When Nigeria appoints a new set of service chiefs, the world watches in awe — not because of the strategy or vision they bring, but because of the instant mass retirement festival that follows. It’s the only ceremony on Earth where dozens of highly trained generals — some who spent decades learning how to fight — are suddenly retired to go and fight boredom at home.
You see, in most countries, military succession means continuity. In Nigeria, it means clear your desk, your new oga has arrived.
Once the new Chief of Defence Staff, Chief of Army Staff, or Chief of Air Staff is appointed, the military turns into a glorified wedding hall. Trumpets blow, drums roll, and then, boom! – a retirement tsunami sweeps through the ranks. Generals who were commanding battalions on Monday are inspecting poultry farms by Friday.
It’s the only country where promotion for one man means retirement for fifty others.
The Wastage Olympics
Imagine if the United States retired its entire Pentagon brass every time a new chairman of the Joint Chiefs was appointed. There’d be no one left to plan lunch, let alone strategy. But in Nigeria, we proudly treat senior officers like rechargeable batteries — single-use and ceremoniously discarded once the new brand arrives.
And the logic behind it? “Because he is senior to the new appointee.”
Ah yes, the famous Nigerian military math. If General A becomes Chief, then Generals B to Z who joined the academy before him must all “voluntarily retire” — a phrase as voluntary as a traffic stop in Lagos.
The Defence Headquarters soon becomes a ghost town filled with laminated farewell speeches and freshly printed farm business cards:
> “Major General (Rtd) now CEO of Green Beret Cassava Ventures Ltd.”
Training, But for Who?
Consider the investment: years of expensive training in Sandhurst, Fort Benning, or some exotic NATO course — all paid for in foreign exchange — only for the officer to return and be told, “Sorry sir, your course mate just became the boss, and you are now senior to him. Kindly proceed on retirement.”
It’s like sending someone to Harvard, then firing them because their classmate became CEO first.
Billions in training, global experience, tactical exposure — all flushed down the drain of bureaucratic ego. No other country in the world retires institutional memory so casually. It’s as if every time Nigeria discovers competence, it panics and throws it away.
The Civilian Parallel
Imagine if every new president sacked all governors because they were once councillors before him. Or if every new headmaster fired all teachers who started teaching before his NYSC year. Ridiculous? That’s the Nigerian military playbook.
The Aftermath: Uniform to Ankara
Within months, you start seeing once-fearsome generals attending wedding receptions in matching Ankara, telling long stories of “when we were in Jaji.” Their phones still ring with “Yes sir!” from loyal juniors — until promotion lists are released. Then the “Yes sirs” reduce to “Good morning, sir,” and eventually, “Who be this?”
The Global Absurdity
Even the British and Americans, whose systems we copied, must look at us in disbelief. Where they rotate commanders with surgical precision, we perform wholesale replacement like a clearance sale:
> “Buy one appointment, get 35 retirements free!”
No wonder our defence budget keeps growing — we’re maintaining as many pensioners as we are active personnel.
The Punchline
Until Nigeria learns that leadership transition doesn’t require mass execution of careers, our defence institutions will remain a revolving door of decorated but wasted talent.
But perhaps, just perhaps, the only real “security service” being rendered here…
is job security for tailors who sew retirement agbadas.
Centre for Nigeria Progress 