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Everywhere you look in Nigeria today, life is mediated by a platform. You want to send money? OPay or PalmPay. Need to shop? Jumia. Trying to get to work? Bolt. Even the smallest businesses now run through Flutterwave, Moniepoint, or Paystack.
Trillions of naira move through these platforms every year, but are we as Nigerians truly the owners of this digital revolution, or are we simply feeding the machine?
The numbers look commendable, as mobile money operators, led by OPay, PalmPay, and others, processed over ₦71.5 trillion in 2024, up from ₦46.6 trillion the previous year. That’s a 53% surge in digital transactions in a single year.
The total volume of transactions rose from 3 billion to nearly 4 billion, while Nigeria’s e-payment ecosystem crossed the mind-bending threshold of ₦1.07 quadrillion. Flutterwave, PalmPay, and OPay together are worth more than $6 billion.
Moniepoint alone serves over 10 million customers, processing more than a billion transactions monthly. These platforms have become the arteries of Nigeria’s economy.
But look past the numbers and we see a worrisome picture. Most of these platforms are not Nigerian-owned, at least not in the full sense. They are backed, funded, and in many cases controlled by foreign investors who are ultimately the biggest beneficiaries of the profits.
Nigerians generate the volume, carry the risks, and pay the fees, but the value extracted rarely stays here. Even Paystack, once a poster child of local innovation, now sits under Stripe, an American company.
The experience for everyday users is not always rosy either. High transfer fees eat into income, hidden charges appear without explanation, and platforms monetise data without ever asking for consent. In April 2024, the Central Bank of Nigeria (CBN) froze new customer onboarding for OPay, PalmPay, and Moniepoint over issues about compliance.
Millions of users were instantly locked out, not because they did anything wrong, but because regulators and platforms were at war. That moment exposed a painful truth: Nigerians are passengers, not drivers, in this so-called digital economy.
The story is not limited to payments. Ride-hailing and e-commerce also have their part. Bolt is one of Nigeria’s leading transport apps, while Jumia has over four million active customers across West Africa, with Nigeria as its biggest market.
But again, ownership sits elsewhere. These platforms dominate mobility and retail in Nigeria, yet the wealth created flows outward. Nigerians keep the ecosystem alive, the drivers, riders, buyers, and sellers, but who really profits at the end of the day?
So we circle back to the question: who owns Nigeria’s digital economy? Is it the millions of people who log in every day, building the data, trust, and traffic that keep these platforms alive? Or is it the platforms themselves, backed by capital far beyond Nigeria’s borders?
On one hand, Nigerians are enjoying convenience, speed, and access like never before. On the other hand, we might be building wealth we’ll never truly share in, trapped in a cycle of dependency where platforms set the rules and people have little choice but to comply.
And that’s where the conversation must begin. Are we content to be consumers, or should we be demanding true participation and ownership? Should regulators create space for real local authorities, or will foreign-backed platforms continue to dictate the terms?
Until those questions are answered, Nigeria’s digital economy will remain a paradox, built by Nigerians, but not necessarily for Nigerians.
