If corruption in Nigeria were a course at the university, Abdulrasheed Maina would be both a case study and a visiting professor. Unfortunately, the country has decided not just to study the problem, but to celebrate it—complete with awards, patronage titles, and early release packages.
The recent news around Mr Maina is not just scandalous; it is forensic evidence that Nigeria, as presently constituted and governed, is neither serious about the fact of corruption nor the perception of it. In any jurisdiction that understood deterrence, optics, or basic shame, none of this would have been possible. Yet here we are.
Let us rewind.
Back in 2013, the Nigerian government accused Mr Maina of siphoning millions of dollars from the pension fund he was entrusted to protect. This was not pocket change; this was pension money—funds meant for retirees who had already given the best years of their lives to the state. In response, Mr Maina did what many powerful Nigerians do when accountability knocks: he fled. Dubai became his safe deposit box.
By 2017, while still a fugitive, he achieved a feat that would be impossible in a sane system—he was secretly reinstated and promoted in the Nigerian civil service. Not quietly forgiven. Not tried and acquitted. Promoted. A PREMIUM TIMES investigation exposed this absurdity, sparking public outrage and forcing the EFCC to remember, belatedly, that it had a job to do. Mr Maina was declared wanted.
When eventually arrested and charged with money laundering in 2019, the drama escalated. During a raid, his son reportedly pulled a pistol, while Mr Maina attempted a cinematic escape by ramming a bulletproof Range Rover through a hotel gate. This was not an episode of Narcos; this was Nigeria’s anti-corruption theatre.
He fled again. Was rearrested again—this time in Niger Republic after an Interpol red notice—and extradited back to Nigeria. One would think the system had finally grown teeth.
Convicted under charge FHC/ABJ/CR/256/2019, the EFCC laid out a scheme worthy of a crime textbook: fictitious names, multiple bank accounts, complicit relatives in banking, and a company—Common Input Property and Investment Ltd—used as a laundering machine. His own siblings testified against him, explaining how their personal details were hijacked to open fraudulent accounts. Even by Nigerian standards, this was damning.
Justice Okon Abang made an observation so obvious it should not have needed saying: a civil servant earning just over ₦300,000 monthly could not legitimately accumulate ₦2 billion in 35 years, even if he saved every kobo and never ate. Mr Maina was convicted. His company was ordered wound up. On paper, justice appeared to have been served.
But Nigeria does not operate on paper. It operates on discretion, connections, and selective amnesia.
Despite facing additional embezzlement charges, Mr Maina served just over half of his sentence before being released. No national explanation. No public reckoning. No sense that pensioners—or the public—deserved closure. Deterrence was quietly escorted out of the building.
And then, as if scripted by a satirist, came the encore.
A branch of the Nigerian Bar Association—yes, the same profession sworn to uphold the rule of law—appointed Mr Maina as a patron and presented him with a “Rule of Law and Courage Award.” You could not invent this. Even fiction would reject it as implausible.
To its credit, the national leadership of the NBA condemned the action and initiated disciplinary proceedings against the branch chairman involved. But the damage was already done. The message had been broadcast loudly: conviction is temporary; rehabilitation is automatic; honour is negotiable.
At the award ceremony, Mr Maina maintained his innocence, claiming persecution by top officials in the Buhari administration. This is now the default defence of the Nigerian elite: if caught, claim victimhood; if convicted, await rehabilitation; if released, collect awards.
This entire episode confirms a bitter truth. Nigeria’s anti-corruption fight is not a war; it is a rehearsal. Sentences are flexible. Accountability is optional. And perception—how Nigeria looks to its own citizens and the world—is treated with contempt.
You cannot claim to fight corruption while allowing its most flamboyant practitioners to serve half-sentences, re-enter elite society, and be honoured by institutions meant to defend legality. That is not reform. That is complicity.
In Nigeria, corruption does not end careers. It merely causes brief interruptions—followed by promotions, pardons, and plaques.
Centre for Nigeria Progress 