What’s In A Name? The Politics Of Renaming In Nigeria

By OLUFUNKE BARUWA

IN Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet, Juliet asks, “What’s in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.” Yet in Nigeria’s socio-political context, names are neither neutral nor fragrant. They are battlegrounds of memory, politics, and identity, tools in the hands of those who wield power, often repurposed to erase, reward, or redirect historical legacies.

In many African cultures, names are far more than labels; they carry deep meaning, history, and identity. A name often reflects the circumstances of birth, ancestral heritage, spiritual beliefs, or the hopes and values of a community. Naming is a communal act, rooted in oral traditions and cultural continuity, where a person’s name connects them to their lineage, society, and destiny. To alter or erase a name carelessly is, therefore, to sever ties with memory and meaning, an act that carries emotional and cultural weight far beyond administrative convenience.

The rampant renaming of public institutions, roads, and landmarks across Nigeria is more than a ceremonial act; it is a deliberate political strategy. And as the dust settles on each renaming spree, one truth becomes clear: it is not always about honour, it is often about ego.

This phenomenon is not new, but its pace and purpose have become more troubling. Politicians, especially towards the end of their tenure or on symbolic dates, unveil renaming gestures that serve their political interests. They rebrand hospitals, airports, universities, and streets not necessarily to honour national heroes or heroines, but to curry favour, massage egos, or inscribe their political tribe onto the fabric of national memory.

In many instances, these acts overwrite the legacies of people who have earned their place in Nigeria’s sands of time, like Charles “Charly Boy” Oputa, whose contributions to youth activism, civic engagement, and social commentary remain unmatched, yet unacknowledged in public spaces. Rather, a bus stop, formerly named after him in Lagos decades ago, has now been renamed after someone else.

Naming as Power

Names are not neutral labels; rather, they are signifiers of power and identity. In renaming an institution, those in authority assert the right to define national values and narratives. It’s a symbolic act that says: this is who we honour, and by extension, who we forget. Whether it’s an airport suddenly renamed after a political ally, or a university rebranded to reflect the legacy of a former leader, these decisions communicate who gets remembered and who gets erased.

In June 2023, for instance, the Nigerian federal government renamed over 15 major airports across the country. While the justifications ranged from “honouring statesmen” to “recognising contributions,” the selections were lopsided, politically expedient, and glaringly devoid of consultation. Critics rightly questioned why these choices often ignored cultural icons, human rights defenders, and social activists who have contributed to the country’s moral and civic development in non-political ways.

The Politics of Attribution

There are many Nigerians, dead and alive, whose names deserves to adorn national monuments and edifices. However, many of them never get the honour. Why are there no cultural centres, streets, or civic monuments bearing the names of ordinary and extraordinary Nigerian men and women who have flown the flag high without the pedestal of public or political office?

This answer sends a clear message to future generations: that loyalty to the political class is more valuable than service to the people. That activism, commerce, music, innovation, technological and academic achievements are not worth commemorating. That only those who serve the state, rather than challenge it, deserve a place in history.

And so, we must ask: whose memory matters in Nigeria? When a university is renamed after a former president, is it because of the institution’s alignment with his educational vision, or is it a convenient way to enshrine a political legacy? When an International Conference Centre in the nation’s capital, predating the current administration and the ones before them, is named after the current President, whose legacy is being solidified? When streets in Abuja or Lagos are renamed after living politicians, does it reflect the will of the people or the vanity of the elite? This pattern not only distorts public memory; it weaponises it.

At the heart of this trend lies a hunger for attribution. In a system where institutions are weak and public trust is low; politicians crave symbolic gestures to affirm their relevance. Naming rights become a form of political currency, a way to claim ownership over national achievements or public infrastructure, even when their role in its creation or success is minimal or non-existent.

This was evident in the renaming of the National Stadium, Abuja, to the MKO Abiola Stadium. While Chief MKO Abiola’s contributions to democracy are significant, many asked: why was a sports infrastructure chosen as the tribute, rather than a civic or democratic institution? And more crucially, why did the renaming come decades after his death, only when it became politically convenient?

A Call for Democratic Naming

The process of renaming public institutions should not be the preserve of a few powerful individuals. It should involve wide consultation, cultural sensitivity, and a clear rationale rooted in merit, not sentiment. We need a national policy on naming that codifies criteria for honours: civic contribution, integrity, national impact, and representation of the people’s values.

Such a framework would allow us to celebrate not just politicians, but teachers, artists, scientists, activists, athletes, and entrepreneurs. It would open space for women, young people, people with disabilities and minority groups who have long been excluded from the national narrative. Imagine a “Funmilayo Ransome-Kuti Civic Centre,” “a Chimamanda Adichie Library,” “a Gambo Sawaba Monument,” or a “Ken Saro-Wiwa Environmental Institute.” These would not just be names, they would be statements of national identity and aspiration.

There are countless Nigerians who have shaped the country’s conscience. Fela Anikulapo Kuti challenged military tyranny with music. Gani Fawehinmi fought legal battles for human rights. Dora Akunyili reformed a corrupt drug regulatory system. Amina Mohammed shines so brightly as the Deputy Secretary General at the United Nations. Hauwa Ibrahim defended the most vulnerable with courage. Their lives offer a broader and more inclusive understanding of national contribution.

To continue renaming institutions solely after ex-presidents, governors, or traditional rulers is to ignore the rich diversity of Nigeria’s civic landscape. It creates a narrow history, devoid of the very people who have kept the idea of Nigeria alive through their defiance, creativity, and resilience.

Restoring Meaning to Memory

“What’s in a name?” In Nigeria, everything. Names are the vessels through which we pass on legacy, signal values, and shape collective memory. The incessant, politically motivated renaming of public institutions is not just a distraction; it is a distortion. It privileges power over principle, patronage over merit, and erasure over inclusion.

We must demand a more just and democratic approach to national remembrance, one that acknowledges all who have contributed to the making of Nigeria, not just those who have occupied its highest offices. The recognition of diverse individuals across Nigeria is a call for fairness. It is a reminder that Nigeria’s greatness lies not in the grandeur of its politicians, but in the courage of its people.

If we truly want a nation that values service, activism, and conscience, then we must rethink how we name and whom we honour.