Pulpits, Minbars and the Poverty of Conscience

Nigeria is often described as a deeply religious country. Churches and mosques dot every street; prayers open government meetings; religious slogans dominate our public space. Yet, in the midst of this outward piety, Nigeria continues to drown in corruption, violence, poverty and mistrust. This contradiction forces an uncomfortable question: what happens when religion, instead of being a moral compass, becomes a tool of exploitation?

Across faith lines, a disturbing pattern has emerged. Some pastors and imams—though not all—have perfected the art of milking the desperation of the masses. They extort followers through endless “seed sowing,” special prayers, anointed items, compulsory donations and levies dressed up as divine instructions. For many Nigerians struggling to survive, religion has become less of a refuge and more of a financial burden.

While their followers trek long distances and skip meals, these religious leaders live flamboyantly. Convoys of luxury SUVs, private jets, sprawling mansions and opulent lifestyles have become symbols of “God’s blessing.” The question Nigerians are increasingly asking is simple: if heaven is the reward for suffering on earth, why do the loudest preachers of this message seem determined to enjoy their own heaven here and now?

More troubling is the cozy relationship between religious leaders and corrupt politicians. From campaign seasons to thanksgiving services, pulpits and minbars are routinely turned into platforms for image laundering. Politicians who loot public funds wine and dine with clerics, receive public prayers and endorsements, and are presented as God-sent leaders. In return, religious leaders gain access, protection and patronage. Accountability is sacrificed on the altar of convenience.

To keep this arrangement intact, the masses are often pacified with theology that glorifies suffering. Poverty is reframed as destiny, hardship as divine testing, and silence as humility. The promise is deferred: “Endure now, your reward is in heaven.” This message discourages critical thinking and civic engagement, making citizens docile in the face of bad governance and systemic injustice.

Some religious leaders go even further, promoting hate and division. Sermons and teachings that demonize other religions or ethnic groups poison the social fabric and deepen Nigeria’s fault lines. Extremist preachers in our mosques have played a significant role in radicalization. Terrorism does not emerge from a vacuum; it feeds on intolerant doctrines, absolutist claims to truth, and leaders who weaponize faith for power and relevance.

This is not a new warning. Afrobeat legend Fela Anikulapo-Kuti captured it decades ago in his song “Shuffering and Shmiling.” Fela mocked how Nigerians endure exploitation with a smile, distracted by religious promises while elites—religious and political—enjoy the spoils. His message remains painfully relevant: blind faith can be as dangerous as open tyranny.

It must be said clearly: this is not an attack on religion itself. Faith, at its best, promotes justice, compassion, discipline and moral courage. Nigeria still has sincere imams and pastors who live modestly, speak truth to power and genuinely serve humanity. They deserve respect. But reverence must not turn into surrender of reason.

Nigerians must become more discerning about religious matters. No pastor or imam should be followed blindly. No religious leader should be above questioning, especially when their lifestyle contradicts the values they preach. Faith should inspire critical thinking, not suspend it.

If religion continues to be used as a shield for greed, intolerance and political manipulation, Nigeria will keep paying the price. But if citizens reclaim their moral agency—guided by faith, reason and conscience—religion can once again become a force for national healing rather than national hypocrisy.

The choice, ultimately, is ours: to keep shuffering and shmiling, or to shine our eyes

Abdul Kezo IkonAllah