By Abdulrauf Aliyu
It is not possible to speak of Nigerian development without speaking of the South-West. This is the region that once housed Africa’s first television station, the first skyscraper, and one of its most ambitious education programmes under Chief Obafemi Awolowo. From the free primary education policy of the Western Region to the founding of the University of Ife, the South West was long seen as the nerve centre of innovation, modernity, and public sector dynamism in post-independence Nigeria. It was not just a place of ideas, it was a place of execution.
Today, that legacy has grown brittle. The 2025 Phillips Consulting State Performance Index (pSPI), a composite measure of state governance using both performance data and citizen perception, suggests that the region is no longer performing at the level expected of it. The South West is still statistically one of the best-performing regions in Nigeria, but it is doing so more on the weight of past infrastructure than on current reform. The region is surviving on its reputation. And reputations, like expired currencies, eventually lose value when not backed by substance.
Lagos State, the commercial engine of the country, ranks first overall on the pSPI. This should inspire applause, but only mutedly. While Lagos topped the chart in objective data, it ranked a shocking 32nd in citizen perception. This chasm between paper performance and public sentiment should alarm even the most hardened technocrats. It tells the story of a city that works in theory, but not always in practice. Roads are built, yes, but traffic is unyielding. Schools exist, but parents pay tutors. Hospitals are painted, but citizens crowd private clinics.
Lagosians, famously resilient and enterprising, are growing weary of what they see as a government that measures success by project launches, not quality of life. The city is expanding vertically and horizontally, but its sense of equity is shrinking. For a state that prides itself on internally generated revenue and urban innovation, the growing discontent is a red flag. Even the best systems rot when they cease to respond to the pulse of their people.
Ekiti State presents a different kind of disappointment. Once a beacon of academic excellence and civic pride, it now languishes at 26th in the national ranking, a stunning fall from 3rd place just a year earlier. It is a sobering reminder that even states with intellectual pedigree are not immune to misgovernance. Ekiti’s fall is not just statistical. It is symbolic. The erosion of its standing reflects a gradual detachment between public expectation and administrative delivery. Where are the education reforms? The rural roads? The youth employment schemes that match the state’s cerebral energy?
In Greek tragedy, the fall of a noble house always carries dramatic weight. Ekiti’s decline carries that same sense of wasted potential. It is not a poor state in spirit. But it has become poor in purpose. And in governance, as in life, purpose is everything.
Ogun State, with its proximity to Lagos and industrial base, ranks a respectable 2nd nationally in objective data but drops to 18th in perception. Ogun is expanding economically, attracting investments and industries, yet its residents report a lack of visibility in core services. Health centres underperform. Education outcomes are inconsistent. It is a case of a state growing its GDP while leaving its human development behind. This kind of growth – unequal and impersonal – ultimately creates tension, not transformation.
Ondo State, long viewed as a bastion of progressive politics, now appears adrift. It ranks 27th in perception and sits at the lower middle of the pSPI. This reflects a deeper issue: the disappearance of strategic governance. The state’s once-celebrated health and rural development programmes have either stagnated or been rolled back. In Akure and its surrounding towns, one hears stories of teachers awaiting promotions, hospitals lacking basic supplies, and young people migrating to Lagos for opportunities that should exist at home.
Osun State remains a tale of potential deferred. While there have been visible efforts in agricultural policy and education infrastructure, the state remains hampered by fiscal instability and limited internal capacity. The public service is bloated, revenue is weak, and local governments are effectively comatose. Osun’s problem is not ambition but execution. Its leaders often articulate bold visions, but delivery lags behind. This is the governance equivalent of a strong heartbeat but failing lungs.
Oyo State, perhaps the most politically turbulent of the South West states, ranks moderately on the pSPI. Ibadan, with its sprawling population and political weight, continues to grow. But growth without planning leads to entropy. While the state has made progress in education and healthcare reforms, public perception is lukewarm. There is a growing sense that Oyo’s leadership often responds to headlines rather than to data. The city expands, but the infrastructure buckles. Public transport remains a patchwork. Youth unemployment is a ticking time bomb. In policy, inconsistency is often worse than incompetence, it breeds disorientation.
What ties the South West’s dilemma together is a dangerous reliance on past achievements. These are states where education was once a religion, where public institutions stood tall, and where the elite emerged through merit. That social contract has weakened. The region still boasts some of the highest literacy rates, yet its schools now battle underfunding and teacher shortages. The universities that once shaped national discourse now navigate strikes and bureaucratic strangulation. Healthcare centres, once models of public health, now resemble abandoned relics.
The deeper issue is a kind of political fatigue, a slow retreat from long-term planning in favour of short-term political survival. While the South West has produced many of Nigeria’s most capable political thinkers, it has not always turned that intellect into institutional strength. As Machiavelli noted in The Discourses, republics that forget their founding virtues eventually turn into oligarchies. In many South West states, governance now revolves around elite networks, not public service.
There is, however, a way forward. The region must return to its roots, not as a nostalgic exercise, but as a foundation for reinvention. The South West once led Nigeria in public education. It can do so again. It pioneered regional economic integration. It can harness new models of collaboration, from inter-state transportation to industrial clustering. Lagos cannot carry the weight alone. A fragmented region cannot compete with a united North or a resurgent South East.
The new generation of leaders must discard the vanity metrics and focus on citizen satisfaction, fiscal transparency, and inclusive growth. The pSPI offers them a map, not just of what is wrong, but of what can be fixed. If they take it seriously, the South West can rise not as a museum of old achievements, but as a laboratory of new possibilities.
But if they continue to govern through the haze of past glory, then the region that once taught Nigeria how to dream will become the region that forgot how to govern. And that, more than any statistic, would be its greatest failure.
