At Nigerian celebrations, money no longer changes hands; it changes meaning. Crisp naira notes are sprayed into the air, stepped on, gathered from the floor like confetti, and photographed for social media as proof that the party was “successful.” The higher the spray, the louder the applause. What was once legal tender is now a party souvenir— currency repurposed for performance, not payment.
This is not a cultural accident, nor is it a harmless indulgence of joy. It is a ritual made possible by access—steady access to freshly minted notes that ordinary Nigerians queue for, plead for, and often never see. While traders, pensioners, and small businesses struggle to obtain clean cash from banks, the elite acquire bundles of new notes with suspicious ease, ready for ceremonies where dignity is measured in how much money can be publicly disrespected.
The scandal, however, does not begin at the dance floor. It begins at the mint, passes through the vaults, and is sanctified by regulatory silence. The Central Bank of Nigeria, charged with protecting the integrity of the naira, has watched as the currency is downgraded from a symbol of sovereignty to a party souvenir. In choosing inaction, it has effectively permitted a parallel morality: one rule for the many who must treat money with care, and another for the few who may treat it as decoration.
What Nigerians are witnessing is not celebration—it is institutional failure in festive clothing.
The origin of money spraying in Nigeria may be obscure, but its persistence is defiant. Like many post–civil war indulgences, it arrived quietly, embedded itself deeply, and has stubbornly refused to leave.
At Nigerian parties—especially Grade-A ones—you will encounter a peculiar species of guest: the human ATM. They arrive with suspicious backpacks bulging with crisp, high-denomination naira notes. No announcements are made. No introductions exchanged. A glance here, a nod there. One word does all the work: “Rate?”The seller names his premium. If agreeable, the buyer transfers funds or is presented with a POS machine—sleek as a blackjack table. Once value—plus a generous surcharge—is received (₦130,000 for ₦100,000, for example), thick wads of virgin notes change hands. The entire transaction is conducted silently, efficiently, and—most damningly—in full public view. Darkness is unnecessary; complicity provides adequate cover. One is left to wonder whether law-enforcement officers are too busy chewing on something juicier or whether they are simply shareholders in the enterprise.
At face value, honouring a celebrant with money is neither unlawful nor objectionable. However, from the explosion of “cocaine and 419” enterprises in the 1980s into the 1990s, as illicit wealth multiplied and new moneyed upstarts emerged, moderation was abandoned. The practice metastasized into what is now known as spraying and matching: bundles of new notes flung like confetti, stepped on, danced upon, and crushed into the dance floor. Currency ceased to be a medium of exchange and became a disposable prop in a performance of vulgar abundance. Thankfully, such scenes eventually provoked public outrage. Dancing on the naira—our national symbol—proved too much even for a society with an elastic tolerance for excess. Calls for abolition followed.
But here lies the central irony: the Central Bank of Nigeria (CBN), the statutory custodian of the naira’s integrity, inadvertently fuels this disgrace with working capital. Section 2 of the CBN Act 2007 vests the exclusive power of issuing legal tender in the Bank. This includes designing, printing, distributing, recycling fit notes, and destroying unfit ones. Above all, the CBN is charged with preserving the integrity of the naira and sustaining public confidence in it.
Banks and other financial institutions lawfully source new notes from the CBN for legitimate circulation—replacing damaged currency and keeping the system functional. But somewhere along the line, notes that have not even entered the value chain are diverted, sold at a premium, and deliberately desecrated under the pretense of tradition. What should lubricate commerce is instead trampled upon for spectacle.
THE LAW AND ITS CONVENIENT SILENCE
The law is not ambiguous. Section 21 of the CBN Act 2007 criminalizes the abuse of naira notes. Spraying, dancing on, stapling, tearing, writing on, selling, trading, or otherwise defacing the currency is explicitly prohibited. The offence attracts a minimum of six months’ imprisonment, a fine of at least ₦50,000, or both. The law further empowers law-enforcement agencies—the Police, EFCC, and others—to arrest offenders.
In other words, the law anticipated this abuse long before society normalized it.
In practice, however, the law has been muted by corruption and strangled by selective deafness. Enforcement fails spectacularly. Officers present at events where the business thrives sometimes act as facilitators, even recommending reliable note sellers when supply runs low. The situation recalls the well-worn Nigerian “joke” of law-enforcement officers (Abeg, I no call name o) stopping a drunk driver and confiscating the half-finished bottle of Martell—not as evidence, but as a personal perk.
Today, the hawking of new naira notes is brazen. At city exit motor parks, bundles of crisp currency are openly displayed for sale to travelers. Around party venues and strategic locations—yes, even near the CBN’s own precincts on Tinubu Street, close to the Tinubu Magistrate Court—mint notes are exchanged at predatory premiums: ₦130,000 for ₦100,000. It is an illegal currency market operating as an open secret—visible, tolerated, and protected by silence.
But let us be clear: the unlawful hawking of the naira weaponizes scarcity, rewards corruption and punishes ordinary Nigerians. It is not merely an economic offence; it is a systemic threat.
Recently, at a social gathering, I found myself seated beside a gentleman who later introduced himself as a senior CBN officer. The conversation drifted toward the bank’s seeming incapacity to curb currency abuse. I had been nursing my 18-year-old “Mirinda”, minding my business, until that revelation sharpened my interest. Encouraged by his identity, I pressed for insight into what appears an intractable problem. He acknowledged that the current CBN leadership symbolizes a return to discipline after the locust years. He then added a rider that froze my smile. Without blinking, he declared that the new-notes business cannot be stopped because “that is what a whole department chops.” I pray what I thought I heard was not the purport of what the gentleman said? In confusion, I immediately sent the phrase to Google for meaning and interpretation. Still awaiting Google’s response.
Be that as it may and truth be told, ending this illicit trade does not require rocket science, interplanetary diplomacy, or divine revelation. It requires only one thing which the CBN Governor already possesses in abundance: authority. If the CBN Governor truly commands even a fraction of the competence, discipline, and reformist zeal copiusly listed on his CV, this racket would not merely be discouraged—it would be extinguished, swiftly and without drama.
Let us dispense with the charade. The persistence of naira hawking is not a failure of law, intelligence, or capacity; it is a failure of will. And that failure has a name and an address. The buck stops—not with Mr. President, not with partygoers, not with overzealous celebrants, or even the obviously compromised law-enforcement officers—but squarely on the desk of the CBN Governor. He is the sole statutory custodian of the currency. Where the naira is abused, it is because supervision is lax, controls are porous, or indulgence has been deliberately extended.
Otunba Abiodun Olufowobi (PABIEKUN) aisoaba@yahoo.com
