There is a familiar refrain that surfaces whenever Nigerians in the diaspora are discussed, or when professionals at home are urged to “give back”. It is often delivered with a tone of moral certainty: Nigeria trained you. Nigeria made you. You owe Nigeria. It sounds persuasive. It even feels patriotic. But it is not entirely true. And, more importantly, it obscures a deeper truth we must confront if we are to have an honest conversation about citizenship, obligation, and justice. Let us begin with the claim itself. That Nigeria “gave” free education, that the government “subsidised” your university education, and therefore you owe the country a debt of gratitude. At first glance, this appears reasonable. But scratch the surface, and the logic begins to unravel.
Education was never a gift. It was never charity. It was, and remains, a duty the state owes its citizens.
Chapter II of the 1999 Constitution sets out the Fundamental Objectives and Directive Principles of State Policy. These provisions are not mere aspirations, they articulate the moral and political contract between the Nigerian state and its citizens. They impose obligations on the government: to provide education, to ensure welfare, to secure the dignity of the human person, and to harness the nation’s resources for the common good. When the state builds schools, subsidises tuition fees, or trains doctors, lawyers, accountants, engineers, and teachers, it is not performing an act of benevolence. It is fulfilling a constitutional obligation. That is what governments are for. To suggest otherwise is to invert the relationship between the citizens and the state. It is to recast rights as favours and duties as gifts. It is to ask citizens to be grateful for what is already theirs by law and by moral claim.
Let us humanise this.
Picture a young boy in my provenance of Sabo, South Ibie, Edo State, or a girl in a crowded compound in Ikot Obong Edong, Akwa-Ibom State. Their parents struggle, but they insist on education for their children. The child walks kilometres to school, studies under flickering lanterns doing awoko, or burning midnight candles, shares textbooks with classmates, and perseveres against all odds. When the government subsidises their tuition, it does not erase the sacrifices made by that family. It does not replace the hunger endured, or eating without – that familiar way of having lunch of Eba and then okra soup without meat or fish, the nights without electricity, the overcrowded classrooms, or the strikes that stretched a four-year degree into six.
That children did not receive gifts. They survived a country badly ruined by an irresponsible political class.
And when they finally emerge as doctors, lawyers, engineers, or teachers, they carry not just certificates, but the weight of years of endurance. They are not merely products of state generosity; they are products of personal resilience and collective sacrifice.
So when we say, “Nigeria trained you”, we must ask: Which Nigeria?
Is it the Nigeria of broken laboratories and outdated equipment? The Nigeria of underpaid lecturers and perpetual strikes? The Nigeria where students sit on floors and write exams in overcrowded halls? The Nigeria where young graduates wander for years in search of work? Or is it the Nigeria imagined in the Constitution: a state that guarantees equal and adequate educational opportunities, promotes science and technology, and ensures that every citizen can develop to their full potential? There is a gap between these two Nigerians. And it is within that gap that the truth resides.
Yes, the state contributed to your education. But you also paid for it in ways that are rarely acknowledged. You paid in time lost to strikes. You paid in the cost of private tutorials when public teaching failed. You paid in the emotional toll of uncertainty. You paid in the opportunity cost of a country that often delays, diminishes, and sometimes derails potential. Your parents paid, too, through taxes, levies, and the quiet endurance of a country that asks much and gives little.
So who owes whom?
This is not an argument against giving back. Far from it. There is a moral beauty in contributing to one’s community, lifting others as you rise, and using your skills to improve the society that shaped you. Many Nigerians, at home and abroad, already do this in remarkable ways. They build schools, fund scholarships, support families, and invest in communities. But, giving back should be an act of choice, not coercion. It should flow from a sense of solidarity, not from a narrative of indebtedness that misrepresents reality.
Some may argue that Indian diaspora communities are giving back to the homeland, so why can’t Nigerians do same? The comparison is seductive; but it is built on a false equivalence. The idea that Nigerians aren’t giving back, having been given the ladder by their country to climb to the top of their careers ignores the reality that citizens and their families financed their own survival within a system that often failed them through exorbitant tuition fees, refundable caution fees that were never refunded, taxes, private spendings on handouts, and personal sacrifices in the face of strikes, poor infrastructure, and limited opportunities. What is described as a “ladder” was, for many, fragile katako scaffolds they climbed at great personal cost. To recast that struggle as a debt owed to the state is to confuse duty with benevolence and to overlook the constitutional obligation of government to provide education and welfare as a matter of right, not charity.
As for India, its diaspora’s contributions are not driven by guilt but by confidence in institutions, in economic opportunity, and in a country that increasingly creates pathways for meaningful engagement. People give back where systems work, where efforts are not swallowed by inefficiency or corruption, and where impact is visible. If Nigeria seeks a similar commitment, it must first build a country that earns it. Obligation cannot be demanded where trust has not been established; it must be cultivated through governance that respects, supports, and empowers its citizens. By the way, what is the Nigerian Diaspora’s emittance, if not giving back to families?
The danger of this narrative is that it lets the state off the hook.
If citizens are constantly reminded of what they owe Nigeria, we risk forgetting what Nigeria owes its citizens. We risk normalising a situation where the government’s failure is obscured by appeals to patriotism. We risk creating a culture where the bar is set so low that minimal compliance with constitutional duties is celebrated as generosity. The Constitution is clear about the obligations of the state. It speaks of security and welfare as the primary purpose of government. It envisions a society where citizens have access to education, healthcare, and opportunities for meaningful work. It calls for the eradication of corruption and the abuse of power.
These are not optional ideals. They are basic commitments.
When the state fails to meet them, the burden shifts to citizens, who are then told to “give back” to compensate for systemic deficiencies. Doctors are asked to remain in underfunded hospitals out of patriotism. Teachers are urged to accept poor conditions in the name of nation-building. Professionals abroad are told they owe a debt that must be repaid by returning home, regardless of the conditions they left behind. This is not a sustainable model of development. It is an attempt at robbing Peter to pay Paul.
No country thrives by guilt-tripping its citizens. It thrives by creating conditions in which citizens can flourish and, in turn, choose to contribute. The question, then, is not whether Nigerians should give back. The question is whether Nigeria has created an environment that makes giving back meaningful, effective, and sustainable. Does the system support innovation? Does it reward merit? Does it protect those who invest their skills and resources in the country? Does it ensure that contributions are not lost to corruption or inefficiency?
Until these questions are answered honestly, the call to “give back” will ring hollow for many.
We must also recognise that citizenship is not a one-way street. It is a relationship of mutual obligation. Citizens owe duties to the state: to obey the law, to pay taxes, to participate in civic life. But the state owes duties to citizens that are far more profound: to protect, to provide, and to create an enabling environment for human dignity and development. When that balance is disrupted, the language of obligation must be carefully examined. To the Nigerian doctor who trained in a public university and now practices abroad, your success is not a debt to be repaid. It is a testament to your perseverance within a flawed system. If you choose to give back, it is an act of generosity, not repayment. To the young graduate struggling to find footing in an unforgiving economy, you are not ungrateful for expecting more from your country. You are asserting your rights. And to the Nigerian state, the message is simple: fulfill your promises. Honour the Constitution. Build the country that works.
The most powerful way to inspire citizens to give back is not to remind them of what they owe, but to demonstrate, consistently and convincingly, what their country owes them; and is willing to deliver. The claim that Nigeria gave you everything, and therefore you owe it everything, will remain not just incorrect, but unjust.