Wa man taraka bati

There is a Hausa/Arabic colloquialism that offers a master key to understanding the Nigerian psyche: “Wa man taraka bati siddan… wa huwa jahilun.” Roughly translated, it means, “Whosoever passes up a freebie bonanza is clueless.” This isn’t merely a quaint cultural artifact; it’s the unofficial national motto, a philosophical blueprint that has so thoroughly permeated […]

There is a Hausa/Arabic colloquialism that offers a master key to understanding the Nigerian psyche: “Wa man taraka bati siddan… wa huwa jahilun.” Roughly translated, it means, “Whosoever passes up a freebie bonanza is clueless.” This isn’t merely a quaint cultural artifact; it’s the unofficial national motto, a philosophical blueprint that has so thoroughly permeated the Nigerian consciousness that it has become the operating system for everything from petty bribery to grand political theft. The sentiment has mutated from personal opportunism to a societal cancer, creating a bizarre reality where citizens not only condone corrupt leaders but actually applaud them with the enthusiasm of a studio audience, all while being systematically picked cleaner than last year’s Sallah meat.

At its heart, the “bati” ethos is a get-rich-quick doctrine dressed in cultural attire. It champions the idea that any windfall, regardless of its origin or morality, must be seized. To do otherwise isn’t just foolish—it’s a violation of an unwritten social contract. This mindset provides the perfect cultural Petri dish for corruption to flourish. It transforms the act of passing up an illicit gain from an ethical choice into a character flaw.

This philosophy manifests in everyday life through a series of socially numbing adages. As an objective analysis of Northern Nigerian communities would reveal, sentiments like the one coined from the misrepresented Qur’anic quote “wa la tajas-sasu” which translates into “do not insist on thorough investigation” effectively train society to turn a blind eye to shady dealings. Similarly, “idan mutum ba zai fai al’khairi ba, ya kame bakin sa”—”if you can’t say something good, then kindly shut up” has been twisted into a conspiracy of silence that protects the morally compromised from criticism. These sayings collectively create an environment where curiosity is sinful, criticism is forbidden, and the only remaining option is to celebrate the very villains picking one’s pockets. 

Nowhere is this Stockholm syndrome more visible than in Nigeria’s bizarre political culture, where alleged looters receive hero’s welcomes that would make a returning astronaut blush. When former Governor Diepreye Alamieyeseigha—arrested in London with £1 million in cash and subsequently escaping disguised as a woman—returned to Bayelsa, he was met with jubilant celebrations from his people, the same people he robbed. Similarly, when James Ibori, another former governor, faced arrest for corruption, his people set up bonfires and roadblocks to protect him from EFCC operatives. More recently, Yahaya Bello, currently standing trial for alleged theft, made a triumphant return to Kogi State upon securing bail, turning what should have been a moment of shame into a spectacle of adulation. When the former EFCC Chairman Abdulrasheed Bawa was detained on suspicion of corruption, many people in Jega denied their eyes sleep for many nights so they could petition God on his behalf.

This phenomenon represents what psychologists might call freudenfreude—the pleasure derived from someone else’s good fortune, even when that fortune is stolen from you. For many Nigerians, corrupt politicians represent an aspirational ideal—they have successfully gamed a system that ordinary citizens find impossible to navigate. When we see a politician who has allegedly stolen billions, we don’t see a criminal; we see someone who has won the ultimate Nigerian lottery, and we celebrate them as we would a family member who hit the jackpot, hoping for a share of the loot.

Nigeria’s political history reads like an all-you-can-steak buffet for successive administrations, each outdoing the last in creative appropriation of public funds.

The “get rich quick” syndrome has even spawned a distorted spiritual economy where traditional values have been replaced by what Catholic priest Fr. Michael Banjo describes as “neo-paganism”. Nigerian youths, facing desperate economic circumstances, increasingly abandon ethical pathways to wealth, sometimes resorting to ritual wealth practices in their desperation for quick money. This represents the ultimate perversion of the bati mentality—where not just moral boundaries but spiritual ones are crossed in pursuit of instant wealth.

Simultaneously, religious interpretations have been twisted to justify inaction in the face of corruption. Sayings like “Bakin da Allah Ya tsaga ba zai hana shi abinci ba” or “God shall always provide” have been misinterpreted to promote attitudes of indolence rather than encouraging hardwork and innovation. Similarly, “Jarrabawa ce daga Allah” or “it’s a test of faith from God” is routinely invoked to explain away everything from traffic accidents caused by recklessness to building collapses resulting from corner-cutting. In this theological framework, every misfortune becomes an “act of God,” and every ill-gotten gain becomes “God’s blessings,” effectively making the Almighty the divine accountant for the corruption balance sheet.

The tragic irony of Nigeria’s bati culture is that nothing is free. The cost is paid in crumbling infrastructure, in a healthcare system so inadequate that it is easier for lightening to strike the same spot twice than it is for the political elite to die in a Nigerian hospital.

The path to redemption requires nothing less than a complete rewiring of our national psyche. We must transition from a society that venerates wealth without questioning its source to one that celebrates integrity and hard work. This begins with rejecting the twisted interpretations of religious and cultural sayings that have numbed our moral senses. It requires holding our leaders—and ourselves—to account and recognising that the greatest bonanza isn’t a stolen billion but a functioning society where success is measured by contribution rather than accumulation. 

Until then, we remain the hopeless ones—not for passing up batis, but for failing to see that the greatest thing we’ve collectively abandoned is our national dignity.