The End of Money-Spraying in Nigeria?

The images are iconic to modern Nigerian life: at a wedding, birthday, or funeral, celebrants dance as friends, family, and well-wishers “spray” them with banknotes. The money rains down, creating a spectacle of generosity, status, and communal joy. This practice is a quintessential feature of the Nigerian ‘owambe’. But now, the state is cracking down. The recent, highly publicized arrests and swift convictions of socialites like Idris Okuneye (Bobrisky) and Pascal Okechukwu (Cubana Chief Priest) for “abusing the Naira” have sent a shockwave through the nation’s social fabric. The party might be over, and the state is the one shutting it down.

The legal basis for this is not new. Section 21 of the Central Bank of Nigeria (CBN) Act of 2007 is unambiguous. It criminalizes any act of spraying, dancing, or stepping on the Naira, as well as any form of mutilation or tampering. For nearly two decades, this law was one of Nigeria’s great legal fictions—universally known, universally ignored, even by the political elite who enacted it. Why the sudden, zealous enforcement? And what does this reveal about the fraught relationship between state power, cultural expression, and social class in Nigeria?

“When a law that has been dormant for seventeen years is suddenly weaponized against public figures, one must question the motive. Is this truly about protecting the currency, or is it about enforcing a particular brand of social order and distracting from deeper-seated economic woes?”

More Than Money: The ‘Owambe’ Economy and Cultural Performance

To dismiss money-spraying as mere flamboyance is to fundamentally misunderstand its cultural and economic weight. It is a deeply-rooted practice, a modern evolution of traditional gift-giving and praise. In Yoruba culture, for instance, it’s an extension of *oriki* (praise poetry), where appreciation is shown not just with words but with material affirmation. It’s a performance of social bonds. Spraying a celebrant is a public declaration of your relationship to them, a gesture of honor and support that is instantly understood by everyone present.

Beyond the symbolism, it is the engine of a vibrant informal economy. For musicians, particularly of the Fuji and Jùjú genres, the money sprayed is not a bonus; it’s their primary fee. A band’s success for the night is measured by the “harvest” of cash carefully gathered from the dance floor. The practice supports a whole ecosystem of praise-singers, MCs (‘alagas’), and even the “money changers” who provide crisp, new notes for a premium. To ban spraying is to threaten the livelihood of this entire sector overnight.

The state’s argument is that this practice is disrespectful to a national symbol and leads to the degradation of currency notes, costing the government billions to reprint. But for millions of citizens, the idea of prosecuting someone for celebrating with their own hard-earned money seems ludicrous, especially when the nation’s economic policies have so profoundly devalued the very Naira they are now accused of abusing.

Selective Justice or a Necessary Corrective?

The Economic and Financial Crimes Commission (EFCC) frames its actions as a patriotic duty to uphold the law and restore sanity. As detailed in numerous reports from outlets like Premium Times, the agency insists it is tackling a crime that has long been ignored. The argument for respecting the Naira as a national symbol has some merit, particularly at a time of severe economic distress.

However, the public’s deep cynicism is fueled by the glaring hypocrisy. The question of “why now?” is inseparable from “why them?”. Social media is replete with videos of politicians, their spouses, and children engaging in spectacular acts of money-spraying at opulent weddings and parties. Yet, the EFCC’s dragnet has conveniently focused on celebrities from the entertainment and lifestyle industries—”new money” figures who are often seen as morally ambiguous by conservative elements of society. This selective prosecution creates the powerful perception that the crackdown is not about the rule of law, but about social engineering. It feels less like a defense of the Naira and more like a move to police the perceived excesses of a class of people who are publicly visible but politically vulnerable. This pattern of applying different rules to different classes of people is a corrosive force, creating a society where law is not a universal principle but a weapon to be wielded against the unconnected.

The Search for a Viable Middle Ground

An outright, punitive ban on a practice so culturally ingrained is bound to be met with resistance, resentment, and creative circumvention. A more sustainable solution requires nuance and a respect for the cultural realities at play. A path forward could include:

1. Consistent and Fair Enforcement: For the law to gain any semblance of legitimacy, it must be applied impartially. This means investigating and, if necessary, prosecuting the politically powerful with the same vigor as celebrities. Without this, the entire campaign will remain a performative charade.
2. Promoting Practical Alternatives: The CBN and financial institutions could work with event planners to popularize alternatives that retain the spirit of the gesture. This could include scannable QR codes for instant digital “sprays” to a celebrant’s or musician’s account, or the use of personalized, non-legal-tender vouchers that can be exchanged for cash later.
3. A Shift from Punishment to Education: A robust public campaign is needed, but one that goes beyond threats. It should explain the economic cost of currency mutilation while simultaneously celebrating and suggesting new ways to preserve the cultural act of public giving.

The battle over money-spraying is a microcosm of the larger Nigerian predicament. It’s a clash between cherished traditions and the imperatives of a modern state, between the informal economies that sustain millions and the formal regulations that govern a nation. Forcing a choice between the two is a recipe for failure. The real challenge is finding a path that allows Nigerians to celebrate their vibrant culture without trampling on their national symbols—a balance that, for now, seems as elusive as a crisp Naira note at the end of a long night’s party.