NIPSS Kuru: When the nation’s ethics teacher has ethical questions to answer- Joseph Manung
By Joseph Manung
At certain moments in a nation’s civic life, institutions that routinely ask hard questions must themselves be prepared to answer them. Nigeria appears to be at such a moment with the National Institute for Policy and Strategic Studies (NIPSS).
For decades, the institute has stood as a symbol of intellectual rigour, policy seriousness, and ethical leadership. It trains senior public officers, advises governments, and reminds others of the standards expected in public life.
But what happens when the questions begin to trail the institution itself? What happens when the teacher is asked to explain the lesson?
Recent allegations surrounding NIPSS have generated unease—not because guilt has been established, but because the issues raised cut to the core of integrity, transparency, and stewardship. These remain allegations. Yet their gravity demands more than silence. They demand clear, verifiable answers.
Let us begin with what should be the simplest question: how many times can one building be commissioned?
Why was a facility within NIPSS reportedly commissioned in December 2023—publicly unveiled during the graduation of Senior Executive Course 45—only to be presented again in November 2025 as a newly completed project? Was the first commissioning provisional? Was the second meant to mark a renovation, an expansion, or a different phase of work? If so, why was this distinction not clearly communicated?
More troubling are reports that an earlier commissioning plaque bearing the 2023 date was removed ahead of the later ceremony and replaced with another reflecting 2025. If true, who authorised the removal? On what grounds was it done? And why was it necessary at all?
In public institutions, plaques are not decorative ornaments; they are records. They mark history. If one was altered or replaced, the public deserves to know why. If this did not happen, then NIPSS should say so plainly and provide evidence to dispel the claim.
Was the building in question already in use long before the 2025 ceremony? Were training sessions, meetings, and official activities held there in 2024 and early 2025? If the facility was operational, why was it later presented as newly completed? What, precisely, was being commissioned the second time?
These questions become even more urgent when placed alongside another: on what basis was a reported ₦250 million intervention secured shortly after the second commissioning?
Was this funding requested on the understanding that a new facility had just been completed? Or was it presented as support for renovation, expansion, or general infrastructure needs? Were all relevant facts about the building’s history disclosed to the donor? And if they were, why has the institute not clarified this publicly to put speculation to rest?
Public funds and public goodwill demand full disclosure. Was the intervention framed accurately? Was any impression created—intentionally or otherwise—that does not align with the project’s actual status? These are not hostile questions; they are reasonable ones.
There is also the matter of those who reportedly contributed to the original project. Members of SEC 45 are said to have been surprised and disturbed to learn that a facility unveiled during their graduation was later re-presented as a fresh institutional achievement. Were they informed? Were their contributions acknowledged? Or were they quietly written out of the narrative?
Institutions are built not only with bricks and mortar but with trust. How does NIPSS intend to reassure past and future participants that their efforts will not be erased or repackaged for convenience?
Beyond buildings, deeper concerns lie in how the institute conducts its partnerships. Is it true that NIPSS entered into agreements with private consulting firms under which as much as 80 percent of programme revenue accrues to the private partners, leaving the institute with just 20 percent? If this is incorrect, where are the documents that show otherwise?
If it is correct, how does the institute justify such lopsided arrangements?
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What value-for-money analysis was conducted before signing these agreements? How does NIPSS reconcile these terms with its responsibility to protect public resources?
Who controls the accounts for these programmes? Is revenue shared before expenses are deducted? If so, who determines what counts as legitimate expenses? Who verifies the income generated, and who audits the accounts?
In a public institution, financial opacity is not a technical flaw; it is a governance failure. Does NIPSS have independent audit reports covering these partnerships? If yes, why not make them public? If not, why were such arrangements allowed to continue without rigorous oversight?
Procurement practices raise further questions. Were consultants selected through open and competitive processes? Were advertisements placed? Were multiple bids evaluated? Or were firms invited directly by leadership?
If competitive bidding did not occur, what legal framework justified this approach? Were approvals obtained from relevant authorities? Were conflict-of-interest declarations made? Nigeria’s procurement laws exist precisely to prevent discretion from becoming abuse. Why should NIPSS be an exception?
Then there are the most troubling allegations—those that speak to the institute’s internal climate. Is it true that staff operate in an atmosphere of fear? That questioning decisions carries professional risk? That dissent is met with redeployment, stagnation, or subtle punishment?
Does NIPSS have whistleblower protections that actually work? Are staff encouraged to raise concerns without fear of retaliation? How many grievances have been filed in recent years, and how were they handled? Silence inside institutions is often more dangerous than noise outside them.
How does the institute reconcile these claims with its mandate to teach ethical leadership? Can an institution effectively train others in accountability if it struggles to answer questions about its own practices? What message does this send to the senior public officers who pass through its halls?
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Where, too, are the oversight bodies? Has the governing council reviewed the disputed commissioning records? Has it examined the MoUs and revenue-sharing arrangements? Has the supervising ministry conducted any inquiry? If oversight mechanisms exist but remain silent, why?
Public confidence does not erode overnight. It erodes when questions accumulate, and answers do not follow. NIPSS now stands at a crossroads. It can choose silence, hoping attention will fade. Or it can choose openness, recognising that transparency is not an admission of guilt but a demonstration of seriousness.
What would openness look like? Publishing commissioning timelines and records. Releasing MoUs and explaining their financial logic. Clarifying procurement processes. Protecting staff who speak up. Addressing the public not with irritation, but with facts.
Nigeria does not expect perfection from its institutions. It expects honesty. It expects those who teach ethics to practise it—especially when scrutiny turns inward.
So the questions remain, and they will not disappear simply because they are uncomfortable. How many times was one building commissioned, and why? On what basis was funding secured? Who benefits from the institute’s partnerships, and who bears the cost? Who controls the money? Who can ask questions internally, and who feels safe enough to answer them?
These are the questions NIPSS owes the Nigerian public. Answering them openly may be difficult. Refusing to answer them would be far more damaging.
When the nation’s ethics teacher is called to the front of the class, the country is watching—not for perfection, but for example.
Manung writes from Jos and can be reached at manungjoseph@gmail.com
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