Nigeria’s elitist turn: The passport as a symbol of division by Emman Usman Shehu

BY EMMAN USMAN SHEHU, AUGUST 31, 2025 | 10:30 PM

In the crowded markets of Lagos and the quiet villages of Sokoto, President Bola Tinubu’s “Renewed Hope” agenda was supposed to herald a Nigeria of shared opportunity. Instead, it has birthed a stark reality: a nation cleaved into two, where hope is a premium product, and the green passport—a once-proud emblem of citizenship—has become a price tag on dreams. The Tinubu administration’s decision to hike passport fees to ₦100,000 for a 32-page document and ₦200,000 for 64 pages is more than a policy misstep; it’s a betrayal of the ordinary Nigerian, exposing an elitist philosophy that prioritizes privilege over people. From the weary streets to the fiery rhetoric of opposition parties, this is the story of a government out of touch with the nation it claims to serve.

For the average Nigerian, the green passport is not just a travel document—it’s a lifeline to possibility. It’s the key for a student chasing a scholarship in London, an entrepreneur eyeing markets in Accra, or a parent seeking medical care unavailable in Nigeria’s crumbling hospitals. Yet, in late 2024, the Tinubu administration raised the cost of this lifeline to levels unattainable for most. At ₦100,000, a 32-page passport costs more than the monthly income of over 70% of Nigerians, according to 2024 data from the National Bureau of Statistics. The 64-page version, at ₦200,000, is a distant fantasy for a population grappling with 33% inflation, soaring food prices, and the aftershocks of fuel subsidy removal.

The government’s rationale—that the hikes ensure “quality and integrity” for Nigeria’s passport—lands like a cruel jest. Nigerians aren’t clamoring for glossier pages; they’re struggling to buy bread. Whispers on X and in opposition circles suggest that government officials and their allies enjoy exemptions from these fees, a claim that, whether true or not, fuels a narrative of entrenched elitism. The green passport, meant to symbolize national unity, now underscores division: a document freely granted to the powerful but priced beyond the reach of the people.

Take Amina, a 26-year-old tailor in Kano. “I’ve been saving for a visa to study nursing abroad,” she says, her voice heavy with resignation. “Now, the passport alone costs more than I earn in three months. This government is telling me my dreams don’t matter.” Her story echoes across Nigeria, from the bustling streets of Onitsha to the rural hamlets of Enugu, where citizens feel squeezed by policies that seem designed to keep them grounded while the elite soar.

Opposition parties have pounced on the passport hike as a glaring symptom of a deeper malaise. “This is not leadership; it’s gatekeeping,” declared Debo Ologunagba, spokesperson for the People’s Democratic Party (PDP), in a blistering statement. “The Tinubu administration has turned citizenship into a luxury good, sold to the highest bidder while the masses are locked out.” Peter Obi of the Labour Party, a persistent thorn in the government’s side, called the policy “a tax on aspiration,” accusing Tinubu of prioritizing Nigeria’s global image over its people’s futures.

These critiques are not mere political point-scoring; they resonate because they mirror the lived experience of millions. The passport fee hike is part of a broader pattern of economic reforms—fuel subsidy cuts, naira devaluation, and new taxes—that have battered Nigeria’s poor and middle class. The “Renewed Hope” agenda, once a rallying cry, now feels like a taunt. On X, users vent their frustration: “Tinubu promised us hope, but all I see is a government for the rich,” one post reads, capturing a sentiment shared by thousands. Opposition leaders argue that these policies reflect an elitist worldview, where Nigeria’s progress is measured by the comfort of its privileged few, not the opportunities afforded to its 200 million citizens.

The passport saga is a microcosm of a government disconnected from its people. The administration’s defenders claim the fee hikes are necessary to fund national development and elevate Nigeria’s international standing. But this argument rings hollow when the costs are borne by those least equipped to pay. With over 88 million Nigerians living below the poverty line—surviving on less than $2 a day, per 2024 data—a ₦100,000 passport is not a policy; it’s a prohibition. Even the middle class, once a beacon of Nigeria’s potential, is buckling under economic strain. “I used to dream of taking my children to see the world,” says Chukwu, a civil servant in Abuja. “Now, I can’t even afford the document to try.”

The irony is stark: a government that touts global competitiveness is pricing its people out of the global arena. By making passports unaffordable, the administration is stifling the very mobility—educational, economic, and social—that Nigeria needs to thrive. The elite may enjoy visa-free travel and diplomatic courtesies, but for the average Nigerian, the world beyond the border is now a gated community, accessible only to those with deep pockets or deeper connections.

Nigeria stands at a crossroads. The Tinubu administration must answer a fundamental question: who is this country for? If the answer excludes the trader in Oshodi, the teacher in Sokoto, or the student in Port Harcourt, then “Renewed Hope” is a hollow promise, a slogan for the privileged few. The passport fee hike is not just bad policy; it’s a moral failure, a breach of the social contract that binds a government to its people.

Opposition parties have demanded an immediate rollback of the fees and a broader rethinking of economic policies that burden the poor. But Nigeria needs more than policy tweaks—it needs a government that sees its people, not just its image. The green passport should be a symbol of pride, not a reminder of exclusion. Until the administration governs for all Nigerians, not just the elite, it will continue to fuel a growing chorus of discontent, amplified by voices on X and the opposition’s unrelenting critique.

The ordinary Nigerian is not asking for charity; they’re demanding fairness. They want a government that values their dreams as much as it values its reputation. In a Nigeria divided by a price tag, that hope feels increasingly out of reach. But the resilience of the people—voiced in the streets, on social media, and through opposition leaders—serves as a reminder: change is possible, if only those in power will listen.

Dr Shehu is an Abuja-based writer, activist and educator.