Last week, controversy erupted in Nigeria following the Federal Capital Territory Minister, Nyesom Wike’s announcement that the iconic International Conference Centre (ICC) in Abuja had been renamed the Bola Ahmed Tinubu International Conference Centre. The move instantly sparked widespread public criticism, largely because the facility was originally built in 1991 under the military regime of General Ibrahim Babangida at a cost of $24 million, while Tinubu only oversaw a recent renovation in 2025 that allegedly gulped a staggering $39 billion.

The renaming sparked swift condemnation on social media and among political commentators, with many questioning both the justification for the extravagant renovation cost and the President’s repeated decision to name national infrastructure after himself.

A Pattern of Presidential Self-Glorification?

Investigative journalist Fisayo Soyombo voiced his concern in a viral post listing at least six major institutions that have been named after Tinubu in just two years of his presidency. These include:

• Bola Ahmed Tinubu Barracks, Abuja

• Bola Ahmed Tinubu Technology Innovation Complex, Abuja

• Bola Tinubu Polytechnic, Abuja

• Bola Ahmed Tinubu Way, Abuja

• Senator Bola Ahmed Tinubu Building (National Assembly Library)

• Bola Ahmed Tinubu International Conference Centre (formerly ICC)

Soyombo jokingly remarked that at this rate, the ruling party itself might soon be renamed to the Bola Tinubu Progressives Congress, highlighting what many perceive as a growing obsession with personal legacy over national interest.

Wike’s Defense: “We Have Taste”

In response to the public uproar, Wike mounted a spirited defense, asserting that critics simply lack appreciation for excellence. He insisted that apart from the concrete structure, every component of the centre had been upgraded.

“The only thing left untouched was the block work,” Wike said. “Everything else was modernized to reflect our vision of Nigeria as the true Giant of Africa.”

He dismissed concerns about naming the ICC after Tinubu rather than Babangida, saying:

“Nnamdi Azikiwe International Airport was not built by Azikiwe. Moshood Abiola Stadium was not built by Abiola. So, what’s the big deal?”

However, his comparison fell flat for many observers who noted a key difference: those earlier naming decisions honoured others—not the incumbent leaders themselves.

Wike further tried to justify the hefty price tag by alluding to currency depreciation over the decades. But critics were quick to point out a glaring flaw in his argument.

Dollar Is Dollar: Why Exchange Rate Arguments Miss the Mark

The renovation and original construction costs were both expressed in U.S. dollars—meaning exchange rate fluctuations between the naira and dollar have no bearing here. That alone undermines Wike’s rationale.

To put things into perspective:
In 1991, a bottle of Coca-Cola in the U.S. averaged about $1. Today, it costs around $2—an increase of 100%. Likewise, a gallon of milk went from $2.50 to about $5. General inflation in the U.S. reflects a 100% increase in prices over this 34-year span.

Applying standard inflation rates to the ICC’s original $24 million construction cost, the equivalent value in 2025 dollars would be roughly $55.6 million—not $39 billion. Even if the renovation cost had quadrupled to $100 million, it might have been defensible given modern upgrades. But $39 billion? That figure defies logic and invites deeper scrutiny.

Public Discontent Amid National Hardship

At a time when millions of Nigerians are grappling with skyrocketing food prices, poor electricity supply, underfunded schools, and dilapidated hospitals, the lavish renovation of a single conference facility seems tone-deaf.

Worse still, this project joins a growing list of state-funded luxuries for the political class, including renovations of government residences, extravagant vehicle fleets, and the continued maintenance of a bloated presidential convoy. These expenditures contradict the administration’s frequent calls for public austerity and sacrifice.

Many citizens are asking: if the people are expected to tighten their belts, why are those in power expanding theirs?

Self-Naming: A Dangerous Political Tradition

The attempt to draw parallels between Tinubu’s actions and past naming decisions, like the Nnamdi Azikiwe Airport or Moshood Abiola Stadium, fails on a fundamental level. In those cases, monuments were named posthumously or to honour revered figures—never by those in power naming structures after themselves.

Naming public institutions after oneself while in office reeks of egotism. It shifts focus from nation-building to legacy-polishing. Worse still, it entrenches the culture of self-worship that has long plagued many African governments.

The concern is not just about names—it’s about the mindset. A leader more focused on immortalizing himself than delivering life-changing reforms sends the wrong message to a struggling population.

Legacy Beyond Concrete and Steel

True legacies aren’t built through plaques or signposts. History remembers leaders who enact transformational change—who fight poverty, build resilient institutions, ensure justice, and uplift the most vulnerable. These are the deeds that etch names into the hearts of future generations.

Even long after their deaths, great leaders are remembered not because they named stadiums or highways after themselves, but because of their visible, lasting impact. That’s the kind of legacy books, documentaries, and future leaders will celebrate.

If President Tinubu truly aims to leave his mark on Nigeria, his focus must shift from symbolism to substance—from architecture to action.