By Citizen Bolaji O. Akinyemi
«Iya Alakara,
O ta sánsán sí mi ní imú, Iya Alakara.
O ta dòdò sí mi lénu, Iya Alakara.
Ẹ má fi Iya Alakara ṣeré, Iya Alakara.»
Then comes the line that puzzled many of us as children:
«”Ebi ni o pa Iya Alakara di alẹ, Iya Alakara.”»
Not too many Nigerians had the privilege of what I call an “overdose of primary school education.” I did.
My mother was a teacher, and in 1970 she enrolled me at Ibadan Municipal Primary School, Aremo-Ode, later known as ICC (Ibadan City Council) Primary School. By 1974, when I was in Primary Four, I was literally attending two schools—morning classes at Aremo-Ode/Aje and afternoon classes at our sister school in Beyerunka, Ibadan.
That season of my life was richly woven around Yoruba folklore. The songs, stories and rhymes have remained evergreen in my memory. One of them was the famous song about Iya Alakara.
Like many children of my generation, I was fascinated by it.
Who exactly was this Iya Alakara?
Who was this woman whose akara scented our noses, made our mouths water and stirred our appetite, yet who, according to the song, went to bed hungry?
As children, we never found the answer.
But decades later, that search appears to be finding an unexpected answer in the ongoing public conversation surrounding Senator Oluremi Tinubu—a Pastor, former Senator of the Federal Republic of Nigeria, wife of President Bola Ahmed Tinubu, First Lady of Nigeria and the nation’s Iya Gbogbo.
In her words, their BEST is being done for Nigerians. Please, underline my emphasis on BEST.
Indeed, perhaps this truly is the best available under their leadership.
For it appears that within the circles of power, an elite consensus has emerged that the greatest empowerment government can offer the poorest of the poor is to fry akara, roast corn or make kuli-kuli.
Pastor Mrs. Tinubu recently showcased the achievements of her New Era Foundation initiative, explaining that grants of ₦5,000 could serve as sufficient start-up capital for Nigerians to begin life by frying akara, roasting corn or making kuli-kuli.
Really?
Let us test that proposition.
Suppose a beneficiary decides to fry akara.
The first requirement is space.
No junction is free.
No roadside in Lagos, for example, comes free of charge. The Area Boys—the well-known street enforcers of Lagos—will certainly collect their daily space rent. It is unlikely to be less than ₦1,000. After all, they too are stakeholders in this government, having played strategic roles during the 2023 elections, with much expected of them again in 2027.
That immediately leaves the beneficiary with ₦4,000.
Next comes the frying pot.
A reasonably durable locally made pot will cost about ₦3,000.
Now only ₦1,000 remains.
A charcoal stove and the charcoal itself cannot realistically cost less than another ₦5,000.
Then comes groundnut oil—even a modest two litres for a beginner.
Then beans.
Then pepper.
Then onions.
Then salt and seasoning.
Then a carpenter must make a stool.
A table is needed.
A tray to display the akara.
Utensils.
Bowls.
A sieve.
Wrapping paper.
The arithmetic simply refuses to cooperate with the propaganda.
The Bible warns against “lying lips and a deceitful tongue.”
Run exactly the same calculation for roasted corn.
Run it again for kuli-kuli.
The conclusion will be exactly the same.
Now let us address the pseudo-intellectuals who have rushed to defend this so-called akara economy.
Nobody is insulting honest labour.
Nobody is mocking the dignity of the woman who wakes up at 4 a.m. to soak beans, grind pepper, light the fire and fry akara so her children can eat.
Nigerians have always respected hard work.
What we reject is the weaponisation of poverty as government policy.
There is a world of difference between survival and prosperity.
There is a world of difference between an emergency coping mechanism and a national economic development strategy.
Akara is food.
It is not economic policy.
Roasted corn is nutrition.
It is not an industrial revolution.
Kuli-kuli is a snack.
It is not a poverty eradication programme.
Any government that presents petty trading as the highest aspiration of nearly 200 million citizens has already admitted the failure of its economic blueprint.
The issue, therefore, is not whether people should sell akara.
People have sold akara for generations.
The question is this:
After more than sixty years of independence, should the First Lady of Africa’s largest economy be celebrating akara as the destination instead of the starting point?
The duty of government is to move citizens from subsistence to productivity; from roadside survival to industrial participation; from informal hustling to formal wealth creation; from hand-to-mouth existence to asset ownership.
That is what responsible governments all over the world strive to accomplish.
How about groundnut and sachet water business?
Perhaps they should include them too.
Tomorrow, they may recommend hawking recharge cards, selling ice water in traffic, washing windscreens at traffic lights or pushing wheelbarrows as the new pillars of Nigeria’s economic renaissance.
If this is truly the future they envision, then let those promoting this philosophy demonstrate confidence in it.
Let ministers establish akara enterprises for their children.
Let presidential advisers withdraw their children from expensive universities abroad and enrol them in frying akara academies.
Let senators convert their constituency offices into roasted corn centres.
Let governors dissolve their economic advisory councils and replace them with kuli-kuli cooperatives.
Leadership must never prescribe for the poor what it would never prescribe for its own family.
The defenders of this regime tell us that Senator Oluremi Tinubu has donated billions of naira to NGOs.
Very well.
Let them tell Nigerians where such enormous resources came from.
Let them publish the names, addresses and audited reports of every beneficiary organisation.
Let them provide verifiable evidence that the funds translated into measurable improvements in people’s lives rather than ceremonial photographs and newspaper headlines.
Transparency is not hostility.
Accountability is not disrespect.
Public scrutiny is the price of public influence.
Since your mother sold akara to train you, why haven’t you established an industrial akara processing company employing thousands of Nigerians?
Why haven’t your sons, daughters, wives, political associates and business partners embraced the same model as their preferred investment?
Why are the children of the elite trained to become doctors, engineers, lawyers, economists and technology entrepreneurs while the children of the poor are encouraged to aspire to roadside enterprises?
That is the hypocrisy Nigerians are rejecting.
With the collapse of public education, can the average akara seller comfortably pay school fees from nursery school to university?
Can she afford quality healthcare without crowdfunding?
Can she pay today’s rents?
Can she buy fuel at current prices?
Can she survive multiple taxation by local governments, market associations, touts and security agents?
Can she employ others and grow into a manufacturing enterprise under the present economic conditions?
These are the questions government should answer.
Let no one deliberately misunderstand the argument.
Akara, roasted corn and kuli-kuli have always had their place in our economy.
What they do not constitute is an economic development strategy for Africa’s largest nation.
Singapore did not become prosperous by celebrating street hawking.
South Korea did not become an industrial giant by institutionalising roasted corn.
China did not lift hundreds of millions out of poverty through kuli-kuli empowerment.
They invested in education.
Manufacturing.
Infrastructure.
Innovation.
Technology.
Energy.
Productive industries.
That is what leadership looks like.
We have watched the unprecedented convoys, the luxurious lifestyles, the endless ceremonies and the expanding privileges of those in power.
Against that backdrop, asking hungry Nigerians to embrace an akara economy is not inspiration.
It is insensitivity.
It is not empowerment.
It is the normalisation of poverty.
It is not economic vision.
It is an admission that government has run out of ideas.
That is why the old Yoruba folklore suddenly acquires a profound national meaning.
“Iya Alakara scented our noses, made our mouths water, yet she went to bed hungry.”
The tragedy was never Iya Alakara.
The tragedy was a society that accepted her poverty as normal.
A responsible government should ensure that every Iya Alakara who chooses to remain in that business has access to affordable credit, reliable electricity, modern equipment, healthcare, good roads, security and expanding markets—enabling her to grow from a roadside vendor into the owner of a thriving food-processing enterprise.
Government exists to create ladders of opportunity, not to romanticise survival.
The goal of leadership is not to produce more Iya Alakaras.
The goal of leadership is to ensure that no hardworking Nigerian goes to bed hungry after making the nation smell the sweetness of her labour.
Perhaps that is the lesson hidden in the old Yoruba folklore that many of us sang as children but are only beginning to understand as adults.
@Citizen Bolaji O. Akinyemi