By Oyewole Sarumi PhD
A Policy Essay on Institutional Impersonation, State Architecture and the Case for Radical Rationalisation of Nigeria’s Federal Bureaucracy
Digital Transformation Architect and Leadership Specialist
INTRODUCTION
There is a peculiar kind of scandal that says less about the individual at its centre than about the system that allowed him to exist. The Presidential Foreign Intervention Promotion Council, or PFIPC as it came to be known, is precisely that kind of scandal. On the surface, it is the story of one man, a self-styled prince named Adeniyi Adeyemi Matthew, who is alleged to have forged a presidential appointment letter, built an office inside the Federal Secretariat, hosted diplomats and cabinet officials, and secured a budget line of roughly 1.3 billion naira in the 2026 Appropriation Act for an agency that, according to the Presidency, never legally existed. Beneath that surface, however, lies a far more consequential story about the Nigerian state itself: a story about how many institutions government has created, how loosely their boundaries are policed, and how easily the appearance of legitimacy can be manufactured inside a bureaucracy so large that even its own custodians struggle to say with certainty what does and does not belong to it.
That is the argument this essay develops. The PFIPC affair should not be allowed to shrink into a courtroom drama about one impostor and one disputed signature. It should instead become the occasion for something Nigeria has needed for over a decade: the serious revival of the 2012 Oronsaye Report and its accompanying 2014 Federal Government White Paper, not as museum pieces to be cited in newspaper columns, but as the working baseline for a fundamental redesign of the machinery of the Nigerian federal government. My conclusion, stated plainly at the outset, is that the PFIPC scandal is not proof that the Nigerian state is fraudulent from top to bottom. It is, however, compelling evidence that the architecture of that state has become sufficiently complex, sufficiently fragmented and sufficiently opaque that impersonation, duplication and regulatory arbitrage have become structurally possible, almost routine. President Bola Ahmed Tinubu, who has already shown a willingness to absorb political pain for economic reform, now has the opportunity to do what several of his predecessors promised and failed to deliver: shrink the footprint of government without shrinking its capability.
THE ANATOMY OF A PHANTOM AGENCY
To understand why this matters, it helps to walk through what the PFIPC actually managed to do before its foundations were publicly questioned. For much of 2025, the council operated with all the outward trappings of a genuine federal agency. It had an office inside the Federal Secretariat complex in Abuja, the same compound that houses Nigeria’s substantive ministries. It ran a website on the official “.gov.ng” domain, a detail that alone should trouble anyone who assumes that domain administration inside government is tightly controlled. It obtained approval to recruit around 300 personnel at a time when the Federal Government had a general freeze on public sector hiring, a fact that itself raises the question of who authorised an exception for a body with no statutory existence. Its director-general met with cabinet ministers, financial regulators, the leadership of Nigeria’s anti-corruption architecture and foreign diplomats, according to reporting by the BBC’s Lagos bureau. In October 2025, the council reportedly hosted a dinner in Abuja pitched as a prelude to a World Investment Summit that was projected, in the council’s own promotional language, to attract something in the order of five trillion dollars in foreign direct investment, a figure so implausible on its face that it ought to have triggered scrutiny long before it did.
Most tellingly, when the 2026 Appropriation Act was signed into law, the council was inside it, carrying a budget provision widely reported at around 1.3 billion naira, alongside a related entity, the Presidential Economic Advisory Council nomenclature, with a separate and much larger claimed take-off grant figure north of 27 billion naira that Adeyemi says he was asked to share with more senior officials. None of that happened in a vacuum. To secure a line in a national budget, an entity must pass through the Budget Office of the Federation, must have an administrative code created for it by the Accountant-General’s office, and in the ordinary course of things must be recognised in some form by the Office of the Secretary to the Government of the Federation, which is the institution that ordinarily allocates office space and administrative status to federal bodies. The Accountant-General of the Federation, Shamseldeen Ogunjimi, told the House of Representatives ad-hoc committee investigating the affair that his office created an administrative code for the Presidential Economic Advisory Council after receiving what appeared to be an authentic letter from the State House dated November 7, 2024, and that it was only later established that the letter had never in fact been issued by the State House. He was careful to stress that no public funds were ultimately released under salaries, overheads, capital or any special allocation, and that a separate request for a 27.4 billion naira establishment grant was rejected for lack of budgetary provision. That distinction between appropriation and actual expenditure is important, and any responsible account of this affair must preserve it. But the distinction, however important, does not answer the more fundamental governance question: how did a forged State House letter travel through the Treasury, the Budget Office and eventually into a National Assembly appropriation without a single institutional checkpoint stopping it along the way?
THE WIDENING CIRCLE
What began in June 2026 as a presidential disclaimer, dismissing the PFIPC as fictitious and describing Adeyemi as an impostor who had forged the signature of the Chief of Staff, Femi Gbajabiamila, has since widened considerably. Adeyemi, for his part, has not accepted the impostor label quietly. He has insisted that the council was lawfully established in 2024 and that his own appointment was genuine, and he has gone further, publicly accusing Gbajabiamila of demanding a 48 per cent share of the council’s alleged 27.4 billion naira take-off grant, a demand he says he refused after already paying 400 million naira through proxies toward securing his appointment, with a further 200 million naira allegedly still outstanding. The Presidency, through the Special Adviser on Information and Strategy, Bayo Onanuga, has rejected these claims in detail, stating that the Office of the Chief of Staff was in fact the first to raise the alarm, writing to the Department of State Services and the police as early as October 2025 after receiving complaints from the Nigerian Investment Promotion Commission that a parallel, unrecognised body appeared to be operating at cross purposes with it. The Ministry of Foreign Affairs has separately told the House committee that it rebuffed three separate approaches from Adeyemi seeking its endorsement to host a World Investment Summit, and that the National Security Adviser’s office had confirmed to it, as far back as November 2025, that Adeyemi was unknown to any arm of the Federal Government.
Former Vice President Atiku Abubakar has publicly called on President Tinubu to suspend Gbajabiamila pending an independent investigation, arguing that a press statement is not an adequate response to allegations of this gravity, and civil society groups including the Human and Environmental Development Agenda have echoed the demand that the Chief of Staff step aside while the facts are established. The Independent Corrupt Practices and Other Related Offences Commission has reportedly interrogated Gbajabiamila directly over his alleged role, even as his lawyers have issued a formal letter denying any relationship with Adeyemi, describing the allegations as false and defamatory, and threatening a ten billion naira damages claim should they not be retracted. The House of Representatives committee, chaired by Plateau lawmaker Yusuf Gagdi, has in the meantime catalogued something in the region of 29 separate allegedly forged documents connected to the affair, spanning fake presidential approvals, a purported forged Act of the National Assembly, and counterfeit correspondence attributed to the State House, the Head of Service, the Secretary to the Government of the Federation and the Ministry of Finance. A senior police officer representing the Inspector-General told the committee that signatures on disputed State House documents did not match authentic official correspondence obtained during investigations, a finding that, whatever else it proves, confirms that forgery on an institutional scale did in fact occur.
I set out this widening circle of claim and counter-claim deliberately, not to adjudicate guilt, which is a matter for the courts and the anti-corruption commission, but to illustrate a point that matters more for policymakers than for prosecutors. Whether the ultimate finding is that Adeyemi acted entirely alone, or that he had quiet assistance from within government, the sheer number of institutional gates he is alleged to have passed through, undetected, for the better part of two years, tells us something about the gates themselves.
WHY “ONE ROGUE IMPOSTOR” IS NOT A SUFFICIENT EXPLANATION
It is tempting, and politically convenient, to resolve this entire episode into the simplest possible narrative: a single confidence trickster deceived a well-intentioned bureaucracy. That narrative has the advantage of protecting institutions from scrutiny and confining consequences to one individual. It also happens to be unconvincing to the people who understand Nigeria’s federal budgeting architecture best. Babachir Lawal, who himself once occupied the office of Secretary to the Government of the Federation, the very office responsible for allocating status and space to federal agencies, has been blunt in his assessment, arguing that there is no way that office, in a functioning system, would fail to recognise that an agency was fake, and that a budget code cannot be self-generated without the knowledge of the Budget Office, which in his view implies connivance somewhere inside the system.
Oluseun Onigbinde, co-founder of the transparency organisation BudgIT, which first drew public attention to the council’s budget line, makes a related but distinct point. He notes that the PFIPC does not appear anywhere in the 2023, 2024 or 2025 budgets, and then surfaces fully formed, with its own administrative code, in 2026, a pattern that in his reading points toward the entity having emanated from the executive side of government rather than having been smuggled in through parliamentary insertion. He lists the sequence any genuine agency must pass through, an office inside the Federal Secretariat, sign-off from the civil service, a budget code, and multi-step approval to open a bank account, and concludes that the “lone impostor” explanation does not adequately account for how all of those tracks were cleared simultaneously. His formulation is worth repeating in something close to its own terms: the government, in his view, owes the public honesty about who exactly was involved, not simply the punishment of the man left holding the story.
None of this requires assuming the worst about every official who touched the file. It requires only accepting an uncomfortable structural truth, one that this essay treats as its analytical centre. A government that has accumulated so many ministries, departments, agencies, councils, commissions, committees, programmes and quasi-governmental bodies that even its own most senior administrators cannot immediately distinguish the real from the counterfeit has, by that fact alone, created the conditions in which a PFIPC becomes possible. The forgery was the proximate cause. The institutional sprawl was the enabling condition. Fix only the former, and Nigeria will read about a second version of this story within a few years, wearing a different name and a different acronym.
THE ORONSAYE REPORT REVISITED: WHAT IT ACTUALLY SAID
This is where the Oronsaye Report becomes not merely relevant but indispensable. The report emerged from the work of the Presidential Committee on the Rationalisation and Restructuring of Federal Government Parastatals, Commissions and Agencies, chaired by Stephen Oronsaye, a former Head of the Civil Service of the Federation, and its accompanying White Paper remains accessible today through the Bureau of Public Service Reforms and the Nigerian National Library’s archival holdings. Its diagnosis, more than a decade old now, was disarmingly simple: Nigeria had created too many government institutions performing overlapping, duplicated or poorly differentiated functions, and the White Paper itself traces this back to the historical drift of the Federal Government from core policy and administrative functions into direct participation across an ever-widening range of sectors.
It is worth being precise about what the Oronsaye exercise actually was, because it is frequently misunderstood as a cost-cutting document when it was, at bottom, an exercise in state design. The committee was not simply asking how many agencies could be trimmed to save money. It was asking a more fundamental question: what does the Federal Government actually need to do, and which institutions genuinely need to exist in order to do it. That distinction matters enormously for how any revival of the report should now be approached. A government could reduce one hundred agencies to fifty and still be badly governed if the surviving fifty have vague mandates and no accountability. Equally, a government could retain a large number of institutions and govern far better than it currently does, provided each institution has a distinct purpose, a clear reporting line and a demonstrable public value. The real reform, in other words, is functional rationalisation, not simple arithmetic reduction.
INSTITUTIONAL LAYERING AND THE VULNERABILITY IT CREATES
The reason successive Nigerian governments have found the Oronsaye recommendations easier to praise than to implement has little to do with technical capacity and everything to do with political economy. Every agency is, beneath its stated mandate, also a board position, a director-general’s office, a set of executive director slots, procurement contracts, official vehicles, foreign travel budgets, conference allowances and a small constellation of patronage that someone, somewhere, benefits from protecting. Merging two agencies means someone loses a directorship, a board dissolves, a building becomes redundant and a procurement channel closes. That is the quiet arithmetic that has defeated rationalisation efforts since 2012, and it is worth naming honestly rather than pretending the obstacle is a lack of expert knowledge, because Nigeria has never lacked for expert knowledge on this question.
What the PFIPC affair adds to this picture is a demonstration of the opposite failure mode: not merely that duplicative institutions survive because someone benefits from them, but that the sheer density of government-sounding structures makes it possible for something that does not even genuinely exist to look, from the outside, indistinguishable from something that does. Put yourself in the position of a foreign investor or a mid-level civil servant encountering an entity calling itself the Presidential Foreign Intervention Promotion Council. The name contains the word “presidential.” It claims a plausible, even attractive, mandate around foreign investment. It carries official-looking branding and operates from a real government compound. At what point, precisely, is an outsider expected to know that it is not real? If Nigeria currently maintains, by some estimates, well over 1,200 federal agencies, parastatals, commissions, councils and allied bodies, a figure that has roughly doubled since the 2012 review recommended consolidation rather than expansion, then the average citizen, investor or even mid-ranking official cannot reasonably be expected to carry a mental map of which of those 1,200-plus entities are genuine. That is not a failure of individual vigilance. It is a failure of institutional legibility, and legibility, not mere size, is the property that public administration scholars increasingly treat as the precondition for both accountability and trust.
TOWARD A NATIONAL REGISTRY OF GOVERNMENT INSTITUTIONS
The most direct structural response to that vulnerability is the creation of a single, authoritative and publicly searchable Federal Government Institutional Registry. Every entity claiming to be part of the Federal Government, whether a constitutional body established directly by the constitution, a statutory agency created by an Act of the National Assembly, an executive agency established by presidential instrument, a government-owned commercial enterprise, or a temporary structure such as a task force or presidential initiative, should carry a unique institutional identification number tied to its enabling instrument, its parent ministry, its governing board, its budget code and, where applicable, a sunset or review date. Such a registry, if genuinely authoritative and genuinely public, would have made the PFIPC’s central deception, its claim to presidential parentage, trivially easy to disprove by anyone with an internet connection, rather than something that required a House committee, a police investigation and an anti-corruption probe running for the better part of a year to unwind.
Alongside the registry, government needs to move away from asking how many agencies it has and begin asking, with far greater discipline, how many genuinely distinct functions government performs. For every agency, ministry officials and the proposed oversight body should be able to answer, with confidence, what problem the entity was created to solve, whether that problem still exists in its original form, whether another agency already performs a substantially similar function, whether the function could be absorbed into an existing ministry or delivered more cheaply through technology, and, most tellingly of all, what would actually happen to the country if the agency simply disappeared tomorrow. Where no one inside government can offer a convincing answer to that last question, the institution deserves serious and public scrutiny rather than quiet protection.
FUNCTIONAL CLUSTERS AND THE DISCIPLINE OF A SINGLE LEAD AGENCY
Much of Nigeria’s institutional sprawl has arisen not from any single bad decision but from an accumulation of well-intentioned ones, each adding a new layer rather than replacing an old one. Investment promotion is a useful illustration of the pattern this essay is describing. Nigeria today has agencies that promote investment, others that facilitate it, others that regulate it, others that coordinate it and still others whose remit is simply to attract foreign investment specifically, with committees and councils periodically layered on top to coordinate all of the above.
The PFIPC, whatever else it was, fit so comfortably into that crowded landscape that it took the length of a national budget cycle for anyone to notice it did not belong there. The discipline Nigeria needs going forward is a simple administrative principle: no two federal agencies should carry the same primary function, and where genuine collaboration across sectors is required, one agency should be formally designated the lead, with the others in clearly subordinate, supporting roles.
The alternative, an unbroken chain running from agency to committee to presidential council to task force, is precisely the arrangement in which accountability dissolves, because when every institution shares responsibility, no single institution can ultimately be held to it. The same clustering logic applies with equal force to education, agriculture, health, energy and the wider infrastructure space, where Nigeria’s ministries and their satellite agencies would benefit enormously from a single coherent policy architecture rather than a maze that even seasoned investors, let alone ordinary citizens, struggle to navigate.
SUNSET CLAUSES, THE ONE-IN-TWO-OUT PRINCIPLE, AND POLITICAL APPOINTMENTS
A further reform that deserves serious presidential attention is the introduction of mandatory sunset clauses for any agency, council or task force created by executive action rather than statute. A council established with an automatic three-year expiry, subject to demonstrated continuing necessity before renewal, breaks the familiar Nigerian pattern in which a temporary structure created to address an emergency quietly accumulates personnel, then a budget, then a political constituency, until nobody in government is willing to be the one who abolishes it. Alongside sunset clauses, the President could usefully adopt a disciplined rule that the creation of any new federal agency must be accompanied by the identification of at least two existing institutions marked for merger, absorption or abolition, unless the President personally certifies an overriding national interest that justifies an exception. Such a rule would force the kind of institutional discipline that has been conspicuously absent for the better part of two decades.
None of this, it should be said plainly, will achieve much if it is confined only to ministries, departments and agencies while leaving the parallel structure of special advisers, senior special assistants, technical advisers, presidential envoys and coordinators untouched. Nigeria could, on paper, halve the number of its statutory agencies while quietly doubling its informal political appointment structure, and the net effect on the cost and complexity of governance would be negligible. Any serious rationalisation exercise has to look at the executive branch in its entirety, not merely at the parastatals that happen to be easiest to count.
DIGITISING GOVERNMENT’S OWN SELF-KNOWLEDGE
There is also a distinctly twenty-first century dimension to this reform that the Tinubu administration, given its stated commitment to digital transformation, is well positioned to lead. A Federal Government Digital Identity System for institutions, linking every genuine entity’s institutional identification number to its legal foundation, its parent ministry, its budget code, its Treasury Single Account relationship, its procurement identity and its payroll identity, would make it structurally difficult, rather than merely administratively embarrassing, for a fictitious body to open a government-linked account or occupy federal office space. No institution should be able to transact as a government entity, in any capacity, until its digital identity has been verified against that central system. This is precisely the kind of infrastructure that turns a vulnerability like the PFIPC’s forged appointment letter, which apparently deceived the Treasury for months, from a catastrophic single point of failure into a claim that can be checked and rejected within minutes.
Sustaining any of this, however, requires a permanent institutional home rather than a one-off commission that produces a report and disperses. The United Kingdom’s long-running, if uneven, effort to periodically review its network of non-departmental public bodies, sometimes described in the British press as its “quangos,” offers a genuinely useful lesson here, not because Nigeria should import the British model wholesale, but because it demonstrates that structural reform of government’s own architecture is not a single event but a continuous discipline, one that periodically asks whether a given public body still needs to exist and periodically risks discovering, honestly, that some do and some plainly do not. Rwanda’s experience offers a complementary lesson from within Africa itself, not as a political model to be copied uncritically, but as a demonstration that a leaner administrative architecture only delivers real gains when it is paired with clearly assigned responsibility and active, ongoing performance monitoring.
Reducing the number of agencies without simultaneously strengthening accountability produces nothing more than a smaller version of the same dysfunction.
AN ORONSAYE 2.0 FOR PRESIDENT TINUBU
President Tinubu has, whatever one’s assessment of the underlying economics, already demonstrated a willingness to absorb serious political cost in pursuit of reform, from the removal of the petrol subsidy to the overhaul of the foreign exchange regime to a contentious tax reform agenda. The argument that institutional rationalisation is simply too politically difficult to attempt sits awkwardly alongside that record. What is missing is not political courage in the abstract but a decision to extend that same reform instinct to the machinery of government itself, which is a harder target precisely because it touches patronage rather than price mechanisms.
A credible path forward would involve the President establishing a time-bound Presidential Commission on Government Architecture, Rationalisation and Cost Reduction, given no more than twelve months to complete a fresh institutional census rather than simply restating the 2012 findings as though nothing has changed since. Such a commission would need to move through a genuine inventory of every ministry, department, agency, commission, council, authority, board, government-owned enterprise, task force and presidential initiative currently in existence, a legal audit establishing under what instrument each was created and whether that instrument still makes sense, a functional audit mapping what each institution actually does in practice as distinct from its stated mandate, a financial audit setting out personnel costs, overheads, capital expenditure and internally generated revenue against administrative cost per unit of output, and a performance audit asking, agency by agency, what measurable outcome each has actually produced for the country. Every entity emerging from that process should then be explicitly classified for retention, merger, absorption, restructuring, commercialisation, devolution to the states, privatisation, or outright abolition, with the results published as an implementation roadmap carrying quarterly presidential scorecards and National Assembly oversight, rather than filed away as yet another report.
It is worth adding a note of caution here, because public commentary on this subject has a habit of repeating the specific numbers and projected savings associated with the original 2012 exercise as though they remain applicable today without adjustment. They do not. The institutional landscape has changed materially since 2012, agencies have been created, merged, renamed and restructured in the years since, and any credible revival of Oronsaye must treat the original report as a baseline for a fresh 2026 institutional census rather than as a set of figures to be mechanically re-applied. Precision on this point matters if the exercise is to retain analytical and public credibility.
MAKING GOVERNMENT AUDITABLE: THE DEEPER LESSON
If there is a single lesson that should outlast the news cycle around the PFIPC affair, it is this: the Nigerian state should be designed so that an ordinary citizen can answer, without special access or insider knowledge, five basic questions about any entity claiming to act in government’s name. Who created it. Why does it exist. Who supervises it. How much does it cost. What has it actually delivered. Where those five questions cannot be answered easily and publicly, the institution in question is not sufficiently accountable, regardless of how long it has existed or how senior the officials associated with it happen to be. The same standard of traceability, running cleanly from legal mandate through budget, expenditure, procurement, output and outcome, should apply to public spending generally, not merely to the agencies unfortunate enough to attract press attention.
CONCLUSION
The PFIPC affair will, in time, be resolved through the courts and through whatever the anti-corruption commission’s investigation ultimately concludes about the roles played by Adeniyi Adeyemi Matthew and any officials who may be found to have assisted him, whether through negligence or design. That resolution matters, and due process should be allowed to run its course without prejudgment. But the deeper governance lesson of this episode does not depend on how the individual case is eventually decided. Nigeria’s federal government has, over successive administrations, accumulated an institutional architecture so large, so layered and so poorly mapped even to itself that the boundary between the genuinely governmental and the merely government-sounding has become dangerously thin. That is not a partisan observation, and it is not an indictment of every official who has ever worked inside that architecture. It is a structural diagnosis, and structural diagnoses call for structural remedies.
The Oronsaye Report and its accompanying White Paper gave Nigeria that remedy in outline more than a decade ago. What has been missing since is not analysis but implementation, sustained past the news cycle that produces it. President Bola Ahmed Tinubu now has an unusually clear opportunity, handed to him, ironically, by a scandal his own Presidency would rather have avoided, to make institutional rationalisation the signature governance legacy of this administration. Not another committee. Not another report destined for a shelf. A leaner, more coherent, more digitally legible Nigerian state, one that is measurably harder to impersonate and considerably easier for its own citizens to understand and hold to account. That, more than any single prosecution arising from the PFIPC affair, would be the reform Nigeria has owed itself since 2012.
About the Author
Prof. Sarumi, a digital transformation architect, political economy cum policy analyst, and leadership strategist with over 40 years of cross-sector experience across Nigeria and the African continent, writes from Lagos.
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