By Oke Peter
In the heart of Nigeria’s bustling cities and the quiet stretches of its rural communities, one reality binds millions together — the unending struggle with unreliable power supply. For decades, this failure has dimmed not just light bulbs but also dreams, opportunities, and the very essence of development. In 2025, as the world races toward renewable energy and artificial intelligence, millions of Nigerians are still trapped in the dark, navigating daily life by the uncertain flicker of candlelight and the noisy hum of generators.
Electricity in Nigeria has always been a paradox. The country is Africa’s largest economy, blessed with abundant natural gas, sunlight, and hydropower resources, yet it remains one of the world’s most power-deficient nations. Official figures often cite that Nigeria generates between 4,000 and 5,000 megawatts of electricity for a population of more than 200 million — a supply grossly inadequate even for a mid-sized city. The result is a painful, enduring reality that touches every corner of national life.
The market woman’s candlelight economy
In a small stall in Ajegunle, Lagos, 42-year-old Chidinma Eze sells chilled soft drinks and frozen fish. Her business depends on her ability to keep products cold, but in a city where power outages can last up to 20 hours a day, survival means creativity. “I buy fuel every day,” she says, shaking her head. “Sometimes I spend ₦7,000 just to keep the freezer running. If I don’t, everything spoils.”
Her situation is not unique. Across Nigeria, small businesses — which make up more than 80 percent of the economy — struggle to stay afloat under the weight of unreliable power. The irony is sharp: the same entrepreneurs hailed as the “backbone” of Nigeria’s economy are being crushed by an energy system that has failed them repeatedly.
The cost of self-generated electricity through petrol or diesel is enormous. Studies estimate that Nigerian households and businesses spend over $14 billion annually on alternative power sources. This is not only wasteful but unsustainable. It drains profits, raises prices for consumers, and worsens air pollution in already congested urban centers.
A village in darkness
Travel eastward to Enugu State, and the story grows darker — quite literally. In Okpanku, a community tucked between rolling hills, residents have not had consistent electricity for years. The village’s transformer broke down in 2018, and promises of repairs have become part of the political theater that surrounds every election season.
“I don’t even remember the last time I heard the hum of electricity,” says 67-year-old retired teacher, Chief Nwankwo. “We pay bills for light that never comes.”
At night, Okpanku glows faintly from kerosene lamps and solar torches — small gadgets imported from China that cost more than most can afford. The lack of reliable power affects everything: students study by dim candlelight, health workers deliver babies in near darkness, and farmers lose perishable produce because they cannot store it.
The government’s rural electrification projects have made some progress, but the scale of neglect remains overwhelming. According to the World Bank, more than 85 million Nigerians — roughly 43 percent of the population — have no access to electricity at all. For a country with so much potential, that figure is both embarrassing and tragic.
The urban mirage
Even in cities where power lines are everywhere, the promise of reliable electricity remains elusive. In Abuja, the capital city, load-shedding is now a normalized routine. Wealthier residents live behind tall gates powered by solar panels and diesel generators, while poorer neighborhoods endure endless blackouts.
The inequality in access to energy is glaring. In Gwarimpa, an upscale district, residents can afford ₦2 million solar installations that keep their homes running smoothly. Meanwhile, in Nyanya, a densely populated suburb, families share candles to light a room. For many urban poor, the phrase “NEPA has taken light” is both a joke and a curse, a phrase that captures the absurdity of life in a nation that cannot keep its lights on.
The hidden cost: Education and health
The consequences of unreliable electricity go beyond discomfort. In classrooms across the country, the lack of power translates into lost learning hours. Computer labs stand idle, science experiments are postponed indefinitely, and digital literacy — a key to modern competitiveness — remains a distant dream.
At the University of Ibadan, students recall nights when exams were written by flashlight. “We are supposed to be the intellectual hub of Africa,” says a student, “but we can’t even power our libraries consistently.”
Hospitals, too, operate under constant threat. In 2023, a maternity clinic in Port Harcourt lost two newborns after the generator failed during a power outage. Such stories rarely make the headlines, but they are a brutal reminder that unreliable electricity kills. From vaccine refrigeration to surgical procedures, the healthcare system depends on stable power — and when that fails, lives are literally at risk.
The politics of darkness
Why, after decades of reform, privatization, and promises, does Nigeria still sit in the dark? The answer lies in a toxic blend of corruption, poor regulation, and policy inconsistency.
In 2013, the power sector was privatized with great optimism. The idea was that private investors would bring efficiency and capital to transform the system. Yet, more than a decade later, consumers see little difference. Power generation companies (GenCos) blame distribution companies (DisCos), who in turn blame the Transmission Company of Nigeria (TCN). Government agencies point fingers at one another while citizens pay the price.
Many of the DisCos operate like monopolies, collecting “estimated bills” from customers who receive little or no supply. Efforts to introduce prepaid meters have been slow, marred by bureaucracy and allegations of favoritism. The sector remains riddled with inefficiency, while vested interests profit from the chaos.
Nigeria’s political class often treats electricity as a campaign slogan rather than a development priority. Every administration promises “uninterrupted power” but leaves behind the same old darkness. The truth is that fixing Nigeria’s power problem requires political will — not just money. It demands accountability, transparency, and a long-term strategy that transcends partisan cycles.
Flickers of hope
Despite the gloom, a quiet revolution is emerging. Across the country, small-scale renewable energy projects are lighting up communities forgotten by the national grid.
In Kaduna, a solar microgrid now powers over 150 homes and shops in a rural settlement. In Ogun State, a local cooperative runs a solar-powered cassava mill that has doubled production and created jobs. Startups like Lumos, Arnergy, and Rubitec are offering pay-as-you-go solar systems to low-income families, bringing light to places the government cannot reach.
These initiatives prove that Nigeria’s power problem is not insurmountable. The country’s abundant sunlight and youthful population make it ideal for a decentralized energy future — one that empowers communities rather than waiting endlessly for national solutions that never arrive.
However, scaling such projects requires government support, regulatory clarity, and access to financing. Without these, renewable energy risks remaining a niche solution instead of a national lifeline.
A call for light
Electricity is not a luxury; it is the foundation of modern life. It powers education, healthcare, industry, and innovation. Without it, development is impossible. The stories from Ajegunle, Okpanku, and countless other communities reflect the silent suffering of millions who live daily in energy poverty.
Nigeria’s leaders must confront this crisis with urgency and sincerity. The country cannot hope to industrialize or compete globally if its people remain in darkness. Investments in power infrastructure must be transparent and focused on outcomes, not contracts. Distribution companies must be held accountable, and citizens must demand measurable results, not endless promises.
For too long, Nigerians have learned to adapt — to buy generators, to ration light, to live with noise and fumes. But adaptation should not be mistaken for progress. True progress means every Nigerian, regardless of income or location, can switch on a light bulb and be confident it will stay on.
Until then, life without reliable power remains a silent tragedy — one that defines not just the nation’s past, but its uncertain future.
