiastic about a functional private sector alternative? Second, what explains the unusual public statements from regulatory officials that appear designed to undermine market confidence in the product of an indigenous company? In most jurisdictions that prioritize industrial development, regulators work quietly with local producers to address concerns. The choice to wage these battles in the public square therefore raises questions about motivation.

The irony of our moment is noteworthy. For decades, we have been exporting crude oil while incurring substantial costs to import petrol and petrochemicals. This heavy dependence on imports has led to a host of economic and social issues, including the closure of numerous local industries, job losses, and a strain on the national currency and foreign reserves. While Nigeria debates whether to support its own industrial champion, the same America that has spent decades lecturing the developing world about free markets, now openly prioritizes domestic production, imposes tariffs to protect local industries, and makes no apology for these policies. The Inflation Reduction Act and the CHIPS Act represent hundreds of billions in subsidies for American manufacturing.

Unfortunately, here we are, a nation that imports virtually everything, including toothpicks, potentially undermining an investor who sought to build local capacity in our most strategic industry. Yes, I am aware that the name Dangote divides opinions. And I do not believe that bullying a regulator, as Dangote successfully did by using his might, is fair. But I also believe that this controversy speaks more to fundamental questions about Nigeria’s economic future than the business model of one man. Do we want to create jobs for our teeming youth population or are we content to remain a consumption economy? Should we protect and nurture local investors or conspire to run them out of business?

Whether Farouk Ahmed jumped or he was pushed is irrelevant. The fact remains that he is now out. But there must still be an investigation to clear the air and restore confidence in our institutions. And I am talking about regulatory oversight and not the charge of scandalous school fees for some privileged children, which anti-corruption agencies can easily handle. If there is merit to Dangote’s claims of sabotage, vested interests, or regulatory capture, Nigerians deserve to know. The Chinese did not build their industrial might by undermining their own manufacturers. The Americans didn’t become an economic superpower by frustrating domestic production. Even our smaller African neighbours like Rwanda and Ethiopia have demonstrated that purposeful industrial policy requires a measure of protectionism.

In my column of July 2024 (https://www.thisdaylive.com/index.php/2024/07/11/dangotes-big-bet-on-gasoline/), I highlighted some of the contentious issues between Dangote Refinery and regulatory authorities. But I also argued that there should really be no need for a fight if the primary responsibility of critical stakeholders in the sector is to advance the public good. In the age of Trump, the achievements of businesses owned by citizens must reflect a sense of national pride and a measure of support against foreign competitors.

I do not presume to know the full facts in the fight between Dangote and Farouk Ahmed and will not be surprised if there are things both of them are not telling us. When it comes to powerful men, even matters that originate from ‘The Other Room’ could trigger a lot of hoopla. But this could also be a fight over principle. Perhaps there were legitimate regulatory concerns that justify every action taken by Farouk Ahmed and NMDPRA. Perhaps Dangote’s frustrations misinterpret standard regulatory practice. Perhaps Ahmed was using his regulatory power to sabotage Dangote’s refinery. Perhaps the truth lies somewhere in between. But there is a point we should never ignore: On this issue, our national interest is also at stake.

Every serious nation makes a choice: build your productive capacity or remain forever dependent. Even if there are differences between Dangote and the regulators, efforts should be made to resolve them. No responsible government should work for the failure of a $20 billion project that adds considerable value to the economy in countless ways.

Seven Years of NFI School

Last Friday, the Not Forgotten Initiative (NFI) School, established in Asokoro by my wife, to offer free education to indigent children in Kpaduma Hills, marked its 7th anniversary. It has been a remarkable journey of faith with the support of hand-lifters, some of whom I identified on this page five years ago, Amatala and Other ‘Unforgotten’ Children  – THISDAYLIVE. By a remarkable coincidence, the Swedish Ambassador to Nigeria, Her Excellency Anna Westerholm, chose last Friday to visit the school for the reading of a Pidgin edition of Pippi Longstocking—a fictional character created by Swedish author Astrid Lindgren—to the pupils. The ambassador’s visit brought laughter, excitement, and a beautiful cultural exchange that the children will for long remember.

The growth of NFI from 14 pupils and one teacher at inception in December 2018 to 165 children and young adults supported by 13 teachers and six support staff is a powerful testament to what can happen when compassion is matched with discipline and perseverance. But I must specially recognise Waziri and Sandra Adio, Dr Kole Shettima, Ms Koyinsola Olukoya, Mr Folorunsho (Foli) Coker, Mrs Stella Uzo and the late Mr Ferdinand Agu who from Day-One told my wife that she has embarked on something worthwhile and never wavered in their support and encouragement. What began as a modest response to the educational needs of children on Kpaduma Hills has evolved into a structured, accountable institution providing not just education, but also nourishment, safety, emotional support, and dignity to those who would otherwise be excluded. With all these children fed one meal a day, my wife has taught me lessons about how prudent management of scarce resources can go a long way in making a difference in the lives of many people.

Meanwhile, the Swedish Ambassador’s visit and how she interacted with the children, including choosing to sit on the floor, remind us that education is more than classrooms and textbooks; it is also about exposure, affirmation and genuine commitment. As NFI reflects on seven years of impact, we remain deeply grateful to the partners, friends, and supporters whose generosity has sustained this journey. Their unwavering support and belief in the power of education continue to transform lives and build futures—one child at a time. And to Mrs Oluwatosin Adeniyi, all I can say is, Congratulations. Well done!

‘Changing the Narrative’: Lai Mohammed and the Buhari Legacy

(Text of my review of ‘Headlines & Soundbites: Media Moments That Defined an Administration,’ written by the former Minister of Information and Culture, Alhaji Lai Mohammed, at the public presentation in Abuja yesterday, 17th December 2025)

With a first degree in French before going on to read Law, Alhaji Lai Mohammed is one of a few members of the Nigeria political elite with a second address. Before politics and government, he was an established lawyer, respected media practitioner and public relations guru. And after he left government, Alhaji Lai refused to hang around. He went back to private practice by joining ‘Ballard Partners,’ a global government relations firm, as Managing Partner for Africa, focusing on public relations and public policy. On a personal note, I have known Alhaji Lai Mohammed since the beginning of the Fourth Republic when he served as the Chief of Staff to then Governor Bola Tinubu of Lagos State who is now the President of Nigeria. Alhaji Lai also happens to be one of the respected elders from my state, Kwara. Although we had no close personal relationship, when he came to my office to ask if I would accept to be the reviewer of his book, I had no choice in the matter. I actually considered it an honour.

In the opening pages of ‘Headlines & Soundbites: Media Moments That Defined an Administration,’ Alhaji Lai made an important declaration: he is a “strong advocate of Africans telling their own stories from their own perspectives.” This commitment to indigenous narration is admirable and necessary. However, as I worked through this 584-page chronicle of his nearly eight-year tenure as Nigeria’s Minister of Information and Culture under the late Buhari who would have been 83 today had he been alive, I was reminded that telling one’s own story is not the same as telling the whole story, and that perspective, no matter how privileged, is not synonymous with objectivity.

This book, ‘Headlines & Soundbites: Media Moments That Defined an Administration,’ is many things at once: historical document, policy defense, and occasionally, an extended rebuttal to both the critics of the Buhari administration and Alhaji Lai Mohammed himself. The structure is ambitious, covering everything from town hall meetings and media tours to the controversial Twitter suspension and the #EndSARS protests. What emerges is a portrait of a minister who saw himself not merely as a government spokesperson, but as a strategic communicator tasked with “changing the narrative”—a phrase that appears repeatedly throughout the text and perhaps reveals more about the administration’s approach to information management than the author intended.

There is undeniable value in the insider account provided by the former minister. His chapters on the government’s communication strategy during the COVID-19 pandemic and the protracted P&ID legal battle offer useful insights into crisis management at the highest levels. The detailed documentation of media tours to territories hitherto controlled by the Boko Haram insurgents and the account of Nigeria’s digital switchover provide important context that was often missing from real-time reporting. Of course, the minister was meticulously careful in choosing what to highlight and what to hold back.

Meanwhile, Alhaji Lai is at his best when he abandons the defensive posture and simply describes the mechanics of government communication. His explanation of the stakeholder engagement process, the rationale behind town hall meetings, and the cultural diplomacy embedded in hosting international conferences are genuinely informative. These sections will prove valuable to students of public administration and political communication. The stories are told with the methodical thoroughness of someone who understands that history will judge his stewardship in government long after the news cycle has moved on.

The chapter on Nigeria’s fight to repatriate stolen artefacts, including the Benin Bronzes, is particularly compelling. Here, Alhaji Lai’s passion transcends his portfolio, and one senses a minister genuinely engaged with issues of cultural identity and historical justice. Similarly, his account of the National Theatre’s restoration hints at what might have been achieved if the ministry had focused less on crisis management and more on its substantive cultural mandate. But it is in Alhaji Lai Mohammed’s treatment of the most controversial episodes of his tenure that the book both fascinates and frustrates.

The Twitter suspension, which he insists was misunderstood, receives extensive treatment. He provides the government’s rationale, documents the negotiations that preceded the platform’s restoration, and argues that the concerns by the Buhari administration about social media regulation were legitimate. Unfortunately, the chapter reads less like historical documentation and more like a legal brief, comprehensive, certainly, but selective in its engagement with opposing viewpoints.

The confrontation with CNN over its #EndSARS coverage is similarly presented as a victory for truth over “skewed and poorly sourced reporting.” As a journalist, I disagree with this summation. Alhaji Lai may well have legitimate grievances about the international media’s coverage of Nigerian events. However, the righteousness with which he dismisses CNN’s journalism sits uncomfortably alongside his own acknowledgment that government communication must be “tempered by transparency”—a phrase he uses in reference to the Bring Back Our Girls campaign.

This brings us to another troubling aspect of the book: Chapter Fourteen, titled “#ENDSARS: A Massacre without Bodies.” That title alone demands scrutiny. Alhaji Lai devotes an entire chapter to arguing against what he characterizes as the myth of a massacre at Lekki Tollgate on 20th October 2020. He may believe he is correcting the record, but framing that unfortunate episode “a massacre without bodies” ignores the grief of families who lost loved ones during those protests, regardless of the specific number or precise circumstances. The judicial panel of inquiry set up by the Lagos State Government documented deaths and injuries. To reduce this complex tragedy to a semantic argument about the definition of “massacre” is to miss the forest for the trees. As the late Dele Giwa reminded us, “One life taken in cold blood is as gruesome as millions lost in a pogrom.”

Right from the introduction, Alhaji Lai Mohammed acknowledges that one motivation for writing the book was “to dispel a number of misconceptions.” This is a worthy goal. But throughout the book, there is a troubling conflation between “misconceptions” and “disagreements.” When Nigerians questioned the Twitter suspension, were they all simply misinformed? When activists criticized the government’s response to #EndSARS, were they all perpetuating falsehoods? When journalists challenged official narratives about security operations, were they invariably biased?

To be fair, Alhaji Lai Mohammed does not shy away from documenting the challenges he faced. He acknowledges operating in a difficult environment, dealing with an opposition determined to undermine the administration, and managing a president who was often reluctant to engage with the media. Given my own experience in another life, I can understand these challenges. But my concern is that there is a lack of willingness to concede that some of the administration’s communication failures were self-inflicted.

In his tribute to Buhari (Chapter One), Alhaji Lai describes the late president as a “friend, mentor and boss,” and throughout the book, this loyalty to the administration he served is on full display. This loyalty is admirable in its consistency. But it also limits the utility of the book as a historical document. Therefore, while future researchers will find valuable raw material here—press statements, timelines, policy documents—they will need to triangulate Alhaji Lai Mohammed’s account with other sources to arrive at a fuller picture.

Chapter nine titled, ‘Before the Ballot: Inside Buhari Administration’s Scorecard Strategy’, according to the author, was necessitated by the need to counter the narrative of the opposition before the 2023 general election with a media offensive that featured prominent officials. One of them is Abubakar Malami, SAN, who was then the Attorney General and Justice Minister. No fewer than 16 quotes of Malami, splashed over eight pages, are featured in the book where he highlighted the achievements of the Buhari administration, especially in the fight against corruption. One of the quotes from Malami reads: “The EFCC could only succeed in securing 103 convictions before the advent of the current administration. However, with the implementation of the National Anti-corruption Strategy, the EFCC has secured about 3,000 convictions.”

The last time I heard from Malami, he was writing an epistle from EFCC detention, throwing the same allegation that those ‘about 3000 people convicted people’ under the Buhari administration he served were also throwing at the time. A case of whatever goes around comes around.

Before I take my seat, let me commend Alhaji Lai Mohammed for this book. ‘Headlines & Soundbites’ is an important book, though not always in the ways its author intended. It is important because insider accounts matter, especially from someone who occupied a critical position for as long as Alhaji Lai did. It is important because it documents, in granular detail, the mechanics of government communication in 21st-century Nigeria. And it is important because it reveals, perhaps inadvertently, the deep disconnect between the Buhari administration’s self-image and its public perception.

Alhaji Lai Mohammed writes that he believes this account “will form part of Nigeria’s contemporary history, at least from my vantage point.” He is right. But vantage points, by definition, offer limited views. They show us what was visible from a particular position at a particular time, but they also hide what lay beyond the sight line.

Let me also express a personal disappointment. As the founding National Publicity Secretary of the All Progressives Congress (APC) whose candidate, the late Muhammadu Buhari, went on to defeat then incumbent President Goodluck Jonathan, Alhaji Lai Mohammed played a crucial role in the months leading to that election in 2015. But there is nothing about that episode in this book. There is also no reflection to contrast the role of a government critic which he was under Jonathan and information manager that he became under Buhari. It would have been helpful had the author given us a peep into whether the view of the road remains the same after moving from the passenger’s side to the driver’s seat. That, for me, is where the narrative should have started. But while this book is not what I was expecting, it is nonetheless still an interesting read.

At the end, the book’s greatest contribution may be unintentional: it provides an unvarnished look at how the Buhari administration saw itself and its critics. The worldview that emerges is one in which the government was perpetually misunderstood, consistently undermined by enemies both domestic and foreign, and forced to combat a relentless torrent of “fake news” and “misinformation.” There is some truth to this picture, since every government faces hostile coverage and unfair criticism. But the completeness with which Alhaji Lai Mohammed adopts this victim narrative suggests a troubling inability to distinguish between unfair attacks and legitimate criticism.

However, whatever may be our misgivings about the Buhari administration, ‘Headlines & Soundbites: Media Moments That Defined an Administration,’ offers glimpses into what happened in that era. But this is Alhaji Lai Mohammed’s story, told from his perspective. It deserves to be read and engaged with seriously. But it should not be mistaken for the definitive account of the Buhari administration’s relationship with truth, transparency, and the Nigerian people. That story is still being written, and it will require many more perspectives, including from the journalists Alhaji Lai Mohammed sparred with, the activists he dismissed, and the ordinary Nigerians who lived through those eight years with rather different experiences than the one documented in these pages.

To students of political communication, government media strategy, and contemporary Nigerian history, ‘Headlines & Soundbites’ is a book I will strongly recommend. Just remember to read it critically, with full awareness that in the contest between headlines and truth, soundbites and substance, the former too often prevailed during the years this book chronicled. Whether Alhaji Lai Mohammed recognizes this irony is unclear. What is clear is that he has given us a comprehensive record of how power sees itself and that alone makes the book worth the effort.

• You can follow me on my X (formerly Twitter) handle, @Olusegunverdict and on www.olusegunadeniyi.com