Like Father, Like Son?

Femi Akintunde-Johnson

There is a saying in these parts that when a child points at the sky, you should first check what the father is pointing at on the ground. Nigeria’s latest judicial drama, featuring a former governor and his sons in various shades of alleged and affirmed financial impropriety, invites us to check not just the sky or the ground, but the moral compass of the republic itself.

Last week’s Supreme Court decisions in matters involving the Lamido family were legally tidy, even reassuring in parts. An appeal dismissed. A conviction affirmed. A trial ordered to continue. The law, at least on paper, flexed its muscles and reminded everyone that even big names can still be called to order. Yet beyond the courtroom victories and losses lies a far more troubling story – one about how power, privilege and proximity to the state have steadily corroded our sense of right and wrong.

Consider the optics. The son of the former governor of Jigawa State (then incumbent) is arrested at an international airport with undeclared foreign currency. Not drugs. Not arms. Just cash – the global language of quiet entitlement. He declares $10,000, but another $40,000 is found tucked away, shy of official forms and public scrutiny. He is tried, convicted, fined, and after a decade-long judicial relay race, the Supreme Court finally says: enough. The conviction stands.

However, the deeper question gnaws: how did we get to a point where public office appears to breed a family culture of entitlement so entrenched that even basic compliance with the law becomes optional?

At the same time, the same apex court insists that the former governor himself, alongside his sons and associates, must face trial over alleged ₦1.35 billion fraud linked to his years in office. No technical escape hatches. No jurisdictional gymnastics. Enter your defence, please.

In another country, this would be a scandal with a short shelf life: resignations, political exile, reputational ruin. In Nigeria, it becomes a conversation starter – one more entry in our long catalogue of “cases” that trail prominent families like stubborn shadows.

What does this say about our moral state?  Quite simply, that corruption in Nigeria is no longer merely transactional; it has become cultural, even familial. This is not about whether Aminu Lamido declared $10,000 or hid $40,000. It is about the psychology that makes such behaviour thinkable in the first place. The quiet confidence that rules are for other people. The assumption that, somehow, a name, a lineage, or a network will smooth things over.

That confidence did not drop from the sky. It is learned behaviour. Observed behaviour. Normalised behaviour. Children grow up watching the theatre of power: the sirens, the convoys, the whispered deals, the sudden wealth that no salary scale can explain. They absorb the lesson early – that rules are elastic, laws are negotiable, and consequences are for the unlucky or the poorly connected.

When children of political power brokers repeatedly appear in corruption cases, the issue is no longer individual weakness; it is systemic rot. It suggests that corruption has moved from being an aberration to becoming a family enterprise, a kind of informal inheritance passed down alongside surnames and social capital.

This is not unique to Nigeria, of course. History is littered with political dynasties whose surnames doubled as ATM cards. From Marcos-era Philippines to certain corners of Latin America, from post-Soviet oligarch families to Asian strongmen and their heirs, the script is familiar. The difference lies in the aftermath. In societies that take accountability seriously, disgrace travels faster than influence. One conviction can end a family’s public life for a generation. Assets are seized. Titles evaporate. Children suddenly discover the joys of anonymity.

Here, we do things differently. We recycle. We rehabilitate. We rename. Yesterday’s accused becomes today’s “elder statesman”. Yesterday’s defendant returns tomorrow as a party leader, a coalition builder, a voice of “experience”. And the children, watching from the wings, learn that shame is temporary but networks are forever.

The implications for society are severe.

First, it breeds cynicism. When corruption cases drag on for 10, 12, 15 years, citizens stop seeing justice as justice and start seeing it as entertainment – a long-running series with no final episode. Young Nigerians, already battered by unemployment and insecurity, look at these stories and conclude, not unreasonably, that integrity is a luxury they cannot afford.

Second, it hollows out institutions. Yes, the courts eventually spoke. But why did it take over a decade to affirm what was, on the face of it, a straightforward currency declaration offence? Justice delayed may still arrive, but it limps in, exhausted and half-believed.

Third, it corrodes social values. When wealth, no matter how acquired, is celebrated with chieftaincy titles, front-row seats and loud praise singers, society quietly tells its children that the end justifies the means. Do well, by all means – just don’t get caught. And if you do, get a good lawyer.

So how do we deal with such embarrassing scenarios?  We begin by stopping the national pretence that these are isolated incidents. They are not. They are symptoms of a political economy that rewards proximity to power far more than productivity. Until political parties treat corruption allegations as moral disqualifiers rather than public relations inconveniences, the cycle will continue.

We must also widen the idea of sanctions. Court judgments matter, but they are not enough. In other parts of the world, legal penalties are reinforced by political and social consequences. Party suspensions. Withdrawal of honours. Public accountability mechanisms that do not wait for the final gavel before acting.

Transparency must move from slogan to habit. Asset declarations should not be dusty documents hidden in bureaucratic drawers. Lifestyle audits should be routine, not sensational. When a public official’s standard of living – or that of his children – bears no resemblance to legitimate income, society has a right to ask questions, calmly but firmly.

Finally, and perhaps most painfully, we must re-educate ourselves about success. A nation that worships wealth without interrogating its source will always struggle with corruption. In countries that have made progress by curbing elite corruption, public shame – not mob outrage, but dignified refusal to celebrate tainted success – has proved a powerful deterrent.

The Lamido cases are not just about one family or one state. They are a mirror held up to Nigeria’s political soul. The Supreme Court has done its part by insisting that the law must run its course. The rest is up to us – to decide whether we want a country where corruption is an inheritance, or one where integrity finally breaks the family cycle.

If we choose the former, then we should not be surprised when tomorrow’s headlines introduce us to new surnames, new sons, and the same old stories.

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