March 09, (THEWILL) – On 10 June 2020, Ramon Abbas, aka Hushpuppi, the infamous online celebrity, found himself in handcuffs in Dubai. For years, he had flaunted a life of private jets, luxury cars and designer clothes across social media, all without any visible means of earning such wealth. His arrest revealed a fortune built on cybercrime—millions stolen through scams. In Nigeria, where he once lived, many believe he would still be free today, celebrated rather than incarcerated.
Fast forward to 2025: Sophia Egbueje, a female believed to be in her late 20s or early 30s, linked to musician Burna Boy, has been a talking point lately over claims suggesting that he broke a promise to give her a Lamborghini in exchange for sex, only to back out after the deed.
In the leaked phone conversation that Sophia had with her friend, she suggested engaging in transactional sex. When a video emerged of her taking delivery of the car anyway, her supporters cheered. Only a few asked how she paid for it. These two stories, although several years apart, point to a troubling truth: Nigerian society no longer cares where money comes from, just get rich. This is indeed very troubling.
This attitude poisons the country in ways that touch every corner of life. Hardworking people—those who rise early for a nine-to-five job or toil in small businesses—watch their efforts dwarfed by neighbours with no apparent trade driving luxury cars and ‘Livin’ da loca’.
A teacher earning N150,000 a month sees a jobless youth next door move into a mansion. The honest worker struggles to feed his family, while the flashy spender throws parties and buys loyalty with cash. Society does not question the source; it claps for the display. Over time, this wears people down. Some, desperate to keep up, dip their hands into office funds, public money or engage in fraud.
Others, unable to bear the shame of poverty beside such wealth, take their own lives. The Nigerian Bureau of Statistics reported a rise in suicide cases in recent years, though it avoids linking this to economic pressure. To me, the connection seems to lie somewhere in between.
The damage stretches beyond individuals to the next generation. Children grow up watching their parents scrape by on honest wages, while others, with no identifiable work, live like stars.
An undergraduate sees a classmate drop out of school, starts posting pictures with bundles of cash and soon drives a Mercedes Benz. The lesson sinks in: hard work brings hunger, shortcuts bring glory. Parents notice this shift but often stay silent. Worse still, some encourage it.
Back in the 1990s, families in Benin City, Edo State pushed their daughters to migrate to Italy, knowing many would end up in prostitution. That trade built a reputation for the region that lingers today. Now, the pattern repeats with a modern twist. A son or daughter returns home in a Range Rover, showering their parents with money and no questions follow. Where did it come from? How does a 25-year-old with no business afford this?
The tax authorities should be the ones asking these questions. The Federal Inland Revenue Service exists to ensure citizens and businesses pay what they owe based on their income. State tax agencies play a similar role. Yet, when a story like the Lamborghini lady’s goes viral, they do nothing. No officer knocks on her door to congratulate her on the car and ask how she earned it. They do not check her tax records, bank records or demand proof of her profits.
In a country where tax compliance remains low—Nigeria collects less than 6 percent of its GDP in taxes, compared to over 25 percent in places like South Africa—this inaction stands out. If the tax bodies investigated every loud display of wealth, they could uncover fraud, recover unpaid taxes and send a message. They have the power to work with the police if crimes emerge, but inertia holds them back. Corruption might play a part too—some officials may fear the powerful or prefer bribes over duty.
This failure fails our society. People with questionable money keep flaunting it and the honest keep fading into the background. The youth watching this will not settle for the slow grind of a lawful life. They will chase the fast track and tomorrow’s Nigeria will inherit a generation bolder in dubious activity and more reckless in flaunting ill-acquired wealth than today’s.
Parents bear some blame here. Many parents happily take cash from their children without asking how it was made. A mother might boast that her son or daughter built her a house, ignoring that he/she has no job. If a neighbour raises an eyebrow, she fights back, claiming jealousy. This attitude fuels the problem. Until families demand answers, the cycle will continue.
The solution lies with the tax authorities stepping up. They need to target every public display of wealth that defies explanation. Imagine the Lamborghini lady opening her door to find tax officials saying ‘hello, are you Sophia…’. They ask simple questions: What do you do? How much did you earn last year? What tax did you pay? If her answers falter, they dig deeper. This would not just catch tax dodgers—it would scare others into paying up.
Over time, the fear of a knock from the taxman would quiet the loudest braggarts. Those who cannot explain their wealth, including the political class and elite, might face criminal charges, as the Constitution allows for prosecuting financial crimes against the state.
Citizens have a role too. People should report suspicious wealth around them. That neighbour with three cars and no job? The overnight millionaires and billionaires (They are actually a lot in this country). That so-called “influencer” posting private jet trips with no business to show for it? A quick tip to the FIRS or state tax office could start an investigation. If enough reports pile up, the authorities would have to act. Where evidence points to crime—fraud, theft, or worse—the case could shift to the police or Economic and Financial Crimes Commission. This would not fix everything overnight, but it would plant a seed. Society might start asking questions again: Where did the money come from? Why does it matter?
If the tax bodies do their job, the effect could ripple outward. Honest workers might feel less like fools for staying lawful. Parents might hesitate before praising a child’s unexplained riches. Youth might see that flaunting wealth invites scrutiny, not applause.
Nigeria could begin to heal from this poison that has seeped into its veins. The country has laws to punish tax evasion and crime—Section 24 of the Constitution demands citizens pay taxes, and other statutes criminalise ill-gotten gains. The tools exist; only the will lags.
Hushpuppi’s downfall in Dubai proved that unchecked wealth eventually meets its match when authorities care enough to look. In Nigeria, that care remains missing.
The Lamborghini lady’s story, like countless others, fades into the noise of celebration rather than inquiry. Until the FIRS and state tax boards wake up, the honest will toil in silence, the dishonest will shine, and the young will follow the wrong path. It does not have to stay this way. Citizens can demand action—report the questionable, pressure the authorities, and refuse to cheer the unearned. Tax enforcement can shift the tide, but only if it starts now. Nigeria deserves a society that values sweat over swagger, and it falls on everyone to make that happen. Many parents happily take cash from their children without asking how it was made. A mother might boast that her son or daughter built her a house, ignoring that he/she has no job. If a neighbour raises an eyebrow, she fights back, claiming jealousy. This attitude fuels the problem. Until families demand answers, the cycle will continue.
