✅ By Stanley Nwosu ✍️
On 1st October 2025, Nigeria marked its 65th Independence Anniversary with the usual pride and pageantry. Top government officials and eminent Nigerians delivered inspiring speeches and gathered at different platforms to discuss Nigeria’s journey since independence and the way forward. The green-white-green flag fluttered across villages and cities; patriotic hymns echoed in all States. Yet behind the celebrations lies a sobering truth: while Nigeria has grown into Africa’s most populous nation—and one of the most populous in the world—we are still unsure of the true number of people we are celebrating.
This is not just about figures. It is about the faces behind the numbers—the schoolchildren in crowded classrooms, the farmers cultivating shrinking farmlands, the young people streaming into congested cities in search of opportunity. At 65, Nigeria faces an urgent national riddle: how many people are we really planning for, where do they live, and how are their lives faring?
When Nigeria hoisted its flag in 1960, the country’s population stood at about 45 million people. A youthful, energetic nation, brimming with possibilities. Just three years later, the 1963 Census put the figure at 55.66 million. This surge spoke of promise: human capital to drive industry, agriculture, and innovation.
By the 1970s, the oil boom swept across the land, flooding national coffers with petrodollars as the population swelled further.
The 1973 Census—though later cancelled—put the figure at 79.76 million Nigerians.
Meanwhile, towns were already straining under rural–urban migration. Lagos, once a modest coastal town, was becoming an unstoppable megacity.
But census-taking soon became a casualty of Nigeria’s political uncertainties. The supposed 1983 headcount never happened. There was no constitutional requirement to hold one every decade, so population planning drifted into guesswork—and policymaking into blind spots.
It wasn’t until 1991 that another official census was conducted, putting the figure at 89 million. The 1990s, however, were marred by political crisis and military rule. Fertility rates stayed high, but strategic planning faltered.
In 2006, the last conducted census exercise finally took place: Nigeria’s official population was declared at 140 million. That was almost 20 years ago. Since then, the country’s population have grown in their millions—but only through estimates and projections.
Today, National Population Commission (NPC), the body with the Constitutional mandate to conduct censuses in Nigeria, projects Nigeria’s population at 232 million. The United Nations places it at over 237 million. Other sources tip the figure towards 240 million. The range itself is the problem: we are running a nation of uncertainties, balancing budgets and policies on projections that could be off by tens of millions.
For education, this means classrooms built for 40 students often host 120. For healthcare, hospitals meant for a town of 50,000 find themselves serving 300,000. For housing, the deficit grows wider while slums multiply. For democracy, voter registration becomes a guessing game.
Worst of all, population has become political. Numbers carry weight in allocating national revenue and parliamentary seats, often sparking suspicions of manipulation or regional advantage.
In a country as diverse and competitive as Nigeria, mistrust of numbers threatens not just planning but trust in governance itself.
Behind every digit lies a person with needs and aspirations. A census is not just about counting heads; it is about understanding lives. How many households lack clean water? How many young mothers give birth without medical care? How many farmers migrate each year, and to where?
Nigeria’s population is young—more than half under 30. Properly harnessed, this demographic wave could power industries, innovation, and continental leadership. Poorly understood, it could become a ticking time bomb of unemployment, insecurity, and unrest.
The difference between these two possibilities is data. Reliable, credible, transparent data.
Conducting a national census is not a luxury; it is the foundation of development. The upcoming first digital Population and Housing Census would give policymakers the evidence to build enough schools, hospitals, and roads where they are truly needed and guide private sector investors with clear insights into markets and populations. It would also strengthen democratic representation and fair revenue sharing as well as bolster Nigeria’s standing as a continental leader, setting an example of accountability and transparency.
At 65, Nigeria is no longer a young country searching for identity—it is a maturing giant seeking stability, dignity, and global influence. To plan its future, it must first see itself clearly. And that clarity comes only from a credible and acceptable census.
Nigeria’s independence anniversary is more than a reminder of past struggles; it’s a mirror reflecting our present responsibilities. Development does not begin with oil wells or gas pipelines. It begins with people—their numbers, their conditions, their locations, their hopes.
To count the people is to count progress. To ignore this task is to gamble with the very foundations of the nation’s future.
As the first biometric census approaches, Nigeria has the chance to replace guesses with facts, suspicions with trust, and blind wandering with purposeful planning.
At 65, Nigeria must make a bold choice: to step into the light of accurate data, or to remain stumbling in the dark. Because no nation can plan adequately in the shadows of uncertainty.
Long live the Federal Republic of Nigeria!
Happy 65th Independence Anniversary, Nigeria 🇳🇬
—Stanley Onyeka Nwosu, mnipr, a Communication Strategist, Political Economist, and Development Expert, is the NPC New Media Manager.
