By Mohammed Bello Doka
A democracy does not collapse only when soldiers seize the airwaves. Sometimes, it erodes quietly—when laws appear settled in debate but return altered in print; when assurances replace transparency; when denial substitutes for proof. That is the uneasy shadow now hanging over Nigeria’s tax reform controversy.
Months ago, the tax reform proposals of the under President ignited fierce national resistance. The backlash was loud, organic, and unmistakable. The North, in particular, rejected key elements of the proposal, warning that the reforms—coming amid inflation, insecurity, and deepening poverty—would impose unbearable burdens on already vulnerable populations. Civil society groups, economists, traders’ associations, and lawmakers all raised red flags.
Then came the retreat. The government publicly backed down. Officials assured Nigerians that controversial provisions had been reviewed, softened, or removed. The revised bills were debated and passed by the . Calm returned—tentatively. The country moved on under the belief that political compromise had worked and democratic consultation had prevailed.
But democracy does not end at passage. It ends where trust ends.
When lawmakers later raised concerns that the gazetted versions of the tax laws may differ from what Parliament approved, the issue ceased to be about tax policy. It became a constitutional question. The responded by setting up a seven-member ad hoc committee to investigate alleged discrepancies between the bills passed and the versions gazetted.
Here lies the danger: no specific clauses were publicly identified on the floor of the House, and no conference committee report has been cited to justify post-passage harmonisation. The government, for its part, has issued firm denials—insisting that any differences are merely technical drafting adjustments. But in a constitutional democracy, denial is not evidence.
If nothing has changed, why not publish a clause-by-clause comparison?
If harmonisation occurred, where is the conference committee record?
If the public outrage forced genuine concessions, why is there now confusion about what exactly became law?
These are not hostile questions. They are democratic obligations.
Harmonisation, by law and parliamentary practice, is limited. It may correct spelling, numbering, formatting, or align identical provisions passed differently by both chambers. What it cannot do—under any constitutional logic—is insert new obligations, revive rejected policy choices, expand enforcement powers, alter thresholds, or quietly reverse political compromises. Once substance changes, harmonisation becomes something else entirely: executive law-making by stealth.
This is why the suspicion persists, and this is why silence is corrosive. If clauses that failed politically—VAT burdens, lowered compliance thresholds for small businesses, expanded enforcement powers, weakened exemptions, shortened transition periods, or centralised fiscal authority—reappear in substance after passage, then Nigerians would be forced to confront a grim possibility: that public consultation was tactical, not genuine.
Such a precedent would be catastrophic.
Democracies survive on consent, not just procedure. When citizens believe that debate is ceremonial and outcomes are pre-determined, trust collapses. When regions that loudly reject policy later suspect it returned through bureaucratic corridors, alienation deepens. And when government responds to legitimate concern with reassurance rather than disclosure, the social contract frays.
This is why the public deserves more than denial. Nigerians deserve clarity.
The National Assembly owes the country transparency. If there were alterations, lawmakers must say what changed, where, and why. If there were none, a public side-by-side comparison should end the controversy instantly. Silence serves no one—not even the government.
The lawmakers who raised the alarm must also rise to their responsibility. Allegations made in plenary cannot remain abstract. Nigerians deserve to know: what exactly are the discrepancies? Democracy is weakened when claims are floated without particulars, just as it is weakened when power refuses scrutiny.
Civil society organisations, professional bodies, and legal advocacy groups must step forward—not as partisans, but as custodians of democratic process. The same is true of the media. Journalism fails when it merely quotes “both sides” and moves on. The duty of the press is not balance for balance’s sake; it is verification. The passed bills exist. The gazetted laws exist. Comparing them is not speculation—it is due diligence.
Other democracies have faced similar moments—and emerged stronger because transparency prevailed. In India, South Africa, Canada, and the United Kingdom, disputed legislative texts have been clarified publicly, corrected where necessary, and in some cases re-passed to preserve institutional integrity. None treated trust as expendable.
Nigeria should not either.
This moment is bigger than tax law. It is about whether power respects process, whether compromise is honoured, and whether citizens can trust that what is debated in daylight is what governs them at dawn.
Democracy does not defend itself. Nigerians—lawmakers, journalists, civil society actors, professionals, and ordinary citizens—must insist on answers, not assurances; documents, not declarations; truth, not tone.
The call to action is simple and urgent: defend the integrity of lawmaking. Demand transparency. Insist that institutions work as designed. Because when laws change after debate—without explanation—what is at stake is not revenue or reform, but the very foundation of democratic rule.
And once that foundation cracks, no tax reform—no matter how well intentioned—can stand.