A Debate on the Treatment of Nigerian Footballers and National Servants
Nigeria’s footballing community was recently stirred by the comments of Taribo West, a former international player, during the funeral rites of Peter Rufai, a former Super Eagles’ captain and goalkeeper. In a viral interview, West criticized the Nigerian Football Federation and the Lagos State Football Association for neglecting Rufai and his family, sparking a renewed debate about the welfare of Nigerian footballers.
West’s remarks were strong and pointed: “What kind of nation is this? With the type of example that they have shown with Shofoluwe, Stephen Keshi, Thompson Oliha, Rashidi Yekini, I’ll never advise my son to put his feet (sic) for this country. Do we have a football association in this country or a federation in this Lagos State that this hero, soldier, football evangelist has to be treated this way and his family? Could you imagine that the family would be crying to solicit within our groups, just to ask for money? It is madness.”
These comments reignited a long-standing question: why do Nigerian footballers often assume that the nation owes them lifelong financial support, even after retirement? This sense of entitlement needs to be examined, especially when compared to other professionals who serve Nigeria with distinction, such as soldiers, police officers, healthcare workers, firefighters, and teachers. Many of these individuals sacrifice their lives without receiving the same level of attention and benefits given to sportsmen and women.
Whenever a footballer faces illness, death, or financial hardship, there is often a narrative that they “sacrifice” for the nation but are abandoned to live in poverty. However, this narrative is not entirely accurate. Nigerian internationals are paid for every game they play, with bonuses structured for wins, draws, and qualification stages of tournaments. Beyond that, they have also received substantial financial and material rewards whenever they bring home laurels. From cash gifts running into millions of naira to houses and national honours, footballers have enjoyed perks rarely extended to other categories of Nigerians. These gifts don’t just come from the Federal Government; state governments, companies, and individuals also shower them with gifts in cash and kind.
For instance, the 1994 Super Eagles team that won the Africa Cup of Nations and qualified for the World Cup received cars, houses, and national honours. Rufai was the goalkeeper, while Stephen Keshi was the captain. The victorious 2013 AFCON-winning team coached by Keshi was rewarded with millions in cash and property allocations. More recently, the Super Falcons each received $100,000, a house, and a national honour from the President for winning the WAFCON. The female basketball team, D’Tigress, also received similar rewards after winning the AfroBasket.
Contrast this with the sacrifices made by soldiers, doctors, nurses, and firefighters, whose families often receive little beyond an official letter of condolence. These individuals risk their lives for the nation, yet they are not afforded the same recognition or benefits as footballers.
It may sound blunt, but it needs to be emphasized that Nigerian footballers never play for Nigeria for free. There have been instances when they boycotted training because their allowances were delayed or they were not happy with the amount offered. Imagine soldiers or police officers refusing to fight insurgents or criminals because their operations allowance was delayed, or firemen waiting for hazard pay before rushing into a burning building. Such conduct has been normalized in football, and the nation is guilt-tripped into seeing players as martyrs.
Moreover, playing for the country is a “part-time job.” Top footballers make their fortunes primarily from their clubs. Any player not fully engaged with a club rarely gets invited to the national team. Their salaries in Europe and Asia often dwarf what many Nigerians could hope to earn in a lifetime. Advertising contracts, endorsements, and image rights add another layer of income. In their heyday, these players lived in affluence. Yet, a troubling number of them retire into poverty, not because the nation abandoned them, but because many failed to invest wisely while the cash was flowing.
The lamentations that follow the illness or demise of ex-footballers have almost become ritualistic: “The nation did not care; the government abandoned them; Nigeria does not honour her heroes.” But beneath these cries, one can see a cultural problem of entitlement that many Nigerians are known for. Most Nigerians believe it is their right for their “rich” relatives and friends (home and abroad) to send them huge sums of money. If they don’t do so, or if they don’t send enough, they are called stingy and wicked.
Globally, sports professionals who excel in international championships usually receive national rewards. However, many countries have created long-lasting, effective structures that Nigeria can learn from. England, for example, has a tradition where players donate match fees to charity, given their club salaries are huge. The English Football Association ensures they are well catered for while in camp, but once retired, there is no expectation of lifelong government support. Instead, the Professional Footballers’ Association provides welfare schemes, retirement planning, counselling, and retraining opportunities.
Similarly, South Africa has welfare programmes for retired athletes, focusing on education, entrepreneurship, and post-career opportunities. Nigeria lacks both the robust unionisation of England and the structured athlete transition programmes of South Africa. What we have instead is ad hoc generosity, where players are rewarded in bursts of national euphoria but forgotten once they disappear from the spotlight. This void fuels the entitlement mindset.
Nigeria can redesign how it treats footballers and other categories of national servants by taking certain steps. First, creating clear boundaries: Nigeria must communicate that the government’s responsibility to footballers is limited to their active playing days and immediate post-victory rewards. Lifelong dependence cannot be sustained. Second, establishing an Athletes’ Welfare Fund, jointly managed by the sports ministry, players’ unions, and private stakeholders. Contributions from players’ match allowances, endorsements, and sponsorships can sustain the fund.
Then, there is a need for mandatory financial literacy. All players invited to the national team should undergo financial education, investment training, and career transition counselling. Equal recognition across sectors is also essential. Soldiers, health workers, police officers, and firefighters deserve structured national recognition for their sacrifices, not just footballers. A heroes’ welfare scheme should cater broadly to all categories of Nigerians who serve and risk their lives.
Finally, strengthening the players’ union. Nigeria must strengthen its own version of the PFA, giving players a safety net beyond government handouts. This would reduce the culture of entitlement and promote professionalism.
Peter Rufai, known as Dodo Mayana, was a legend, and Nigeria must honour his memory. But his passing should not be another excuse for footballers to guilt-trip the nation into assuming responsibility for their lifelong financial needs. Footballers, like all professionals, are paid for their work. They receive perks and recognition that few other sectors enjoy. What they do with those earnings is ultimately their responsibility.
The lamentations over every ex-player’s illness or death should instead push Nigeria to create structured, sustainable welfare systems that encourage self-reliance and ensure fairness across all who serve the nation – whether on the battlefield, in the hospital ward, in classrooms, or on the football pitch. Only then will we break this cycle of entitlement and build a nation where service is honoured but not exploited.
