Time to Curb Naija’s “Do You Know Who I Am?” Syndrome -Hilary Damissah

In nearly every sphere of our national life as Nigerians, wielding influence and power has virtually promoted anomalies that have derailed the structures in our society. Hilary Damissah, a Public Affairs commentator, in this piece, captures how the syndromic virus of “Do you know who I am?” has trickled down nearly every strata of the society, becoming a quiet epidemic that touches institutions from hospitals to schools, markets to motor parks.

I guess many of us have often heard that question at different times. “Do you know who I am?” That assertive tonality, that display of status, that demonstration of class or entitlement. It’s a phrasal anomaly we’ve heard too often in Nigeria our dear country. It’s almost now a recurrent cliché at places like airports, banks, hotel lobbies, restaurants, traffic stops, and schools and so on. It’s often more than just a question; most times a threat. It has become an audacious way to flex ones social class. A sort of warning and allusive inference as though to justify the thematic preoccupation of George Orwell’s “Animal Farm” that all animals are not equal.

Over the years, the subject matter has metamorphosed from one form of slang to another, yet retaining its tenacious grip on our national psyche and moral value. Too often even our language has reflected this norm. So much so that we invented terms like: “Long leg”, “Man know man”, “Connection”, “Oga at the top”, “Man wen sabi” and so on and so forth.

It explains the stratification of today’s Nigerian society that rules are for some people and not for everyone. Oftentimes when I hear it, I feel something twist inside me — frustration, yes, but also fear for the future of a nation where power is constantly misused to bend justice and break process.

The symptom is prevalent

Once, at a government office in Abuja, I watched a middle-aged man in a crisp kaftan walk past a queue of over 40 people. No identity card, no scheduled appointment, just swagger. He muttered something to the clerk — who promptly abandoned the rest of us — and walked him in like royalty. When a young woman tried to complain, another voice behind us said, “Shhh… that’s a big man. He knows people.”

There it was. The virus we’ve normalized: status over system. I’ve often asked myself, what really makes someone important in Nigeria? Is it public service or private greed? Is it competence or connection? In many cases, it’s neither. It’s the perceived power to break rules and get away with it.

This “Do you know who I am?” syndrome of superiority is a reflection of the decay in our collective national value system and lack of respect for orderliness, civility and regards for a structured system. It is about time we confronted this anomaly of a syndrome that has infested our national psyche. It is choking merit, destroying institutions, and breeding inequality in ways we are too afraid to admit.

For anyone who has ever visited public institutions where civic services are delivered, it is apparent that our system is one that negates a truly egalitarian society. And until we fix issues like this to entrench merit and value processes over personality — Nigeria cannot truly change.

The “Do you know who I am?” syndrome isn’t just about a sentence — it’s a mindset. One that says rules are flexible for some, that identity and access are more powerful than merit, and that social status trumps collective order. It’s the subtle (and not-so-subtle) use of influence to sidestep respect for rules and order, structure and a demand for unearned privilege.

We see this pervasive attitude every day in different instances. A motorcade breezing through red lights while ordinary citizens swelter in traffic. A senator’s nephew getting priority treatment at the emergency room while a farmer’s son bleeds out in the corridor. A senior civil servant’s child skipping the JAMB queue because “his mother works at the Ministry.” It doesn’t just stop at power — it trickles down to anyone who feels even slightly more connected, more privileged, or more “above” others. Even at burial ceremonies, VIPs arrive and expect others to stand — not for the dead, but for their ego. It is as bad as that.

You don’t have to be a governor’s son or a business tycoon to carry the virus. You just have to believe that your “link,” your tribe, your uniform, your accent, or your job title gives you more rights than your neighbor. In that moment, you become a symptom of a bigger disease — a society where fairness is optional and rules are negotiable.

In countries where systems work, the law is the great equalizer. Perhaps compared to our abused system, in the United States of America, only veterans who prove so with their veteran card enjoy the kind of privileges that we so blatantly abuse in our cline where the law often waits at the gate while someone makes a phone call.

This syndrome turns public service into private advantage. It turns law enforcement into a tool for intimidation. It turns citizens into bystanders in a democracy they are supposed to own. And the worst part? We’ve learnt to accept it. We’ve learnt to fear it. Some have even learnt to aspire to it.

Numbers they say don’t lie.

Sadly, this mentality has passed from generation to generation — like an heirloom of dysfunction. We didn’t just inherit corruption; we inherited a mindset that public office is personal property. And unless we interrogate our past, we risk repeating it — louder, bolder, and even more entitled.

Figures from international organizations have clearly shown that our respect for due process and transparency remains highly questionable largely due to the inimical “Man know man” system of doing things often pervasively wielded by those at the top. People entrusted with power and position, who stealthily make public resources and justice a private playground.

Let me begin with the hard numbers: In 2024, Nigeria scored 26 out of 100 on Transparency International’s Corruption Perceptions Index (CPI), landing us in 140th place out of 180 countries. It was a minor rise from 145th in 2023, when our score was 25. Though marginal, this shift still leaves us well below the global average of 43, while the sub-Saharan African average is 33. Our ranking paints a graphic imagery of perverted institutions such that courts, parliaments, and ministries are not places for “fairness” but rather avenues for manipulation and favoritism.

Consider this: A 2024 Chatham House study revealed that 61% of Nigerian households believe judges are likely to take bribes to influence verdicts. Even worse, 74% and 78% of respondents suspect corruption among procurement officials and contractors diverts public contract funds.

According to the 2021 NOI Polls, 52% of Nigerians said they were asked to pay a bribe by a police officer. In many cases, whether you’re charged or released isn’t about guilt or innocence — it’s about who you know. The same goes for our courts. A 2022 report by the United Nations Office on Drugs and Crime (UNODC) found that almost one in four Nigerians who had contact with the justice system paid a bribe to speed up or influence their case.

In nearly every sphere of national life, wielding influence and power have virtually promoted anomalies that have derailed the structures in our society. When those at the top bend rules and flout consequences, the trickle-down effect distorts society’s moral compass. If the elite can trade justice for influence, where does that leave the taxi driver—who’s stopped for a bribe—or the unemployed graduate—who’s told to “use your Oga”?

Connection circumvents process.

Just a few months ago, I was at the Muritala Muhammed Airport in Lagos. The queue at the security checkpoint was long, and tempers were rising under the heat. Suddenly, a young man in a designer tracksuit appeared from nowhere, cut through the queue, and whispered something to a FAAN staff. Before you knew it, he was escorted straight through. As people began to protest, someone muttered, “His father is a senior custom’s officer. Let it go.”

These seeming small acts of impunity are not small at all. They’re seeds. Seeds that grow into a society where fairness dies slowly. Where children learn early that being right isn’t enough — you must be connected. Where breaking rules becomes a flex, and following them makes you look weak or foolish.

Worst of all many Nigerians aspire to this. We excuse it when it benefits us. We envy those who can do it. We normalize it, not realizing we are the ones carrying the infection.

Every time someone pulls strings to bypass the law or jump the queue, they may win in the moment — but we all lose in the long run. Because slowly and surely, the “Do you know who I am?” syndrome is hollowing out our institutions and widening the gap between the privileged and the rest of us.

How can citizens trust a system where justice is for sale? How can a country thrive when laws are bent by status and not upheld by principle? What hope does a bright but poor child in Okitipupa or Okirika have, when the son of a permanent secretary already has a guaranteed slot at a Federal Government College?

This isn’t just about unfairness — it’s about inequality being institutionalized. We’re creating two Nigerias: one where rules apply, and one where they don’t. One where the masses fight for scraps, and another where the elite write their own rules and never face the consequences of breaking them.

Even the civil service — the backbone of any functioning state — is crumbling under the weight of favoritism. Promotions often depend on who signs your file, not how well you serve. Ministries are filled with incompetent or ghost workers because someone up the ladder said “slot am in.”

What happens when institutions no longer work for the people, but for a privileged few? Trust dies. Progress stalls. And ordinary citizens, who play by the rules, are forced to ask themselves: What’s the point?

In the more civilized world, systems don’t work by magic. They work because people, especially leaders, decide to submit to the same rules they impose on others.

Take Singapore for example — a country that went from third-world to first-world in just a few decades. Their former Prime Minister, Lee Kuan Yew, set a tone from the top: zero tolerance for corruption. In 1986, a senior minister was investigated for accepting bribes. Rather than cover it up, the government pursued the case publicly. The result? Today, Singapore ranks 5th globally on Transparency International’s Corruption Index. Nigeria is at 140.

In Sweden, a former minister was forced to resign — not for stealing billions — but for buying a chocolate bar on a government credit card. That’s the level of accountability their system demands. Why? Because public office is seen as a public trust — not a personal upgrade.

Even in the United Kingdom, where power is more centralized, prime ministers are grilled before Parliament. When Boris Johnson’s office broke COVID lockdown rules by holding parties, he didn’t just shrug it off — he faced an internal inquiry, public backlash, and eventually resigned.

These countries are not perfect — but they prove one thing: when systems are respected, even the mighty can be held accountable. When laws are enforced impartially, public trust grows. And when no one is above the rules, justice is not a privilege — it becomes a right.

By contrast, in Nigeria, where public officials accused of looting billions not only stay in office — they get appointed and celebrated. Where former governors facing EFCC charges become senators. Where the powerful get police escorts, and the poor get police extortion. In some instances, when offenders join the ruling party, their sins are automatically forgiven and they may even get presidential clemency.

Nigeria doesn’t lack laws — we lack consequences.

Let’s be honest: the “Do you know who I am?” syndrome didn’t become a national disease overnight. It thrives because we, the people — knowingly or not — have kept feeding it.
We glorify those who break rules and get away with them. We call them “sharp.” We envy their access. In music, in film, even in church, we celebrate wealth without asking questions. Someone arrives in a convoy, and we rush to part the crowd, whispering, “That’s one of them.” We don’t just tolerate impunity — we aspire to it. For many, using connections is the only way to get what you’ve actually earned. Jobs are scarce. Contracts are rigged. Admissions are politicized. When people feel like the system is stacked against them, they find shortcuts — and those shortcuts become normalized.

Obviously, our institutions are too weak to say no. From the police to the judiciary, public servants often act like they serve individuals, not the public. A DPO receives one phone call from a senator and suddenly forgets what the law says. A judge delays a trial for years because “a big man is involved.” And until that changes, even the honest will be tempted to cheat — just to survive.

Imagine a Nigeria where no one’s identity is a trump card. Where queues are sacred. Where merit is celebrated, not circumvented. Where power is a responsibility, not a weapon.

It starts with us — in our homes, workplaces, streets, and government offices. It starts when we refuse to give way to arrogance and entitlement. When we demand that public servants serve the public, not themselves. If we don’t do this, no amount of policies, committees, or courts will save Nigeria.

Let’s be the generation that said “no” — to impunity, inequality, and injustice. At the heart of this is a choice: to accept the status quo, or to demand a Nigeria where respect, fairness, and justice are for all—not just the powerful few.