The end of the civil war did not bring the self-determination Nigerians had hoped for. Instead, it marked the beginning of a new dependency. Victory cemented the federal government’s power, but it also locked Nigeria more firmly into Britain’s orbit. The war had been settled on terms that safeguarded British oil companies. When peace returned in 1970, Nigeria found itself standing on oil — the “black gold” that was supposed to rebuild the nation. But oil quickly became both a blessing and a curse.

The federation Britain built was meant to guarantee its shadow rule — a proxy colony where foreign companies thrived and local elites kept the machinery running. On the surface, it worked: cocoa, groundnuts, and oil flowed outward while imported goods flowed in. But beneath, the structure sowed rivalry instead of unity. What Britain thought would stabilize its grip only deepened mistrust, the same mistrust that kept money flowing to England Until it unexpectedly spiralled out of control when the civil war broke out. Ironically what kept Britain in control precipitated into what abruptly ended it. The civil war was the ultimate proof of how Britain’s design had backfired quickly the empire could pivot to profit from collapse. But backfire didn’t mean collapse — it meant adaptation. Britain learned to profit from chaos.

Officially, London presented itself as a neutral partner urging peace; in reality, it armed the federal side, knowing that a united Nigeria was safer for its oil interests than a breakaway Biafra. Shell-BP, already entrenched in the Niger Delta, became the quiet engine behind policy, reminding Whitehall that whoever controlled Nigeria had to control the oil fields. The human cost — millions dead from fighting and starvation — mattered little compared to preserving Britain’s strategic lifeline. By the time the guns fell silent in 1970, Nigeria was not only scarred but also bound tighter to its former master: dependent on British arms, reliant on British companies, and still trapped in the economic patterns laid down during colonial rule.

The end of the civil war did not bring the self-determination Nigerians had hoped for. Instead, it marked the beginning of a new dependency. Victory cemented the federal government’s power, but it also locked Nigeria more firmly into Britain’s orbit. The war had been fought with British weapons, bankrolled by British credit, and settled on terms that safeguarded British oil companies. When peace returned in 1970, Nigeria found itself standing on oil — the “black gold” that was supposed to rebuild the nation. But oil quickly became both a blessing and a curse. At first, the boom of the 1970s felt like salvation. The Arab oil embargo of 1973 sent global prices soaring, and Nigeria suddenly had more money than it knew how to spend. But excitement was short lived because the military was in control.

Instead of using oil wealth to build industries, modernize agriculture, or strengthen infrastructure, the generals spent recklessly on white-elephant projects, inflated contracts, and personal luxuries. The boom years of the 1970s were Nigeria’s best chance at transformation, but they became a lost decade of waste. Military rule normalized corruption as a governing system. Oil revenues and foreign loans disappeared into patronage networks and offshore accounts. This not only drained resources but also entrenched a political culture where looting became the norm.

Convinced oil prices would remain high forever, military regimes borrowed massively in the 1970s–80s. When prices crashed, Nigeria was saddled with unsustainable debt. Civilian governments later inherited this burden, but the roots lay in military excess. By suspending constitutions, banning parties, and ruling by decree, military rulers crippled democratic institutions. They left Nigeria with a fragile civilian order that could not easily enforce accountability or sound economic planning.

Because they lacked domestic legitimacy, military rulers often leaned on foreign powers and creditors for survival. This made it easier for Britain, the IMF, and others to impose terms that deepened Nigeria’s dependency.

So while colonial legacies set the stage — fractured politics, oil dependence, and weak institutions — it was the decisions of military rulers that magnified these problems into the crisis we know today. Who is largely to be blamed for these incessant military interventions? You guessed it.

Nigeria as a federation was designed to protect Britain’s interests, not to foster national unity. Ethnic rivalry, uneven regional development, and mistrust were baked into the system. This meant that once independence came, political instability was almost guaranteed — instability that created the perfect excuse for soldiers to “step in.” The army itself was a colonial creation. The Nigerian army was built by Britain to enforce colonial rule, not to serve democratic governance. It was hierarchical, obedient, and accustomed to being the final arbiter of order. After independence, it kept that posture. In times of crisis, it was natural for military officers to see themselves as the ones to “save” the state — the exact role Britain had trained them to play.

Though Britain did not always script the coups, it adapted quickly to them. Military rulers were easier to deal with: a single man in uniform was simpler to influence than a parliament full of bickering politicians. Arms sales, oil contracts, and debt agreements often flowed more smoothly under generals than under civilians. The logic of colonial rule was: stability first, democracy later (if ever). Military rulers used the same justification — suspending constitutions, banning parties, and claiming they were preserving “national unity.” In this sense, their mindset was a continuation of Britain’s governing style. So, while it would be too neat to say Britain was behind every putsch, it’s fair to say the soil for military rule was cultivated by colonialism — and Britain never minded too much, as long as its interests (especially oil and debt repayment) were secure.

Nigeria’s tragedy was not just that it wasted its oil wealth — it was that it wasted it so completely that it had to go begging almost immediately after. The story of debt is the story of how a country that once swam in petro-dollars became a debtor to the very institutions and nations it should have stood beside as an equal. And with each new creditor, Nigeria gained another master. After the oil price crash of the early 1980s. Overnight, Nigeria could no longer pay its bills. The debt stock leapt from $9 billion in 1980 to about $30 billion by 1987.

That was when Nigeria fell into the arms of the Paris Club (a cartel of creditor nations like the U.S., UK, France, and Japan), the London Club (commercial banks), and above all, the IMF and World Bank. The IMF’s Structural Adjustment Program (SAP) in 1986 was the turning point. Creditors literally told Nigeria: if you want more money, here’s how to run your country. Nothing screams “colonialism” more than this. The rules were harsh. When the reforms came, they landed like a hammer. The naira was devalued, and almost overnight the cost of living doubled — a bag of rice that once cost ₦20 now swallowed ₦40 (as of today it’s more than ₦50,000). Fuel and food subsidies disappeared, public spending shrank to the bone: hospitals ran out of drugs, schools crumbled, and workers by the thousands were thrown into the streets. Even the state companies, built with public money, were privatized: stripped and sold off for pennies, often ending up in the hands of foreign investors or well-connected cronies.

For the first time, Nigerians realized that independence was only on paper. Their daily bread — literally — was being priced in Washington. By the 1990s, debt had ballooned to $35 billion, and most of it wasn’t even principal anymore — it was arrears, unpaid interest, and penalties piled on by creditors. Nigeria was paying and paying, but the stock never fell. When Babangida implemented the IMF’s prescriptions, Nigeria’s middle class collapsed. A generation of professionals saw their salaries reduced to nothing by currency devaluation. A university professor’s pay that once bought a car could barely buy groceries. Under Abacha, negotiations stalled, but the trap remained: Nigeria was still bound, still paying, still bleeding. By 2004, Nigeria owed about $36 billion, of which $30 billion was to the Paris Club. Then came the much-celebrated 2005–2006 deal: Obasanjo paid $12 billion in cash, and in return, about $18 billion was cancelled. It was the largest debt relief in African history. But relief came with strings. Nigeria had to maintain austerity, privatization, and liberalized trade. The Paris Club had cancelled the debt, but not the control. Within a few years, Nigeria was back in the markets, this time under new masters. The World Bank remained the biggest lender, still tying loans to “policy reforms.” China’s Exim Bank emerged as a powerful new creditor, financing about $5 billion worth of railways, roads, and power projects — but insisting that contracts go to Chinese firms, materials, and workers. Eurobond holders added another $15 billion, exposing Nigeria to the moods of global investors in London and New York. The African Development Bank and others added smaller loans, each with conditions dressed up as “advice.” By 2025, Nigeria’s external debt stands at roughly $50 billion. The names of the creditors have changed, but the story has not.

Colonialism did not end; it multiplied. Nigeria once had one master — Britain. Today, it has many: Washington, Paris, London, Beijing, and the anonymous bond traders of Wall Street. Each one writes a small part of Nigeria’s script. Each one demands obedience in return for credit. Debt became the new colonial governor. The IMF set the prices in the market, the World Bank dictated school budgets, China decided which rail lines were built, and faceless investors in Europe could crash the naira by simply selling Nigerian bonds. Independence had failed once again, only this time the chains were numbers on a balance sheet instead of guns and soldiers.

The end of the civil war did not bring the self-determination Nigerians had hoped for. Instead, it marked the beginning of a new dependency. Victory cemented the federal government’s power, but it also locked Nigeria more firmly into Britain’s orbit. The war had been settled on terms that safeguarded British oil companies. When peace returned in 1970, Nigeria found itself standing on oil — the “black gold” that was supposed to rebuild the nation. But oil quickly became both a blessing and a curse.

The federation Britain built was meant to guarantee its shadow rule — a proxy colony where foreign companies thrived and local elites kept the machinery running. On the surface, it worked: cocoa, groundnuts, and oil flowed outward while imported goods flowed in. But beneath, the structure sowed rivalry instead of unity. What Britain thought would stabilize its grip only deepened mistrust, the same mistrust that kept money flowing to England Until it unexpectedly spiralled out of control when the civil war broke out. Ironically what kept Britain in control precipitated into what abruptly ended it. The civil war was the ultimate proof of how Britain’s design had backfired quickly the empire could pivot to profit from collapse. But backfire didn’t mean collapse — it meant adaptation. Britain learned to profit from chaos.

Officially, London presented itself as a neutral partner urging peace; in reality, it armed the federal side, knowing that a united Nigeria was safer for its oil interests than a breakaway Biafra. Shell-BP, already entrenched in the Niger Delta, became the quiet engine behind policy, reminding Whitehall that whoever controlled Nigeria had to control the oil fields. The human cost — millions dead from fighting and starvation — mattered little compared to preserving Britain’s strategic lifeline. By the time the guns fell silent in 1970, Nigeria was not only scarred but also bound tighter to its former master: dependent on British arms, reliant on British companies, and still trapped in the economic patterns laid down during colonial rule.

The end of the civil war did not bring the self-determination Nigerians had hoped for. Instead, it marked the beginning of a new dependency. Victory cemented the federal government’s power, but it also locked Nigeria more firmly into Britain’s orbit. The war had been fought with British weapons, bankrolled by British credit, and settled on terms that safeguarded British oil companies. When peace returned in 1970, Nigeria found itself standing on oil — the “black gold” that was supposed to rebuild the nation. But oil quickly became both a blessing and a curse. At first, the boom of the 1970s felt like salvation. The Arab oil embargo of 1973 sent global prices soaring, and Nigeria suddenly had more money than it knew how to spend. But excitement was short lived because the military was in control.

Instead of using oil wealth to build industries, modernize agriculture, or strengthen infrastructure, the generals spent recklessly on white-elephant projects, inflated contracts, and personal luxuries. The boom years of the 1970s were Nigeria’s best chance at transformation, but they became a lost decade of waste. Military rule normalized corruption as a governing system. Oil revenues and foreign loans disappeared into patronage networks and offshore accounts. This not only drained resources but also entrenched a political culture where looting became the norm.

Convinced oil prices would remain high forever, military regimes borrowed massively in the 1970s–80s. When prices crashed, Nigeria was saddled with unsustainable debt. Civilian governments later inherited this burden, but the roots lay in military excess. By suspending constitutions, banning parties, and ruling by decree, military rulers crippled democratic institutions. They left Nigeria with a fragile civilian order that could not easily enforce accountability or sound economic planning.

Because they lacked domestic legitimacy, military rulers often leaned on foreign powers and creditors for survival. This made it easier for Britain, the IMF, and others to impose terms that deepened Nigeria’s dependency.

So while colonial legacies set the stage — fractured politics, oil dependence, and weak institutions — it was the decisions of military rulers that magnified these problems into the crisis we know today. Who is largely to be blamed for these incessant military interventions? You guessed it.

Nigeria as a federation was designed to protect Britain’s interests, not to foster national unity. Ethnic rivalry, uneven regional development, and mistrust were baked into the system. This meant that once independence came, political instability was almost guaranteed — instability that created the perfect excuse for soldiers to “step in.” The army itself was a colonial creation. The Nigerian army was built by Britain to enforce colonial rule, not to serve democratic governance. It was hierarchical, obedient, and accustomed to being the final arbiter of order. After independence, it kept that posture. In times of crisis, it was natural for military officers to see themselves as the ones to “save” the state — the exact role Britain had trained them to play.

Though Britain did not always script the coups, it adapted quickly to them. Military rulers were easier to deal with: a single man in uniform was simpler to influence than a parliament full of bickering politicians. Arms sales, oil contracts, and debt agreements often flowed more smoothly under generals than under civilians. The logic of colonial rule was: stability first, democracy later (if ever). Military rulers used the same justification — suspending constitutions, banning parties, and claiming they were preserving “national unity.” In this sense, their mindset was a continuation of Britain’s governing style. So, while it would be too neat to say Britain was behind every putsch, it’s fair to say the soil for military rule was cultivated by colonialism — and Britain never minded too much, as long as its interests (especially oil and debt repayment) were secure.

Nigeria’s tragedy was not just that it wasted its oil wealth — it was that it wasted it so completely that it had to go begging almost immediately after. The story of debt is the story of how a country that once swam in petro-dollars became a debtor to the very institutions and nations it should have stood beside as an equal. And with each new creditor, Nigeria gained another master. After the oil price crash of the early 1980s. Overnight, Nigeria could no longer pay its bills. The debt stock leapt from $9 billion in 1980 to about $30 billion by 1987.

That was when Nigeria fell into the arms of the Paris Club (a cartel of creditor nations like the U.S., UK, France, and Japan), the London Club (commercial banks), and above all, the IMF and World Bank. The IMF’s Structural Adjustment Program (SAP) in 1986 was the turning point. Creditors literally told Nigeria: if you want more money, here’s how to run your country. Nothing screams “colonialism” more than this. The rules were harsh. When the reforms came, they landed like a hammer. The naira was devalued, and almost overnight the cost of living doubled — a bag of rice that once cost ₦20 now swallowed ₦40 (as of today it’s more than ₦50,000). Fuel and food subsidies disappeared, public spending shrank to the bone: hospitals ran out of drugs, schools crumbled, and workers by the thousands were thrown into the streets. Even the state companies, built with public money, were privatized: stripped and sold off for pennies, often ending up in the hands of foreign investors or well-connected cronies.

For the first time, Nigerians realized that independence was only on paper. Their daily bread — literally — was being priced in Washington. By the 1990s, debt had ballooned to $35 billion, and most of it wasn’t even principal anymore — it was arrears, unpaid interest, and penalties piled on by creditors. Nigeria was paying and paying, but the stock never fell. When Babangida implemented the IMF’s prescriptions, Nigeria’s middle class collapsed. A generation of professionals saw their salaries reduced to nothing by currency devaluation. A university professor’s pay that once bought a car could barely buy groceries. Under Abacha, negotiations stalled, but the trap remained: Nigeria was still bound, still paying, still bleeding. By 2004, Nigeria owed about $36 billion, of which $30 billion was to the Paris Club. Then came the much-celebrated 2005–2006 deal: Obasanjo paid $12 billion in cash, and in return, about $18 billion was cancelled. It was the largest debt relief in African history. But relief came with strings. Nigeria had to maintain austerity, privatization, and liberalized trade. The Paris Club had cancelled the debt, but not the control. Within a few years, Nigeria was back in the markets, this time under new masters. The World Bank remained the biggest lender, still tying loans to “policy reforms.” China’s Exim Bank emerged as a powerful new creditor, financing about $5 billion worth of railways, roads, and power projects — but insisting that contracts go to Chinese firms, materials, and workers. Eurobond holders added another $15 billion, exposing Nigeria to the moods of global investors in London and New York. The African Development Bank and others added smaller loans, each with conditions dressed up as “advice.” By 2025, Nigeria’s external debt stands at roughly $50 billion. The names of the creditors have changed, but the story has not.

Colonialism did not end; it multiplied. Nigeria once had one master — Britain. Today, it has many: Washington, Paris, London, Beijing, and the anonymous bond traders of Wall Street. Each one writes a small part of Nigeria’s script. Each one demands obedience in return for credit. Debt became the new colonial governor. The IMF set the prices in the market, the World Bank dictated school budgets, China decided which rail lines were built, and faceless investors in Europe could crash the naira by simply selling Nigerian bonds. Independence had failed once again, only this time the chains were numbers on a balance sheet instead of guns and soldiers.