On the Frontline With Boma
As the clock ticks steadily toward January 2026, a familiar feeling hangs thick in the Nigerian air — not hope, not anticipation, but fear. Fear of the unknown. Fear of further economic tightening. Fear that what little remains in people’s pockets may soon be taken away in the name of reform. For millions of Nigerians already stretched beyond their limits, the incoming tax regime under President Bola Ahmed Tinubu does not represent renewal or relief; it represents another layer of uncertainty in a nation already buckling under economic strain.
Government officials insist that the new tax laws, signed in 2025 and scheduled to take effect from January 2026, are designed to modernise Nigeria’s revenue system, block leakages, widen the tax net, and promote fairness. On paper, these intentions sound noble. In reality, however, policy does not exist in abstraction. It exists in the lives of people and today, Nigerian lives are fragile.
This is not a season of abundance. This is not a moment of shared sacrifice built on trust. This is a time when many Nigerians can barely eat twice a day, when hospital bills are postponed until death becomes cheaper than treatment, when children are withdrawn from school because parents must choose between education and survival. Against this backdrop, a new tax regime — no matter how well articulated lands like a hammer on an already bruised people.
There was a time in Nigeria when paying tax did not hurt this badly. Older generations remember those years vividly. The country had resources — so much so that leaders openly admitted Nigeria had “more money than it knew how to spend.” Workers paid tax with a sense of civic pride. Businessmen and women understood it as part of nation-building. Taxes translated into visible development: functioning hospitals, subsidised education, passable roads, stable public utilities. The pain of deduction was cushioned by the presence of public good.
That Nigeria no longer exists.
Today, tax deductions come without reassurance. Salaries are taxed, yet civil servants struggle to access basic healthcare. Traders are levied, yet markets decay. Entrepreneurs are pursued, yet power supply remains epileptic. Roads are death traps. Security is fragile. The social contract — the unspoken agreement between the state and the citizen has long been broken. And when trust is broken, even the most well-intentioned policies are received with suspicion.
The new tax regime has been greeted with widespread confusion, largely because communication has been poor and public education inadequate. Many Nigerians do not understand what the reforms entail. They hear phrases like “tax harmonisation,” “digital compliance,” and “expanded tax net,” but what they fear is far simpler: that government will now dip its hands directly into their bank accounts.
There are rumours — some exaggerated, others born of legitimate anxiety that savings may be taxed, that dormant accounts may be flagged, that deposits could attract deductions. The fact that tax administration will increasingly pass through financial institutions has deepened public paranoia. In a country where trust in institutions is low, the line between reform and exploitation appears dangerously thin.
Government has tried to calm nerves by announcing exemptions. Students, the unemployed, and certain low-income groups are said to be shielded from direct taxation. But this exemption raises its own troubling contradictions. How does one exempt dependants while taxing those who carry them? How does a government absolve students of responsibility but tax their parents — parents who are already feeding, housing, educating, and medically caring for them in an economy that offers no support? The exemption feels symbolic rather than substantive, detached from the lived reality of Nigerian households.
This is why the argument that “over 90 percent of Nigerians will be exempt” rings hollow on the streets. Most Nigerian families survive on collective income. One salary supports ten people. One small business feeds an extended family. Taxing the breadwinner is, in effect, taxing everyone under that roof. The government knows this. The people know this. Pretending otherwise only widens the trust gap.
Even more troubling is the timing. Economic reforms demand sequencing. You do not tighten fiscal screws when people are already gasping for air. Inflation has eaten deep into incomes. Food prices remain volatile. Transport costs are punishing. Housing is increasingly unaffordable. Many Nigerians have exhausted their savings. Some have sold assets. Others have borrowed just to survive. Introducing a new tax structure at such a moment, without visible economic cushioning, feels less like reform and more like insensitivity.
Government argues that Nigeria’s tax-to-GDP ratio is among the lowest in Africa and that revenue must be raised to fund development. This argument is statistically correct but morally incomplete. Low tax compliance is not just a product of evasion; it is also a product of disappointment. People avoid taxes not merely because they are greedy, but because they are unconvinced that their sacrifices matter.
In countries where tax compliance is high, citizens can trace a clear line between contribution and benefit. In Nigeria, that line is blurred. Taxes disappear into opaque systems. Budgets are announced with fanfare, but outcomes remain elusive. Public officeholders live in obscene comfort while the masses tighten their belts. This is why taxes are increasingly viewed not as a civic duty, but as funding for elite self-glorification.
One must ask: what has government offered Nigerians since inception, apart from increased pain? Fuel subsidy removal promised relief through reinvestment; relief has yet to arrive. Currency reforms promised stability; volatility followed. Now, tax reforms promise fairness but fairness cannot be declared; it must be felt.
Hospitals remain out of reach for the poor. Medicines are luxuries. Many Nigerians now rely on prayer where healthcare should exist. A nation where citizens must choose between treatment and feeding their families is not ready for aggressive tax expansion. The priority should be poverty alleviation, not revenue maximisation.
This is not to argue that taxes are evil. They are not. Taxes are essential for nation-building. But taxation must be humane, progressive, and anchored in visible reciprocity. It must come with deliberate social investment: affordable healthcare, functional education, job creation, and targeted relief for vulnerable groups. Without these, taxes become instruments of oppression rather than development.
As January 2026 approaches, Nigerians are not counting down with excitement. They are bracing themselves. The New Year, traditionally a season of hope, is now being approached with dread. Instead of planning growth, families are calculating survival. Instead of dreaming, they are budgeting fear.
It is time to say enough.
Enough of policies that deepen pain without addressing root causes. Enough of reforms that ignore human realities. Enough of asking the people to sacrifice endlessly while leadership appears insulated from the consequences of its decisions.
Government knows what to do. Nigerians are not asking for miracles. They are asking for relief. For dignity. For a government that understands that taxation without compassion is tyranny by another name.
If this new tax regime must proceed, then it must be accompanied by honesty, clarity, and immediate, tangible relief measures. Not promises. Not projections. Relief that people can touch and feel.
Otherwise, January 2026 will not mark a new fiscal era , it will mark another chapter in the growing story of a people pushed too far, too often, for too long.
And history has taught us that when a people reach that point, no tax policy — no matter how well written can save the day.
