The latest report by BudgIT, which shows that most of the country’s 774 local governments have no transparent record of their budgets, is a damning indictment of governance at the grassroots. For a tier of government closest to the people, the absence of transparency in the income and expenditure of local governments is an unacceptable divide between public funds and public accountability.

BudgIT is a civic technology organisation committed to transparency, accountability, and citizen participation in public finance. It essentially uses technology to simplify and open up government budgets. In plain terms, BudgIT helps ordinary Nigerians understand how the government collects and spends money so they can hold leaders accountable.

Now, in its report titled “The Missing Tier: Mapping Local Government Budget Transparency in Nigeria”, BudgIT has exposed, with chilling clarity, a rot in the local government system—a truth long suspected but rarely quantified: Nigeria’s local government system exists largely in the shadows. BudgIT stated that local government chairmen submit appropriation bills, which councils approve, while monthly allocations are disbursed from the Federation Account. For most of Nigeria’s 774 local governments, those budgets are not publicly accessible online.

BudgIT further noted that only 10 states publish accessible local government area (LGA) budget data. This is not merely disappointing—it is unacceptable.

At the forefront stands Ekiti State, now widely regarded as the national benchmark for local government budget openness. According to the report, the state has taken the commendable step of publishing individual 2026 budgets for all its 16 local government areas and 22 local council development areas. Each budget is not merely released but is accompanied by a signed PDF, minutes of town hall consultations, and a National Chart of Accounts (NCOA)-formatted Excel template. This level of detail reflects more than administrative diligence; it signals a deliberate commitment to participatory governance and fiscal clarity.

Cross River State follows closely behind, reinforcing the principle that transparency must be both retrospective and continuous. By publishing individual 2025 budgets, alongside 2024 audited accounts and quarterly budget performance reports for all councils, the state has created a framework that allows citizens not only to see projections but also to assess outcomes. In doing so, it bridges the often-neglected gap between planning and performance.

Equally noteworthy is Borno State, which, despite its unique security challenges, has established a structured approach to financial disclosure. With a consolidated 2025 budget covering its 27 local government areas, complemented by individual council Zone Improvement Plan (ZIP) documents and 2024 audited financial statements, the state demonstrates that even in adversity, systems of accountability can be built and sustained.

Beyond these leading examples, a broader, though uneven, landscape of transparency is beginning to emerge. States such as Ebonyi, Osun, Kebbi, and Kogi have published local government budget documents, albeit with varying degrees of completeness. Others, including Enugu, Kaduna, and Yobe, have opted for consolidated budget frameworks, offering at least a partial window into local government finances.

Yet, even within this progress lies a cautionary note. In some cases, such as Kogi State, the absence of audited accounts or performance reports underscores a persistent gap between disclosure and full accountability. Transparency, to be meaningful, must extend beyond the publication of budgets to include verifiable outcomes and independent audits.

Nevertheless, these states provide an important lesson: opacity is not inevitable. Where there is political will, systems can be designed to inform, engage, and empower citizens. The examples of Ekiti, Cross River, and Borno stand as proof that local government transparency in Nigeria is not an abstract ideal but an achievable standard.

The challenge, therefore, is not one of possibility but of replication. Until such practices become the norm rather than the exception, Nigeria’s local government system will remain uneven, marked by islands of openness in a sea of obscurity.

For a country seeking to strengthen its democratic foundations, these glimmers of light must not only be acknowledged; they must be amplified, institutionalised, and demanded across all states.

But the most troubling revelation is that 18 States of the Federation publish nothing at all—nothing. In a constitutional democracy, such silence is not an administrative oversight; it is an institutional failure. The fact that six states provide only partial or outdated information is hardly better.

This is deeply troubling. Local governments are the closest tier of government to the people. They are entrusted with the delivery of primary healthcare, basic education, rural infrastructure, and sanitation—services that define the quality of daily life for millions. Yet the finances that underpin these responsibilities remain shrouded in opacity. The result is a dangerous disconnect between public funds and public accountability.

The process, on paper, appears orderly. Local government chairmen prepare appropriation bills. Legislative councils approve them. Allocations are disbursed monthly from the Federation Account. But beyond this procedural façade lies a troubling void. Where are the published budgets? Where is the breakdown of expenditures? Where is the evidence that public funds are serving the public good?

In the absence of transparency, accountability becomes impossible. Citizens cannot question what they cannot see. Civil society cannot track what is not disclosed. Journalists cannot investigate what is hidden. Thus, a system meant to serve the people is effectively insulated from them.

This opacity has consequences—real, tangible, and devastating. Across Nigeria, primary health centres remain under-equipped, rural roads fall into disrepair, and basic education struggles for survival. These are not abstract failures; they are the lived realities of millions. When the tier of government closest to the people is the least transparent, development does not merely stall—it regresses.

The implications are constitutional as well as moral. The 1999 Constitution guarantees a system of democratically elected local governments. But democracy without transparency is a hollow promise. A government that does not disclose its finances cannot claim to be accountable, and one that is not accountable cannot claim legitimacy.

It is no longer sufficient to treat this as a technical lapse or administrative gap. In an age where digital tools make information dissemination instantaneous, the refusal—or failure—to publish LGA budget data is a matter of political will. It suggests a deliberate preference for opacity over openness, for discretion over duty.

Nigeria must confront this reality with urgency. The publication of local government budgets should not be optional; it should be mandatory, standardised, and enforceable. State governments should ensure that LGA finances are transparent and accessible. Anything less is a betrayal of public trust.

The phrase “missing tier” is, in this context, painfully apt. Local governments in Nigeria are present in law and funded in practice, yet absent where it matters most—in transparency, accountability, and impact.

A democracy cannot thrive in darkness. If Nigeria is to fulfil its promise of governance for the people, by the people, and for the people, then the light of transparency must reach every tier—especially the one closest to the ground.

Until then, politicians and political office holders stand indicted that the Nigerian people will continue to fund a system they cannot see, cannot question, and, too often, cannot benefit from.