Bodija expl0sion: Makinde and the N30bn silence
Bodija explosion: Makinde and the N30bn silence
In January 2024, tragedy struck Old Bodija in Ibadan. An explosion claimed lives, destroyed homes, and left hundreds displaced. In response, the Federal Government of Nigeria approved a ₦50 billion intervention fund for relief and reconstruction. Of that amount, ₦30 billion was released to the Oyo state government.
What followed raises disturbing questions—not just about legality, but about governance, priorities, and moral responsibility.
For months, the Oyo State Government maintained silence. No public announcement. No timeline. No explanation. The N30 billion reportedly sat idle in a bank account while victims of the Bodija explosion remained displaced, traumatised, and uncertain about their future. The explanation later offered—that the government was waiting for the remaining N20 billion—did little to calm public anxiety.
Transparency does not require completeness; it requires honest disclosure. Disaster funds are not private transactions. They are a public trust, and the people of Oyo state deserve to know that N30 billion has already been received on their behalf.
It took a public allegation by former Ekiti state governor Ayo Fayose, who claimed that Governor Seyi Makinde had received ₦50 billion, for the state government to respond. Only then did officials clarify that N30 billion had indeed been disbursed—and left untouched.
That sequence matters. Accountability loses meaning when disclosure happens by exposure rather than choice.
Public outrage deepened when Governor Makinde announced plans to overhaul the Oyo state government house at a reported cost of ₦63.4 billion. The timing could not have been worse. While victims of the Bodija explosion were left in limbo, the same government appeared eager to embark on a lavish renovation project.
The optics were devastating: disaster victims waiting for relief, while a massive sum meant for them sat idle in a bank account—reportedly to generate interest—pending the release of additional funds. To many Nigerians, this did not look like prudence; it looked like indifference.
What kind of governance logic allows a government to prioritise renovating power structures while human lives affected by tragedy are suspended in bureaucratic uncertainty? What kind of leadership justifies holding back relief funds for the sake of “completeness” while people sleep in temporary shelters?
For a governor who rode to power on the promise of fighting for the masses, the contradiction is stark. Silence, in this context, is not neutral—it is cruel.
This episode recalls a painful moment in Nigeria’s political history, when Adams Oshiomhole, a former labour leader and ex-president of the Nigeria Labour Congress, once told a widow to “go and die” during his tenure as Edo State governor. The outrage then was not just about the words, but about the betrayal of expectation—from a man who claimed to speak for the oppressed.
Makinde’s case feels similar to many Nigerians: a reformist image colliding with actions that suggest emotional distance from the suffering of ordinary people. When leaders who campaign as champions of the masses appear detached in moments of pain, the sense of betrayal cuts deeper.
Beyond Oyo state, this episode also vindicates Nigerians who have questioned the disbursement of funds by President Bola Tinubu to state governors without robust accountability mechanisms.
Following the removal of fuel subsidy, vast sums were freed up. Yet Nigerians absorbed the shock: fuel prices rose from about ₦187 per litre to over ₦1,000, inflation surged, and living costs skyrocketed. The masses paid dearly.
Rather than transparently investing these funds in infrastructure, education, healthcare, and social protection, the Tinubu administration opted to distribute large sums to governors with minimal public scrutiny. This helps explain the wave of defections to the ruling All Progressives Congress—federal generosity, when unchecked, becomes a political magnet.
Ironically, Makinde was exposed not because the system worked, but because he did not defect. By remaining in the Peoples Democratic Party, he stood outside the informal shield that often protects political converts. Accountability, however, should never depend on party loyalty.
No court has ruled that the ₦30 billion was stolen. But governance is not judged by legality alone. It is judged by openness, empathy, and prioritisation of human lives.
When a governor nearing the end of his second term keeps ₦30 billion meant for disaster victims without public disclosure—while proposing a ₦63.4 billion renovation of government facilities—suspicion becomes unavoidable.
The ₦30 billion may still be intact. But the moral damage has been done. Victims were left waiting. The public was left uninformed. And trust—once again—was the real casualty.
I end this article with a quote by Edward Snowden, which says, “there can be no faith in government if our highest offices are excused from scrutiny – they should be setting the example of transparency”.
Temidayo Akinsuyi, former group politics editor of Daily Independent, writes from Abuja
