Hauwa Ali
When a Nigerian court abruptly pulls the plug on two of the country’s largest electricity firms, it’s not just legal jargon that follows, but darkness, desperation, and disruption.
Recently, a federal judge placed Ikeja Electric and KEPCO Energy Resources under receivership, freezing their assets and accounts, and appointing a court-designated manager, Kunle Ogunba, to take charge. The move, sanctioned under a 2013 agreement, is a symptom of a much deeper sickness: six out of eleven distribution companies now teeter on the brink, as the sector wrestles with a staggering debt pile of ₦2 trillion (around \$1.31 billion), according to Reuters.
Blackout Economics: Hospitals, airports, and export hubs all suffocate. Blackouts are not abstract inconveniences; they are threats to life, security, and economic continuity.
Walk into Nigeria’s teaching hospitals today, and you’ll find wards lit by flashlights, backup generators gargling in the background, and diesel fumes filling critical care units.
At University College Hospital (UCH), Ibadan, Business Day reported an unrelenting blackout that stretched for over 100 days, cutting off power to diagnostic labs and theatres alike. Students and patients protested. Surgeries were cancelled, delays multiplied, and frustrated medical staff demanded answers. “How do you perform surgeries without electricity? How do you run ventilators, incubators, and dialysis machines?” one doctor sighed anonymously.
The University of Abuja Teaching Hospital, Lagos University Teaching Hospital (LUTH), and National Orthopaedic Hospital, Igbobi, Lagos (NOHIL) are burdened with diesel and electricity bills. At NOHIL, sources stated monthly energy costs soared from ₦18 million to ₦45 million. At one facility, just four hours of supply and demand cost ₦20 million monthly.
In UCH’s dark wards, tragedy struck recently: two lives lost when ICU ventilators failed; cancer patients left waiting for daylight; resuscitation manually pumped under torchlight—grim signs of collapse. At Jummai Babangida Aliyu General Hospital in Minna, a patient also died mid-surgery when the generator died after just 35 minutes.
Hospital directors speak of improvisation: using solar panels for wards, diesel for theatres, shutting down non-essential areas to conserve fuel, draining budgets to power generators instead of serving patients. “We’ve become energy managers just to keep hospitals running,” one MD confessed.
While aircraft don’t get stuck mid-air without power, airports in Lagos and Abuja are grinding to a halt on the ground. A sudden blackout sends baggage systems into disarray, airport lighting dies, and security systems, all of which are reliant on electricity, flicker out. Arrivals stack up, departures cancel, and schedules crumble. Though aviation chaos is a frequent headline, stemming from weather, politics, and safety lapses, adding power failure to the mix turns an operational headache into a flight-path nightmare.
Similarly, export hubs—where cold storage, refrigeration, and loading systems are critical—now risk downgrading perishable goods into waste.
At the sprawling Idu industrial hub in Abuja, manufacturers are silently shaking their heads. Unreliable power has forced closures. “Poor infrastructure, unreliable electricity supply… have forced many businesses to close their operations,” says Emeka Obegolu, president of the Abuja Chamber of Commerce and Industry.
Nigeria’s industrial potential runs on imported generators and unstable grids that splutter at the first sign of fiscal or structural stress.
Nigeria’s power shortage is not new—it’s a chronic disease. As of today, only 45% of Nigerians are connected to the grid, and they receive power for barely four hours a day on average [Wikipedia]. The rest rely on petrol—expensive and polluting at over \$14 billion in annual self-generation costs.
Poor pricing, aging infrastructure, gas shortages, lack of reinvestment, and investor distrust feed the collapse.
Nigeria’s aviation sector has seen turbulent months due to air traffic snarls and safety concerns. Now, overlay that with electrical instability, and everything gets exponentially worse. Control towers are reliant on backup generators. A backup to a backup can flicker during extended blackouts, compromising navigation and ground communications.
Airport retail zones go dark. Fuel pumps fail. Walkways become hazardous. Staff scramble to maintain safety protocols manually. Flights delayed or outright cancelled can cause ripples across business travel, cargo logistics, and Nigeria’s fragile economy.
As aviation safety analyst Ibrahim Musa notes:
“When power fails at airports, it’s not just lights that go out; it’s flight plans, security checks, and emergency response systems.”
The receivership of Ikeja and KEPCO is emblematic. They and other DisCos were privatized in 2013 using leveraged loans. Debt became the framework of ownership. Now, with no margin and no reinvestment, creditors are pushing for debt recovery, dragging the firms into court, and leaving the sector in limbo.
Without financial viability, investor confidence collapses, leaving grid upgrades, solar expansion, and maintenance plans unfunded. The result: a stalled sector, unable to evolve.
In dark hospitals, the first flickers of hope are solar panels. The federal government has included plans in the 2025 budget to solarise hospitals via the Rural Electrification Agency. The goal is to cut diesel dependence and stabilise power supply in healthcare facilities.
The Energising Education Programme (EEP) includes installing a 50MW solar mini-grid at UCH—but experts warn: hospitals need off-grid power as standard, not emergency patchwork.
Elsewhere in Delta State, a shining example: fifteen primary healthcare centres were powered by solar, thanks to a public-private partnership, and saw increased enrolment and uninterrupted care.
Civil-society figures such as Dr. Adewunmi Alayaki, call for priority access and sustainable solutions, urging the government to treat hospitals as essential infrastructure that deserves reliable electricity.
Behind policy debates and balance sheets, the real story is human: a premature death when a ventilator dies; delayed surgery; a student frustrated by torch-lit anatomy classes; an airport employee unsure how to guide passengers when lighting fails.
Back at NOHIL, the director laments:
“We’ve installed solar, but theatres still rely on diesel due to heavy equipment. We need government investment, not promises.”
Blood-pressure monitors, oxygen concentrators, incubators, these tools of care require power. When hospitals become “life support”, in darkness, they may as well be boarded up.
Receivership is not a solution—it’s a mark of systemic failure. Nigeria’s electricity sector needs a three-part prescription: Stop firefighting and invest in infrastructure; decentralise power via micro-grids; solarise schools, hospitals, markets; Shift from debt-recovery motives to service-delivery mandates. Ensure clear tariff reform, subsidy targeting, and investment incentives.
Nigeria’s electricity crisis isn’t a failing light bulb—it’s a failing system. When hospitals flicker off, children go untreated, lessons go dark, flights falter, and industries pause. Receivership may be the judicial snapshot of collapse, but without a bold, humane reboot, the country risks a grinding erosion—not just of power, but of progress itself.
As a frontline hospital manager put it: “When the lights go out, everything stops. No money buys what matters most: life.”