By Kachi Okezie, Esq.
There is a certain pride that swells in Abuja every time the Central Bank announces another record for diaspora remittances. Twenty billion dollars. Twenty-four billion dollars. The headlines write themselves. “Lifeline.” “Record-breaking.” “Largest inflow in Africa.” “Nigerians abroad to the rescue.”
On the surface, it is understandable. For millions of families, that money is school fees, hospital bills, rent and rice. For the government, it is foreign exchange that props up the naira and eases pressure on reserves. For the diaspora, it is proof of love, duty and sacrifice.
And yet, in 2026, we must ask a harder question: what happens when the country that is applauding the gesture starts to look like the country that is boasting about other people’s sacrifice?
This is relevant because the world outside has changed. And the microphone we use to celebrate remittances is now being heard in places that are not cheering.
Across the United States, parts of Europe, and increasingly in state capitals, a new political mood has taken hold. It is not about trade deficits or GDP anymore. It is about who is here, who is taking from us and sending what out, and why.
In Florida, the Governor has already floated the idea of stopping those in the US illegally from sending money home at all. The argument is blunt: people are coming to “work under the table” and then shipping earnings abroad. If you cut off the remittance, you cut off the incentive, do the logic goes.
At the federal level, the debate has moved from rhetoric to law. A 1 per cent excise tax on remittances paid with cash, money orders or cashier’s cheques has been introduced. Bank transfers and card payments are exempt for now, but the principle is established: the act of sending money home can be taxed, policed and framed as a policy problem. That is what is troubling.
Officials in Washington will tell you it is about revenue and immigration control. Critics will tell you it is about something older: a sense that money is “leaving” and not “staying” in the country. Either way, the door has been opened; the foundation laid.
This is why the way we talk about remittances back home matters so much. When a finance minister announces a new record inflow with the same tone used to announce oil revenue gains, it plays well domestically. But abroad, in the age of viral clips and right-wing talk radio, it can be clipped, captioned and used as evidence. Evidence that migrants are “draining” host economies. Evidence that whole countries are being kept afloat by workers in Detroit, Houston, Manchester and Milan.
The risk is not that remittances will stop tomorrow. People will always send money to their mothers, brothers and sisters. But the risk is that the channels will be narrowed, the costs will rise and the political cover for doing so will grow.
A remittance tax starts at 1 per cent. Tomorrow it can be 3 per cent. It starts with cash transfers. Tomorrow it can include digital wallets. It starts by targeting those without work authorisation. Tomorrow the definition of “eligible sender” can be expanded. Once the machinery for tracking and taxing exists, it is easy to expand.
There is a second risk, less spoken about. When we boast too loudly about inflows, we accidentally signal dependence. We tell investors, rating agencies, and our own citizens that the plan for foreign exchange is not productivity, not manufacturing, not exports: it is Uncle Tunde in Dallas and Aunt Chinwe in Dalston.
That is dangerous economics and worse politics. Because the moment a host country decides to squeeze the tap, even a little, the pain is felt instantly in Lagos, Enugu and Kano. And we will have no one to blame but ourselves for building a model that celebrated the symptom instead of curing the disease. So what should Nigeria do?
First, change the language. Celebrate the diaspora, yes. But celebrate them as investors, founders and partners; not just as ATMs. The story should be: “Our people abroad are building housing estates in Ogun, funding clinics in Imo and backing tech startups in Yaba.” That is much harder to tax or to demonise than “they sent $25bn for consumption.”
Second, make formal channels irresistible. The new US rules already exempt debit cards and bank transfers. The CBN, fintechs and banks should race to cut fees, speed up settlement and give diaspora Nigerians investment products they can’t get elsewhere. Diaspora bonds, real estate trusts, SME funds. If the money comes in as capital rather than just cash, it is both more resilient and more respectable.
Third, do the quiet diplomacy. Through NIDCOM, through embassies, through the millions of Nigerians who vote in those host countries. The case must be made, patiently, that remittances are not a loss to the host. They reduce demand for welfare, they pay for education and healthcare and they create markets for goods exported back. A Ghanaian nurse in London sending money to Accra is also buying British pharmaceuticals. A Nigerian Uber driver in Chicago sending money to Ibadan is paying US taxes first.
And finally, fix the home front. The best defence against a remittance tax is to need remittances less. That sounds harsh, but it is true. Every dollar earned from non-oil exports, every factory that opens in Aba, every megawatt that stays on, is a dollar of leverage we keep.
This is not a call for ingratitude. The diaspora deserves every commendation we can give. They are keeping families alive in a tough economy. But gratitude and strategy are not the same thing. Gratitude shouts, but strategy whispers.
In a world tilting toward anti-migrant sentiment, shouting about how much money is leaving other countries and arriving here is a luxury we can no longer afford. The applause we seek should not be for the size of the inflow. It should be for what we do with it once it lands.
The moment remittances become a political target abroad, the only thing that will save us is having built something at home that no foreign legislature can touch.
Kachi Okezie, Esq is a legal practitioner and co-founder of the Nigeria Diaspora Investment Summit (NDIS).
