The Curious Social Calendar of Aso Rock

with Lanre Alfred

There is, in the great arena of Nigerian high society, a new currency more coveted than vintage champagne at a Banana Island soirée, and more prized than front-row seats at a billionaire’s daughter’s wedding in Lake Como.

It is the much coveted presidential greeting. Not a handshake, not an audience, not even a photograph, just a carefully worded message from the Commander-in-Chief, embossed with the authority of the state and released into the social ether like a blessing from Olympus.

And how our glittering class adores it.

One cannot entirely blame them. In a country where proximity to power is both perfume and passport, a nod from the presidency, however ceremonial, confers a peculiar glow. It says, without saying too much, that one has arrived, that one’s ascent has not gone unnoticed in the corridors where decisions are made and destinies, occasionally, rearranged. It is the ultimate social endorsement, the sort that requires no explanation but invites endless speculation.

Yet, somewhere between the cake-cutting and the champagne toasts, between the glossy society pages and the carefully curated Instagram tributes, a question lingers, increasingly difficult to ignore: when did the Nigerian presidency become so… socially available?

Under President Bola Ahmed Tinubu, the art of the presidential greeting has not merely persisted, it has flourished, blossoming into what can only be described, with all due respect, as a full-fledged social institution. Birthdays, anniversaries, memorials, corporate milestones—there appears to be no significant occasion in the upper echelons of Nigerian life that cannot be dignified, or perhaps amplified, by a message from the Villa.

It is, on the surface, a charming gesture. Who, after all, begrudges a man his kind words? Who objects to civility, to acknowledgment, to the simple grace of recognition?

But governance, like style, is as much about restraint as it is about expression. And therein lies the discomfort.

Because the presidency is not merely an office; it is an idea. It is the distilled symbol of a nation’s authority, its seriousness of purpose, its sense of proportion. It is meant to hover above the fray, not float gently through the social calendar like a well-dressed guest who never quite leaves the party.

There was a time, perhaps more imagined than real, but no less instructive, when the aura of the presidency derived from its distance. It spoke sparingly, and when it did, the nation listened. Its words were reserved for matters of consequence: crises, triumphs, transitions. A presidential message was not something one casually appended to a birthday brochure; it was an event in itself.

Today, that hierarchy of significance appears, shall we say, more fluid.

In certain circles, those rooms where deals are discussed over crystal and legacy is measured in square footage, it has become almost expected that a milestone celebration will attract presidential attention. Not guaranteed, of course, but anticipated in the way one anticipates a particularly good vintage at dinner: hoped for, quietly arranged for, and triumphantly displayed when it arrives.

One begins to hear, in hushed but knowing tones, conversations that suggest an entire ecosystem has evolved around this ritual. Discreet facilitators, well-connected intermediaries, men and women who understand the choreography of access and the language of influence. Nothing so crude as an “industry,” certainly but enough to suggest that these greetings do not always emerge from spontaneous presidential reflection.

Of course, one must be careful not to overstate what cannot be conclusively proven. The Presidency, like all institutions of power, has its protocols, its internal processes, its own logic. It is entirely plausible, indeed, officially so, that these messages are products of diligent staff work, carefully vetted and routinely dispatched as part of a broader communications strategy.

And yet, perception is a stubborn thing. To the average Nigerian, who encounters these greetings not as curated gestures of goodwill but as a steady stream of elite affirmation, the optics can be, at best, perplexing. At worst, they suggest a presidency that is unusually attentive to the private joys of the privileged, even as public anxieties continue to mount.

This is not, it must be said, a uniquely Nigerian phenomenon in origin. Ceremonial greetings have existed in various forms across administrations, a polite nod to the country’s culture of celebration and respect. But what was once occasional now feels almost habitual, what was once rare now borders on routine.

And routine, when applied to symbols of authority, has consequences.

Consider, for a moment, the contrast with other presidential cultures. In countries such as the United States or the United Kingdom, different histories, certainly, but comparable in their attachment to institutional gravitas, the head of state is conspicuously sparing in personal acknowledgments. Messages are reserved for national moments, collective milestones, or individuals whose contributions have achieved undeniable public significance.

The presidency there is less a participant in society and more its distant observer, stepping in only when the moment demands a voice larger than the sum of its parts.

Nigeria, by contrast, has always blurred the lines between the political and the social, the official and the personal. Ours is a culture that values connection, that celebrates visibility, that finds meaning in recognition. There is, in that, something deeply human, even admirable.

But there is also a risk. For when the highest office in the land becomes a regular feature in private celebrations, however tastefully executed, it begins, almost imperceptibly, to shrink. Not in power, certainly, but in perception. It becomes familiar in a way that power is not meant to be familiar, accessible in a way that authority is not meant to be accessible.

It risks, in other words, being mistaken for something it is not: a social accessory.

One sees this most clearly in the way these greetings are received and displayed. They are framed, circulated, amplified, sometimes even printed alongside event programs as though they were part of the décor. They become conversation pieces, markers of status, subtle declarations that one’s life intersects, however briefly, with the machinery of the state.

And perhaps that is the point. Because in a society where visibility is currency and proximity is power, the presidency’s voice, no matter how ceremonial, carries immense symbolic weight. To be acknowledged is to be elevated; to be named is to be noted.

But what happens when that elevation becomes commonplace? What happens when the extraordinary becomes expected?

We have, in recent memory, witnessed the gradual erosion of other national symbols. Honors that once signified rare achievement now circulate with a generosity that invites raised eyebrows. Titles that once commanded reverence now occasionally provoke polite skepticism. The danger is not that these institutions disappear, but that they persist in diminished form, present, but less potent.

The presidency, one would hope, remains immune to such dilution.

And yet, immunity is not a given; it is a discipline. It requires a certain austerity, a willingness to say no even when saying yes would be easier, more popular, more immediately gratifying. It requires an understanding that power is not merely exercised, it is curated, protected from overexposure, and preserved in its most meaningful expressions.

President Tinubu, a man of undeniable political instinct and long-honed strategic acumen, is surely aware of the symbolic dimensions of his office. He understands, perhaps better than most, that leadership is as much about what one withholds as what one offers.

Which is why this current enthusiasm for presidential greetings feels, at times, like an uncharacteristic indulgence.

Not a scandal, certainly. Not even, in the grand scheme of governance, a primary concern. But a telling detail, a small window into how power chooses to present itself, and to whom.

Because every message sent carries, implicitly, a message received. And when those messages appear to cluster around a particular segment of society: the affluent, the connected, and the already visible, it inevitably raises questions about balance, about focus, about the quiet hierarchies of attention.

It is not that the wealthy should be ignored, nor that their milestones are unworthy of acknowledgment. Far from it. A nation is, after all, the sum of its parts, and its elite plays a role, sometimes constructive, sometimes less so, in shaping its trajectory.

But the presidency must belong, in both spirit and practice, to everyone. Its voice must resonate not only in banquet halls and boardrooms, but in the less glamorous spaces where the majority of Nigerians live their lives, spaces where birthdays pass without fanfare, where anniversaries are marked in modest ways, where survival itself is often the only milestone worth noting.

In such a context, the steady stream of elite-focused greetings can feel, if not exclusionary, then at least unbalanced. A reminder that visibility, even in the eyes of the state, is not evenly distributed.

And so we return to the central tension: not between right and wrong, but between proportion and perception.

There is nothing inherently improper about a president extending goodwill. Indeed, a certain warmth can humanize power, making it less forbidding, more approachable. But warmth, like sunlight, must be measured. Too little, and everything withers; too much, and distinctions blur.

The Nigerian presidency does not need to be cold. But it does need to be careful.

Careful not to become so entangled in the rhythms of high society that it forgets the cadence of the broader nation. Careful not to allow gestures of courtesy to accumulate into a pattern that invites misinterpretation. Careful, above all, to preserve the quiet dignity that gives its words their weight.

Because in the end, a presidential message should mean something. It should carry, within its carefully chosen phrases, a sense of occasion that transcends the immediate, that speaks not just to the individual being celebrated but to the nation that is watching.

When every occasion becomes presidential, the presidency itself risks becoming merely occasional.

And that, in a country as complex and demanding as Nigeria, is a luxury we can ill afford.

Perhaps it is time, then, for a gentle recalibration. Not a dramatic withdrawal from civility, but a more discerning application of it. A recognition that the power of acknowledgement lies not in its frequency, but in its selectivity.

Let the birthdays be celebrated, the anniversaries toasted, the milestones marked, as they should be, in a society that values joy and connection. But let the presidency, that rare and restless institution, reclaim a measure of its distance, its discretion, and deliberate silence.

In that silence resides its strength. And in that strength, the possibility that when it does truly speak, the nation will once again feel the full weight of its voice.