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What is most important for Nigeria in 2026 16 Jan 2026

Happy New Year! May the freshness of this calendar be more than a ceremonial change, but a genuine turn in our national journey, one that, in the year just past, seemed perpetually stuck in the treacherous ruts between our professed ideals and our practised realities. If we are to navigate forward, we must be brutally honest about the terrain left behind in 2025. 

Last year presented us with a clarifying, if painful, truth: the most critical infrastructure for Nigeria’s economy is not the refineries in Port Harcourt, the tech hubs in Yaba, or even the pipelines snaking through the Niger Delta. It is the rule of law. This abstract concept is, in fact, our most tangible economic catalyst, or, as we saw, our most effective brake. 

When the rules are clear, consistently applied, and held sacred by all, including the state itself, commerce finds confidence, investment finds a home, and long-term planning becomes possible. But when those rules are rendered ambiguous, subordinated to political expediency, or enforced with selective vigour, the entire economic prospect is founded on shifting sand. Last year, the tremors from our crumbling legal foundations shook every sector, from the high-rise offices in Lagos to the deserted markets of the Southeast.

The most profound macroeconomic policy of 2025 was not provided by the Central Bank’s Monetary Policy Committee. It was delivered from the bench of the Supreme Court in what we might call ‘the Rivers State ruling’. The political theatre was stark: a sitting governor, his deputy, and a state assembly suspended by a presidential proclamation. The economic consequence was immediate, a chilling signal to anyone with capital tied to subnational governance. 

But the true, lasting damage was wrought by the judiciary’s response. When challenged, the Supreme Court, in a masterpiece of procedural preoccupation, sidestepped the monumental constitutional question at its heart. It dismissed the case not on substance, but on a technicality of standing, arguing that the states that brought the suit lacked a direct enough injury. This was more than a legal judgement; it was an economic decree. It effectively told the markets that the fundamental architecture of Nigerian federalism, the guarantee of stable, predictable state-level authority, can be rendered ineffectual. 

For a business considering a 20-year lease, a major factory investment, or a utility concession in any state, this introduced a novel and paralysing form of risk. Why commit to a partnership with an entity whose very legal existence could be voided by political machinations in Abuja? The ruling did not just undermine a governor; it undermined the very concept of subnational economic planning, telling every investor that their contracts could be invalidated not by market forces, but by political ones. It placed a hidden tax on ambition in every region outside Abuja’s immediate favour.

While the Rivers ruling shook the structure of the federation, another courtroom drama, the sentencing of Nnamdi Kanu, revealed the deep economic cost of a rule of law perceived as merely punitive rather than restorative. The life sentence handed down was the state’s ultimate assertion of its authority. Yet, economically, the saga, of which it was the culmination, has extracted a price from the Southeast that no balance sheet can fully capture. We speak of GDP figures while ignoring the weekly economic suicide of the sit-at-home order for Mondays, a de facto 20% tax on the region’s productive capacity, enforced not by law but by fear. Shops shuttered, factories idle, markets empty; this is not an economic cycle, it is an economic embolism. The flight of talent and capital from cities like Enugu and Owerri, the paralysis of the once-vibrant industrial spirit of Aba, and the skyrocketing costs of logistics and security are all direct invoices from the breakdown of legal order and social trust. 

The court’s verdict sought closure, but its economic benefit hinges entirely on whether it is seen as the end of a conflict or merely an escalation. If the rule of law is viewed solely as the weapon of the victor, rather than the shield for all, it cannot foster the stable environment where commerce breathes. It simply replaces street-level violence with a more refined, but equally costly, atmosphere of resentment and uncertainty.

Beyond these headline verdicts, the daily, grinding attrition of legal principle is what truly suffocates the average Nigerian entrepreneur and consumer. This is the mundane reality of our fractured social contract. When a simple breach of contract takes a decade to resolve in our clogged courts, commerce abandons the courtroom for the alleyway. Justice becomes privatised, enforced through connections, threats, or vigilante settlements. This reality skews the entire market, rewarding not innovation or efficiency, but guile and force. 

Consider the scourge of land grabbing, where clear property titles are worthless against political backing, stifling real estate development and agricultural investment. Observe the corrosive effect of regulatory capture, where tax authorities become predators, hunting the vulnerable while the connected operate with impunity. This selective application of rules is a cancer on competition, ensuring that the best business model is often one that is the best politically connected. 

Most catastrophically, we witness the ultimate market failure: the kidnapping industry. This monstrous sector, which extracted over N2.5 billion in ransoms in 2024, is a direct, brutal marketplace that has emerged precisely because the state’s monopoly of force – and authority on justice – has failed. Citizens are forced into horrific parallel negotiations with criminal syndicates, a tragic testament to a social contract in tatters. In this environment, economic planning is a folly. You are not managing market risk; you are navigating a landscape where the rules are written in invisible ink, revealed only after you have made your move.

As we arrive in 2026, the fog of pre-election politics will further strain our already frayed legal fabric, with severe economic implications. The shadow of the Rivers ruling will loom over every statehouse. Governors will govern looking over their shoulders, leading either to policy paralysis in opposition states or to frenetic, short-term looting in allied ones, as politicians hedge against an uncertain future. The colossal, murky river of election-season spending will test our financial regulations and the integrity of institutions like INEC to their breaking point. Should the electoral process itself be widely perceived as another heist, the resulting crisis of legitimacy would trigger capital flight, magnifying the sovereign risk.

Furthermore, the government’s security emergency will only bear economic fruit if conducted within a legal framework that rebuilds community trust. Heavy-handed, extra-legal operations may offer a temporary illusion of control, pleasing the stock market for a day but deepening the very alienation that fuels the crisis, perpetuating the long-term economic drain. Investors, both local and foreign, are not fools. They are already calculating what we might call the “2027 litigation premium.” They assume the outcomes of the upcoming general election will be contested, that its aftermath will be a year of legal battles and policy frozen in amber, and they will price that chaos into their decisions today through higher borrowing costs and a reluctance to commit new capital.

So, the road to a more prosperous Nigeria in 2026 does not begin with a new white paper on industrial growth or another promised revolution in agriculture. It begins, unglamorously but fundamentally, with a collective, steadfast commitment to restoring the sanctity of our rules. 

We must demand that our courts be fortresses of principle, not echo chambers for political convenience. We must insist that a contract signed in Uyo is as enforceable as one signed in Abuja, and that the rights of a petty trader in Kano are as sacred as those of a billionaire in Ikoyi. 

The rule of law is not a luxury for peaceful times; it is the essential operating system for a complex, diverse economy. It is the warranty that allows strangers to do business, the trust that allows capital to flow across regions, and the stability that turns ambition into enterprise. Without it, we are merely polishing the brass on a sinking ship, celebrating minor technical adjustments while the hull breaches below. 

Our choice for this new year is stark: we can begin the difficult, urgent work of repairing our foundational legal institutions, or we can continue to watch our shared economic future dissolve into the acid of uncertainty. Let us hope, for all our sakes, that we find the courage to choose the former.

Cheta Nwanze is Lead Partner at SBM Intelligence.