By Dr. Lanre Towry-Coker, FRIBA, FNIA, MA Law (UL), PhD
We were a colony. That’s not rhetoric—it’s historical fact. For decades, Nigeria was governed, shaped, and mined by people who didn’t speak her languages, didn’t share her past, and certainly didn’t envision her future. It was a colonial construct from day one. Created not by consensus, but by commercial necessity and imperial whim.
And when they left in 1960, they handed over a structure. An apparatus. A scaffolding built for extraction and control, not nation-building. Flags changed. Anthems changed. But the machinery remained.
Now, over sixty years later, I often wonder—did we ever stop being a colony? Or did we just become the caretakers of our own exploitation?
What Exactly Did We Inherit?
We inherited a civil service designed for obedience, not service. A legal system rooted in ordinances and proclamations, not justice. We inherited a federation that isn’t federal. We took the house and kept the walls exactly as they were—only now we hang our portraits inside.
Ask yourself: who truly redesigned Nigeria after the British left? Did we reform it from the ground up—or did we just change the accents of those in charge?
Even Chief Obafemi Awolowo, long before it became fashionable to talk about “true federalism,” described Nigeria as “a mere geographical expression.” That wasn’t an insult. It was a warning.
The Economy Still Answers to Others
Look at how we earn. Oil, cocoa, solid minerals—they leave raw and return refined. It’s the same colonial loop. The difference is, now we call it trade.
We take loans whose terms we barely understand. We’re told to float the naira, scrap subsidies, privatise what remains of the commons—and we do, often without debate. Foreign desks cheer. Local backs bend.
The economy was never redesigned for independence. It just limps along under different management. And no matter who wins elections, this script rarely changes.
Mentally, We Never Left
This may be the most painful truth of all. We haven’t just inherited their structures—we’ve inherited their mindset.
To be “modern” in Nigeria still means to sound foreign. To be respected means you studied abroad. We still prefer imported toothpaste, imported granite, imported weddings.
When did this happen—this subtle erasure of self?
Our children barely speak their languages. We celebrate foreign holidays with more fervour than our own. The ideal is still “out there,” not here. It’s no longer British rule. But the ghost of it? Still pacing the corridors.
A Grim Historical Rumour
And just when you think you’ve heard everything, a chilling story resurfaces: that in the lead-up to World War II, Britain allegedly considered offering Nigeria to Hitler as part of a peace deal. Let that sit for a moment.
Whether it’s true or not, the mere existence of that idea—however buried in diplomatic archives—tells you everything about how we were seen: not as a people, but as property. Something that could be exchanged to pacify a dictator.
And sometimes I wonder—have we done enough since then to stop being that?
The Centre Cannot Hold—Because It Wasn’t Meant To
Nigeria today is still governed from a centre that doesn’t trust its own periphery. Everything funnels upward. Power, money, authority—it all flows to Abuja. The states? They wait cap-in-hand each month, pretending to govern while unable to generate, legislate, or secure their own domains.
Federalism in name. Unitarism in practice.
Elections have become a census of tribal numbers. We don’t debate policy—we do arithmetic. How many from here? How many from there?
So again I ask—are we truly a nation? Or are we still, as Awolowo said, a geographical expression held together by inertia, oil money, and blind hope?
Time to Consider a Loose Federation
At some point, the centre will collapse under its own contradictions. Before that happens, we must talk honestly—without fear, without sentiment—about redesigning this union.
A looser federation may be our best chance. One where regions or states control their resources, raise their revenue, secure their borders, and choose their path. Not because they want to break away—but because they want to stay, on fair terms.
Unity cannot be enforced forever. Not by slogans, not by the military, not by oil revenue. It has to be negotiated, periodically and honestly. Otherwise, what we call “Nigeria” will remain a brittle contraption—waiting for the next tremor.
Some may be wondering why an architect would be interested in developmental matters. It’s no accident that the grandfather of Nigerian nationalism was also an architect—Herbert Macaulay. Macaulay is credited as being the first United Kingdom-trained architect in Nigeria. He was also an engineer. On June 24, 1923, Herbert Macaulay founded the Nigerian National Democratic Party (NNDP), the first Nigerian political party.
It’s equally not by accident that in Nigeria’s sixty-five years of independence, two architects have served as vice presidents. The first was Dr (Arc) Alex Ekwueme in 1979, who served as VP to President Shehu Shagari. The second was Architect Namadi Sambo, who was VP to President Goodluck Jonathan.
Even I, as an architect who served as the Honourable Commissioner for Housing during Asiwaju Bola Ahmed Tinubu’s first tenure as Governor of Lagos State (1999–2003), appreciated the opportunity to serve my state—and, in doing so, to understand the nuances of governance. It taught me that governance is not an easy task. It is a careful balancing act between vision and pragmatism, between ideals and limited resources.
Could it be because, as architects, we are not just concerned with what happens above the ground—but also, more importantly, with what lies beneath? In other words: the foundations.
We know, as experienced professionals, that the foundation is paramount. Without a solid foundation, the building will not stand. Similarly, a country without a solid foundation will not stand.
Why an Architect Cares
A Final Word
We were a colony. That’s not our fault. But remaining a colony—whether by habit, by structure, or by choice—that would be.
This country still behaves as though it’s waiting for permission to change. Waiting for foreign aid. Waiting for a model. Waiting for someone else to define the terms.
But history won’t wait.
So I say again: we were a colony. But we do not have to die as one. The question is whether we’re brave enough to reimagine this place—or whether we’ll simply keep repainting the walls of a house we never designed.
