“In a country where counting requires a tribunal, arithmetic has long surrendered to politics; and numbers, like truth, must first pass through negotiation before they are allowed to exist.” — Ukatta Oganvo (1871–1974)
The Republic of Perpetual Counting.
In most countries, a census is a quiet affair. Enumerators knock on doors, people grumble mildly, numbers are tallied, and life goes on. But in Nigeria, counting is not merely arithmetic, it is a full-contact sport, complete with referees, appeals courts, and, of course, a Census Tribunal.
Yes, a Census Tribunal.
Because in Nigeria, when you count people, the people count back.
The exercise begins innocently enough. Government announces a census. Citizens are urged to “be counted.” Religious leaders pray over the figures in advance. Politicians clear their schedules. Entire regions brace themselves, not for accuracy, but for negotiation.
Enumerators are dispatched with clipboards and hope. But hope, like fuel subsidy, quickly evaporates.
In one village, the population mysteriously doubles overnight. In another, entire communities develop a sudden aversion to being seen, as if invisibility might attract federal allocation elsewhere. Babies are born in bulk. Ancestors briefly return. Even the goats begin to look suspiciously like potential voters.
By the time the numbers return to Abuja, they are less statistics and more political statements.
And then, inevitably, the outrage.
“How can they say we are 3 million? We are at least 7 million, excluding those in diaspora and those spiritually present!”
“This is marginalisation by spreadsheet!”
“Our people have been undercounted since 1914!”
The census, which began as a headcount, has now become a head-on collision.
Enter the Census Tribunal.
A solemn body of learned individuals tasked with resolving the unresolvable; how many Nigerians are Nigerian enough to be counted, and where.
The Tribunal sits like a court of divine arithmetic. Lawyers arrive armed not with evidence, but with emotion, historical grievances, and occasionally, satellite imagery interpreted through ethnic lenses.
One lawyer argues:
“My Lord, our people were counted during the rainy season. Naturally, many had migrated to higher ground. This is a constitutional injustice.”
Another counters:
“My Lord, their figures include unborn children projected over the next ten years. This is premeditated inflation.”
Expert witnesses are called.
A demographer explains population growth rates.
A traditional ruler insists that his people “multiply by destiny, not by biology.”
A politician submits a list of names so long it includes individuals yet to be conceived, on the grounds of “anticipated loyalty.”
The judges listen patiently, occasionally adjusting their glasses, perhaps wondering when counting became metaphysical.
Outside the courtroom, the nation waits.
Not for truth, truth is a luxury, but for advantage.
Because in Nigeria, population is not just about people. It is about power. It is about revenue allocation, legislative seats, and the subtle art of being too many to ignore.
Finally, the Tribunal delivers its judgment.
A compromise.
Numbers are adjusted, not necessarily to reflect reality, but to maintain peace. Some states gain millions. Others lose a few imaginary citizens. Everyone leaves dissatisfied, which, in Nigeria, is the closest thing to fairness.
The official figures are announced.
They are accepted in the way one accepts a poorly told joke; with polite silence and quiet disbelief.
Life moves on.
Until the next census.
Until the next counting of bodies, and recounting of grievances.
Until the next reminder that in Nigeria, even numbers have tribes.
And somewhere, in a quiet office, a statistician sighs.
Because in a country where counting requires a tribunal, arithmetic has long surrendered to politics; and numbers, like truth, must first pass through negotiation before they are allowed to exist.
