Every Nigerian has heard it.
A governor announces ₦5 billion for flood victims.
Another approves ₦20 billion for security.
The President releases ₦10 billion for an emergency.
The newspapers report it. Television analysts nod approvingly. Social media applauds. Everyone moves on.
Nobody asks the awkward question:
Which pocket did the money come from?
In Nigeria, government money often behaves like a Nollywood ghost. It simply appears.
One minute there is no provision for it. The next minute billions have been “approved”.
The Constitution, unfortunately, is less magical.
Sections 80 and 81 of the Constitution make it clear that public money belongs to the people and can only be spent through appropriation by the legislature. The President and Governors may propose spending, but they are not supposed to operate as human ATMs.
The constitutional principle is simple:
No appropriation. No expenditure.
Not “announce first and explain later.”
Not “trust me, I’m the governor.”
Not “national security.”
Simply:
No appropriation. No expenditure.
The Constitution even anticipated emergencies. Sections 83 and 123 permit access to contingency funds where urgent and unforeseen expenses arise.
But there is a catch.
The executive must return to the legislature with a supplementary appropriation bill.
The contingency fund is an emergency credit card, not a limitless black card.
Yet every few weeks Nigerians hear of another multi-billion naira approval and are left guessing:
- Was it budgeted?
- Was it drawn from a contingency fund?
- Was a supplementary budget passed?
- Did the Executive Council approve it?
- Or did someone simply wake up feeling generous with other people’s money?
The mystery deepens because many of these spending announcements emerge without any visible legislative process.
Sometimes they even emerge without any obvious Executive Council deliberation.
A constitutional republic begins to resemble a family meeting where the head of the house simply declares:
“I have approved ₦50 billion.”
The famous Resource Control case, Attorney-General of Abia State v Attorney-General of the Federation, reminded us that public revenue must be collected, distributed and managed strictly according to constitutional rules.
The Supreme Court’s message was straightforward:
Public money does not belong to politicians. It belongs to Nigerians.
Equally instructive was the recent SERAP case challenging the National Assembly’s appetite for luxury SUVs and allowances. The court reminded public officials that “legislative autonomy” is not a licence for self-service.
Apparently, separation of powers does not include separation from common sense.
The real puzzle is not the executive.
Executives everywhere love spending money.
The real puzzle is the legislature.
Historically, parliaments fought kings, started civil wars and chopped off royal heads over the power of the purse.
Nigeria’s legislatures, by contrast, often appear content to receive spending announcements the same way ordinary citizens do from television news.
Over time, something dangerous happens.
The power of the purse quietly migrates from parliament to the executive.
The Constitution remains unchanged.
The practice changes.
And constitutional erosion rarely arrives in military uniform.
It arrives disguised as administrative convenience.
One “special approval” at a time.
One “emergency intervention” at a time.
One unexplained billion at a time.
Nigeria’s Constitution did not create an elected monarch.
Yet whenever billions are announced without any visible appropriation, supplementary budget or legislative scrutiny, citizens are entitled to ask:
Are we still operating a constitutional republic, or have we simply elected kings for four-year terms?
After all, if every expenditure can be justified after the money has left the account, then the legislature’s famous “power of the purse” is no longer a constitutional weapon.
It is merely an ornamental wallet carried for ceremonial occasions.
Centre for Nigeria Progress 