From economic mobility to territoriality: Interrogating the claims of Ndi Igbo

By: Ayo Elebute

IN recent time there had been a contested statement: ‘We developed some Nigerian cities.’ This is an emerging argumentative phrase in the Nigeria’s public discourse that deserves more than emotional reaction. There is this increasingly assertion by some Igbo traders that they are the ones that developed Lagos, Ibadan, Kano, Kaduna, and Port Harcourt respectively, and thereby seeking a special proprietary claims over these territories. This assertion has been raising fundamental questions: “Does commercial presence amounts to territorial ownership?” If it does not, then: “At what instance does legitimate migration becomes an assertion of territorial claim?” The above questions are uncomfortable, but Nigerians cannot continue to avoid issues about ethnicity, migration, indigeneity, commerce, political and economic presence. Really, this matter should not be handled as an attack on the Igbo because they are an integral part of Nigeria’s history, economic and national experiences. Their economic exploits have been widely acknowledged, but it should be borne in mind that economic achievement in a host territory is not the same as political ownership of that territory. That distinction is where our discourse on the issue of ‘ownership’ begins.

Let’s start with the Lagos question: “Who built Lagos?” At this point, the repeated phrase that the Igbo commerce “built Lagos” requires historical analysis. It is worthy of note that Lagos did not exist based on the twentieth-century business migration of Ndi Igbo. Its historical antecedents can be traced to the indigenous political, commercial and maritime networks involving Lagos, Benin, Ijebu, other Yorùbá communities and their immediate environs. Its emergent into a major nineteenth century city port was shaped by Atlantic commerce, British colonial presence, indigenous trade networks, migration, missionary works, railway and road constructions, and the contributions of educated Yorùbá elites. The cogent point is that Lagos had become a formidable commercial centre of the West African coast by the late nineteenth century. Going by the above historical analysis, it becomes basically inaccurate for any ethnic group to retrospectively arrogate the ‘development of Lagos’ to itself. There is no doubt about the fact that the Igbo business activities contributed to modern Lagos in no small measure, but trade contribution is not ‘ownership.’ Constitutionally, a city can belong to all citizens in

a pluralistic society without ceasing to possess its historical indigenous identity. It is equally worthy of note that commercial mobility can produce a psychological transformation in which an itinerant trader becomes a permanent resident where he pays taxes, sends children to school and participates in communal activities. With this comes the unavoidable question: “If I have lived here for thirty years, invested here and contributed to the economy, am I an outsider?” This is a question of legitimacy that must be followed by another indigeneity question: “Does thirty years of residence transform a person into an indigenous owner of the land?” This latter question is also legitimate, but it is apropos to clarify the fact that Nigeria has never resolved the contradictory issue of citizenship and indigeneity. Based on this, it is dangerous when either side in this context uses history selectively.

Appropriately, the political struggle, confrontation and controversy involving Nnamdi Azikwe and Obafemi Awolowo in the 1940s and 1950s are significant historical evidence for our arguments in this interrogative piece. In his political approach, Azikwe seemed to be national in aspiration, but his move to operate politically within the Western Region was stopped by the fierce resistance from Yorùbá political elites. Reactively, Azikwe rejected a proposition that political participation in a region should be restricted by ethnic origin. This political position contained elements of a larger Nigerian dilemma as the Yorùbá political groupings feared political displacement in their own region. In an argument, Azikwe’s political group regarded regional ethnic boundaries as an obstacle to Nigerian nationalism. Thus arose two of Nigeria’s oldest contradictory questions: (1) “Does nationalism amounts to ethnic expansion?” and (2) “Does ethnic self-protection amounts to exclusion?” These questions remain unanswered till date. At any point, the political struggle between Awolowo and Azikwe should not be reduced to a mere tale of Igbo versus Yorùbá. It must be seen as a struggle over the meaning of Nigerian citizenship, regional autonomy and political representation. The historical memory of the above-mentioned political disagreements between Awolowo and Azikwe matters because contemporary arguments about ‘owning’ Lagos oftentimes sound remarkably similar to the political discourses that were already being held several years back.

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What exactly does the phrase “we built Lagos” mean? This is where our arguments need intellectual precision. If “we built Lagos” means: “Igbo traders have contributed substantially to Lagos economic growth,” then there is considerable evidence to support the statement, but if it means: “Lagos owes its existence or historical development principally to Igbo migration,” then the narrative is historically impermissible and indefensible. This is because Lagos has existed as a political and commercial entity long before the post-civil war migration of Ndi Igbo that liven up parts of its contemporary entrepreneurial space. This same principle applies to other Yoruba and Northern cities involved in this Ndi Igbo’s ‘claim.’ One does not become the owner of Ibadan because he operates a large market there. One does not become the owner of Kano because he owns a warehouse there. One does not become the owner of Lagos because he owns hundreds of shops there. Property ownership is not territorial sovereignty. Commerce is not indigeneity and residency is not historical ancestry.

 It would equally be dangerous for the Yorùbá demanding recognition for their historical homeland while denying citizenship rights to other Nigerians who have lived among them for generations. If an Igbo man had lived in Lagos for many years, and participated peacefully in the society, he cannot reasonably be treated as a perpetual stranger. The same principle must apply to Yorùbá living in Enugu, Hausa-Fulani living in Lagos, Ijaw living in Abuja, or any other Nigerian living outside his or her ancestral home. Nigeria is a federation of citizens, not a collection of sealed ethnic compartments. Therefore, the real issue is not the Igbo agitation, it is the unresolved Nigerian constitutional and political distinction between indigeneity and citizenship.

The critical question is: “If the Igbo economic energy is so powerful, why has the South-East still struggling with infrastructure, industrial renewal, urban planning, transportation and coordinated regional development? This question is querying a legitimate problem that Igbo political leadership itself must solve. This is not an argument that South East has achieved nothing; that would be plainly wrong. For instance, Aba, Onitsha, Nnewi, Enugu, Owerri and Awka have substantially demonstrated the basic knowledge of industrial development. The more typical question is: “Why is it that the entrepreneurial strength of Ndi Igbo has not always translated into an equally coordinated regional development strategy.” Rhetorically, one can ask: (1) “Why should a young trader who can build a formidable network in Lagos not be equally encouraged to establish an industrial complex in Aba? (2)”Why should successful spare-parts businessmen dominate a market outside the South-East, but not encouraged to build such an enterprise in Nnewi or Aba?” and (3)”Why should political energy be expended primarily on questions of representation elsewhere when the institutional development at home remains pressing concerns?” These are serious questions for South East political and economic leadership, not an indictment of ordinary Igbo citizens.

Above all else, Nigerians should move away from the childish arithmetic of ethic contributions based on these phrases: “We built Lagos.” “We built the North.” “You contributed nothing.” and “This is our land.” Such arguments can reduce a complicated national history to ethnic accounting. The more productive question is: “What are we building together now.” The Igbo business tradition has much to contribute to Nigeria, so does Yorùbá intellectual and commercial history, so does Hausa-Fulani political and commercial experience, and so do the traditions and achievements of other ethnic groups in Nigeria. Suffice it to say that contributions must never become a conquest, migration must never become territorial appropriation, indigeneity must never become an excuse for denying citizenship, and political grievances must never become a justification for ethnic confrontation. Nigeria has already paid an unbearable price for allowing political competition to become ethnic warfare. The lesson should be that no Nigerian group can permanently secure its future by making another group feel territorially threatened. You may contribute to a city without owning its history, you may live in a territory without possessing its ancestral identity, and you may be a full Nigerian citizen without pretending that every place in Nigeria is your ethnic homeland. These are difficult balances Nigeria must learn to achieve as a nation. Anything less than this measure risks turning the Nigerian marketplace into a battlefield and citizenship into an argument over ancestral title deeds.

•Elebute, Professor of Journalism, Media and Cultural Studies writes from the Resource Centre for Arts, Culture and Communication Development.