By Hassan Husaini mni
Without fanfare or broad public debate, the Federal Government has quietly transferred the Office of the Surveyor-General of the Federation (OSGoF) from the Ministry of Works into direct Presidential control. To the casual observer, this might appear to be a routine bureaucratic shuffle. But in a country where land is the foundation of identity, livelihood, and political power — and where the control of mineral resources has historically been a trigger for tension — such a move is anything but routine. It is the consolidation of authority over who maps, manages, and grants access to Nigeria’s land and subsoil wealth, and it comes at a time when public trust in governance is already stretched to breaking point.
Nigeria’s land story has always been complicated. The Land Use Act of 1978 vests ownership in each state governor, who holds it in trust for the people. Yet the lived reality is far more complex. In many parts of the North-Central zone, traditional rulers continue to allocate land to community members, an arrangement that carries strong social legitimacy even if it sits outside formal statute. In other areas, powerful families or individuals guard land as private patrimony, defending it as heritage passed down through generations. These are not mere bureaucratic variations; they are deep-rooted cultural practices.
To imagine that a single, centralised authority in Abuja can apply uniform rules to this intricate web of customs is to underestimate the sensitivity of land in Nigeria. Such a move risks not just bureaucratic bottlenecks but outright conflict, particularly in areas where local traditions and federal policy collide.
The stakes become even higher when we bring minerals into the equation. Land in Nigeria is not just about farming, housing, or infrastructure; it is about what lies beneath. Solid minerals — from gold and lithium to tantalite and gemstones — are increasingly coveted in the global economy. Most of Nigeria’s known deposits lie in the northern states, and in many cases, their exploitation has historically been negotiated with the involvement of traditional rulers and local communities. This arrangement, though imperfect, has at least provided a channel for benefits — however small — to flow back to host communities.
Centralising control over mineral licensing in Abuja threatens to sever that link. It would concentrate decision-making in the hands of a few, far from the communities whose land will be affected. This is not a theoretical worry; it is a political and economic reality with the potential to inflame long-standing grievances. In the North, where perceptions of marginalisation run deep, such a shift could easily be interpreted as an attempt by the federal government to strip the region of its natural heritage.
Modern technology magnifies these risks in ways many have not yet fully grasped. Remote sensing, satellite mapping, and artificial intelligence now make it possible to identify mineral deposits with pinpoint accuracy without ever setting foot on the land. In some cases, these technologies can even guide automated extraction systems that require minimal human presence on site. And in the emerging frontier of clone mining — where extraction is facilitated through advanced robotics, remotely operated machinery, and digital replication of the mining environment — operations can be conducted from outside Nigeria’s shores altogether. This means foreign or domestic operators could, in theory, identify, access, and begin exploiting resources without meaningful physical presence, bypassing not only local engagement but potentially national oversight in practice.
Imagine a scenario in which a foreign investor, operating thousands of kilometres away, locates a valuable deposit beneath a Nigerian secondary school or military installation. Under a highly centralised licensing regime, that investor could obtain a federal licence without any genuine consultation with local stakeholders. Extraction could begin — guided by remote technology — with minimal warning to those whose lives would be uprooted. Communities could be displaced, schools relocated, and security facilities moved — not through the slow, visible process of traditional mining, but through invisible, rapid transactions and digital operations conducted in air-conditioned offices far from the affected land.
The fear is not unfounded. Nigerians are all too familiar with the transactional nature of governance in the extractive sector. Licences and concessions have often been treated as commodities to be traded for political or financial gain, with little thought given to long-term national interest. The revenues generated, when they reach state governments, are too often absorbed into bloated civil services, squandered on patronage, or lost in the fog of corruption. Rarely do they translate into better infrastructure, quality education, or improved healthcare in the communities from which the wealth was taken.
This centralisation push also risks undermining existing checks and balances — however weak they may be — by further distancing the decision-makers from the people affected by their decisions. With the OSGoF now under direct Presidential control, there will be fewer institutional layers between the source of authority and the ultimate licensing decision. In a system where transparency is already in short supply, that is a dangerous concentration of power.
There is also the matter of perception, which in Nigerian politics can be as consequential as fact. The North already feels vulnerable in the shifting politics of resource control, with oil wealth largely concentrated in the South and the emerging global demand for critical minerals shining a spotlight on the North’s subsoil wealth. If centralisation is seen — rightly or wrongly — as a move to deprive the North of its resource autonomy, it will deepen mistrust between regions and feed the narrative of exploitation.
The cultural dimension cannot be overstated. In many rural communities, land is not just an economic asset but a living heritage, bound up with identity, belonging, and history. Attempts to map and manage land without recognising this reality risk igniting resistance. Such resistance might not be immediate or loud; it may emerge as quiet non-cooperation, bureaucratic obstruction, or simmering resentment that later erupts into open conflict.
None of this is to suggest that Nigeria should cling to outdated, fragmented land governance systems. Reform is needed — urgently. The country requires accurate land mapping, secure title systems, and transparent mineral licensing. But reform must be anchored in trust, inclusivity, and respect for the country’s diversity. It must be built on consultation, not imposition. Above all, it must be seen to serve the people, not simply empower the centre.
A reform of this magnitude should have been preceded by open debate in the National Assembly, extensive consultation with states, traditional institutions, and civil society, and a clear explanation to the public of what is at stake. Instead, it has been executed quietly, without the scrutiny such a consequential shift demands.
Silence breeds suspicion, and in a fragile, multi-ethnic federation, suspicion is dangerous currency. If the aim is genuine modernisation, then the process must be transparent, participatory, and accountable. Without these safeguards, centralising land and mineral control risks becoming yet another chapter in Nigeria’s long history of resource mismanagement — one more example of wealth slipping away from the many into the hands of the few.
The transfer of the Surveyor-General’s Office to the Presidency may, on paper, be just another administrative adjustment. But history will judge it by its consequences. If it becomes a tool for inclusive national development, it will be remembered as a turning point for good. If it becomes an instrument for elite capture, it will be marked as the moment Nigeria handed over the keys to its land and minerals — and, through the reach of remote and clone mining technologies, allowed them to be extracted even from outside its shores, deepening the divisions that have long haunted its quest for unity and prosperity.
