By Israel Adebiyi
Penkelemesi traces its roots to Adegoke Adelabu, the colourful Nigerian politician of the 1950s renowned for his sharp wit and powerful oratory. During a heated debate in the Western Region House of Assembly, Adelabu reportedly described the political opposition as a “peculiar mess.” To many in his largely non-literate audience, the phrase was unfamiliar. They rendered its sound into the local vernacular as “penkelemesi,” and the mispronunciation took on a life of its own, eventually becoming a popular nickname closely associated with Adelabu.
Decades later, Fela Anikulapo Kuti drew on this loaded historical reference in his music. True to his tradition of fearless social commentary, Fela repurposed “penkelemesi” as a metaphor for the persistent corruption, chaos and moral decay he believed defined Nigeria’s political order. In doing so, he connected past and present, using Adelabu’s “peculiar mess” to underscore the uncomfortable continuity of Nigeria’s socio-political troubles. This word, I have chosen to adopt for the ongoing “two fighting” in the oil sector.
One of those things I hardly involve myself in is meddling in the business of two fighting. Two fighting is that familiar Nigerian colloquialism for a public quarrel, sometimes verbal, sometimes physical, often unnecessary. Under the Criminal Code Act, challenging another to a duel or engaging in public fighting can earn one to three years in prison. The law, at least, understands how quickly personal disputes can corrode public order.
In Nigeria, however, public figures serve us weekly portions of two fighting, and we consume them whether we ask for it or not. Last week, it was Senators Adams Oshiomhole and Ali Ndume trading words over ambassadorial screenings, a process that increasingly feels like the worst of us was been selected ahead of the best of and the take a bow group sitting in judgment. This week, the arena has shifted. Africa’s richest man, Aliko Dangote, and Engineer Ahmed Farouk, Chief Executive of the Nigerian Midstream and Downstream Petroleum Regulatory Authority, appear to have answered the gladiator’s call.
On the surface, it looks like a clash between a businessman fighting for the survival of his investment and a regulator insisting on enforcing his mandate, even if that mandate still leans heavily on imported products in a country capable of refining its own. Beneath the surface, however, this fight is becoming ugly, personal and deeply revealing. It is beginning to confirm a suspicion many Nigerians quietly hold: that public office holders may not be as different from our politicians as we hope.
There is something deeply unsettling about watching a country sabotage its own lifeboat while still crying about drowning. Nigeria says it wants investors. It says it wants industrialisation. It says it wants to stop importing what it can produce. Yet, when the most ambitious industrial project in its history begins to operate, the system seems unsure whether to nurture it or wrestle it to the ground. The growing conflict between Dangote and Farouk Ahmed has moved far beyond policy disagreement. It has become a stress test for Nigeria’s economic credibility.
When a man builds a farm with borrowed money, clears the land with blistered hands and waters it under a scorching sun, he does not joke with pests. He does not negotiate morality with goats. He builds a fence and stays alert. Dangote is not fighting because he enjoys confrontation. He is fighting because, from his standpoint, the Dangote Refinery is being hemmed in by interests that could quietly suffocate it while claiming to act in the name of regulation.
This refinery was not an accident. It was a deliberate bet on Nigeria. Billions of dollars were committed to a country with a long history of policy reversals and institutional friction. Nigerians were promised energy security, foreign exchange savings and industrial rebirth. Government officials celebrated it. The public applauded it. Then operations began, and the romance ended.
The first crack appeared around crude supply. A refinery without crude is a car without fuel. Dangote complained publicly that despite Nigeria being a crude-producing nation, his refinery struggled to access adequate supply at commercially sensible terms. The irony was painful. Nigeria exports crude cheaply and imports refined products expensively, yet a local refinery asking for crude encountered resistance. That alone raised uncomfortable questions about alignment between national interest and bureaucratic conduct.
Then came the debate over import licences. Dangote argued that issuing fresh licences for fuel imports while a massive local refinery was operational defeated the logic of domestic refining. To him, it was like digging a borehole and still paying water vendors to roam the streets. Farouk Ahmed and the regulator countered with concerns about monopoly, market dominance and the need to preserve competition. On paper, it sounded responsible. In reality, it exposed a deeper contradiction. You do not build competition by weakening production. You do not strengthen markets by privileging imports over local capacity.
As the exchanges intensified, Dangote suggested openly that entrenched interests benefiting from importation were uncomfortable with a refinery that threatened their relevance. It was a bold accusation, implying regulatory capture and institutional bias. Farouk Ahmed rejected this narrative, insisting that the regulator was simply doing its job. He raised concerns about pricing transparency, product quality and market balance. What should have remained a technical conversation quickly turned personal and public.
The aviation fuel episode poured petrol on an already raging fire. Dangote announced local production of jet fuel. Airlines welcomed the prospect. Disputes soon followed over pricing and regulatory approvals. Marketers complained. Regulators stepped in. To outside observers, Nigeria appeared uncertain whether to embrace a solution it had waited decades for.
Then the conflict crossed a dangerous line. Dangote escalated matters with allegations that shook the establishment. He publicly accused Farouk Ahmed of enriching himself through corrupt practices, alleging that the regulator paid about seven million dollars in tuition for his four children schooling in Switzerland. Dangote did not frame these claims as rumours. He presented them as evidence of a compromised system and openly called for Farouk’s investigation and prosecution.
These allegations, whether ultimately proven or disproven, are seismic. They strike directly at the heart of regulatory credibility. A regulator accused of living far beyond visible means while presiding over decisions affecting billions of dollars in investment places the entire system under suspicion. Investors do not wait for court verdicts before adjusting their risk calculations. Perception alone is often enough.
Farouk Ahmed has denied wrongdoing, and it must be stated clearly that allegations remain allegations until proven in a court of law. But governance does not operate only on legal thresholds. It also rests on trust. When the head of a powerful regulatory body is publicly accused by the country’s most prominent industrialist of corruption, silence or procedural deflection is not sufficient. Institutional integrity demands transparent scrutiny, not quiet dismissal.
This is where the matter rises above personalities. If Dangote is right and regulators are compromised, then Nigeria has a grave institutional problem. If Dangote is wrong and is deploying accusations to pressure a regulator, then Nigeria faces a different but equally troubling challenge. In either scenario, the casualty is investor confidence.
Capital is cowardly. It avoids noise, controversy and uncertainty. Investors watching this drama will not spend time judging who is morally superior. They will simply note that Nigeria’s regulatory environment appears volatile and personalised. They will ask whether success here attracts oversight or ambush.
The conflict also exposes Nigeria’s uneasy relationship with scale and power. Dangote is wealthy, influential and unapologetic. That combination inspires admiration in some quarters and resentment in others. There is a temptation to cut powerful figures down to size, even when their success aligns with national goals. But serious countries learn to manage powerful investors, not antagonise them.
There is also the uncomfortable truth that the downstream oil sector has long been sustained by importation rents. A functional refinery threatens that ecosystem. It disrupts old arrangements, political alliances and economic habits. Resistance was inevitable. The tragedy would be allowing that resistance to dictate national policy.
President Bola Tinubu cannot afford to be a distant observer. His administration has promised reform and investor confidence. This moment tests that promise. Leadership now requires clarity. Regulatory agencies must be independent, yes, but independence does not mean opacity or immunity from scrutiny. A transparent and credible inquiry into the allegations surrounding this conflict is not about appeasing Dangote. It is about reassuring Nigeria and the world that institutions are bigger than individuals.
At the same time, Dangote must submit to the same standards he demands. Regulation cannot be suspended because an investor is large or patriotic. What Nigeria needs is balance. Fair regulation. Transparent oversight. Clear rules applied consistently.
There is a saying that when two elephants fight, it is the grass that suffers. In this case, the grass is Nigeria’s economy. Jobs, prices, investor trust and national reputation are all on the line. This conflict must not be allowed to harden into another symbol of dysfunction.
Nigeria is standing at a crossroads. It can resolve this dispute through openness, law and national interest, or it can reinforce its reputation as a country where ambition is punished and success attracts hostility.
The fence around the farm should protect the harvest, not become a battleground. If Nigeria truly wants to grow, it must learn to defend its investments without sacrificing accountability. Anything less will keep the country trapped in a familiar cycle of promise and disappointment.