“When I say I’m Nigerian…” begins Pendo George, an artisan from Igarra in Edo State, in western Nigeria, “the response is always the same: ‘Yoruba? Hausa? Igbo?'” He shrugs. “Then they look away—because I’m none of those.” His words capture a quiet ache that ripples across the country: the experience of being unseen, unheard, and unacknowledged in a country with over 400 ethnic groups, but one narrative.

This seemingly innocuous question is far from a casual icebreaker—it reveals how Nigeria, a country of many ethnic groups, remains largely structured around its three dominant tribes: Yoruba, Hausa, and Igbo. Labelled “major” tribes, they monopolize political power, shape cultural narratives, and dominate access to education, careers, and even belonging. Meanwhile, communities like the Igarra face systemic erasure, silencing, and alienation. This should not be the norm.

For minority communities like the Igarra, also known as the Etuno, national identity remains a contested terrain. Despite vibrant cultural histories, languages, and festivals, those outside the dominant triad often find themselves reduced to footnotes. This invisibility isn’t accidental; it is the result of a systemic narrowing of identity, shaped by colonial hierarchies and perpetuated by post-independence policies that tether belonging to ancestry rather than citizenship. Yet, these communities, through their vibrant cultural expressions, continue to assert their presence and resilience, inspiring hope for a more inclusive future.

But this condition—commonly enforced through “Indigeneity” laws, which define identity based on paternal lineage instead of lived experience, and often require proof of ancestry from a particular region or ethnic group—has profound consequences.

Pendo’s experience mirrors countless others—from the Bajju, Bakulu, Aytap, and Adara in Southern Kaduna to the Ijaws and Ogoni in Rivers—whose legitimacy is questioned because their surnames don’t match the mainstream. It’s not just about recognition; it’s about access. Political exclusion, limited educational representation, and erasure from national discourse all conspire to fracture Nigeria’s sense of unity. These consequences permeate everyday life: from denied scholarships and increased school fees to being told, “Go back to where your ancestors came from.”

And yet, stories like Pendo’s are not just laments—they are calls to expand the frame. To envision a Nigeria where heritage is celebrated in full color, not in grayscale. Where being Nigerian means being part of a chorus, not just an echo of three dominant voices. Pendo’s assertion of identity, though quiet, is radical. It insists on visibility. It reminds us that belonging should not be a privilege—it should be a birthright.

Anthropologist Dr. Halima Bello emphasizes the psychological toll: “Stripped of legal status, culture, belonging, non-indigenes internalize an inferiority scandal. They learn early that their identity is a problem.” Loss is not merely symbolic: discriminatory policies push minorities into underemployment and debt, exacerbating economic inequality. For instance, the “Indigeneity” laws often lead to denied scholarships and increased school fees, making education a privilege for the majority. As Human Rights Watch notes, such policies fuel intercommunal tension—from areas such as Plateau to Zangon Kataf—because socio-economic strain becomes ethnically coded “through divisive state and local government policies that discriminate on ethnic or religious lines…” and are worsened by “the failure of authorities to hold to account those responsible.”

Zainab Bala, a graduate from Nigeria’s Middle Belt living in Kaduna State, echoes this reality: “I’ve lived here my whole life,” she says, “but I can’t run for local office. They tell me, ‘Go back to where your grandparents are from.’” She worries that her children may never feel a sense of belonging—in Kaduna, in

Nigeria, or anywhere at all. The Middle Belt—often seen as Nigeria’s cultural crossroads—spans a mosaic of ethnic and linguistic communities across central states like Benue, Plateau, Nasarawa, and parts of Kaduna. Though not officially recognized as a geopolitical zone, its people are often sidelined within political systems dominated by the major northern ethnic groups. Zainab’s story reflects the complex realities of Indigeneity and belonging in a region where identity politics continue to shape access to citizenship rights and local representation.

But voices like hers are beginning to push for legislative change. In April 2025, Deputy Speaker Benjamin Kalu introduced a bill granting Indigene status to long-term residents or spouses, challenging ancestry-only definitions, as reported by Vanguard newspaper (“Yoruba youths reject Kalu’s indigene bill”). If passed, the bill would significantly expand access to education, civil service jobs, scholarships, and subsidized housing by allowing individuals with ten years of residence or marital ties to qualify as Indigenes.  

The British colonial administration perpetuated ethnic imbalances by organizing Nigeria into three dominant regional blocs: Hausa-Fulani in the North, Yoruba in the West, and Igbo in the East. These divisions were more than geographic—they served as political instruments. By implementing indirect rule, the British strengthened the authority of traditional rulers in the North while marginalizing minority groups throughout the Middle Belt and South-South regions. 

In his incisive analysis of postcolonial governance in Nigeria, Professor Rotimi Suberu highlights a critical legacy of colonial administration: the entrenchment of regional power structures that perpetuate hegemonic ethnocentrism. At the heart of Nigeria’s postcolonial challenges lies a blueprint of governance that did more than partition land—it embedded deep-seated inequities into the nation’s fabric. The legacy of this design continues to shape Nigeria’s federal structure, electoral politics, and debates on citizenship. Minority voices—such as Zainab Bala’s in Kaduna—are often dismissed, an injustice that needs to be addressed. It’s not because they lack legitimacy, but because the colonial blueprint still defines who is entitled to belong, lead, and be heard.

Another legacy of colonialism that still shapes our national identity is how our post-independence constitutions have reinforced exclusion through “Indigeneity” laws. These laws give special rights and opportunities—such as government jobs, university admissions, and political appointments—based on where a person’s ancestors come from, rather than where they live. For example, certain constitutional rules require that ministers come from specific states or that citizenship is tied to ancestry. This system often favors paternal lineage and long-standing family roots, making it harder for people who live outside their ancestral regions to fully participate in society. As Human Rights Watch has noted, these policies have effectively made millions of Nigerians “second-class citizens,” blocking them from key opportunities simply because of their background.

Rather than breaking with colonial patterns of exclusion, Nigeria’s post-independence policies have continued to entrench them. Unlike countries such as Rwanda—where national belonging is now rooted in shared experience and civic participation—Nigeria maintains the “indigene–non-indigene” divide, a system enshrined in the 1979 and 1999 constitutions. These frameworks define “Indigene” status by paternal ancestry rather than by residency or social ties, and local governments issue Certificates of Indigeneity that determine who can access public education, employment, and political representation, as noted by the Minority Rights Group International. Rwanda, by contrast, deliberately dismantled ethnic classifications after the 1994 genocide to promote a unified national identity. Its model demonstrates that inclusive citizenship based on where people live and how they contribute to society—rather than where their ancestors came from—can help heal historical divisions and build stronger civic cohesion. Nigeria’s continued reliance on inherited Indigeneity does the opposite: it reinforces exclusion and hinders the emergence of a truly shared national identity.

The consequences of this exclusionary framework are far-reaching. In practice, it legitimizes discriminatory policies that penalize those labeled as “non-indigenes.” As former Vice President Yemi Osinbajo pointed out in 2021, this system amounts to a form of “apartheid,” undermining Nigeria’s professed commitment to unity and equality. 

To understand how Nigeria’s indigeneity policies impact real communities, it helps to return to the lived experience of the Igarra people—also known as the Etuno—a minority group in Edo State. Their story reveals how structural exclusion plays out across cultural, legal, and generational lines. The Igarra are descendants of migrants from Idah and speak Etuno (or Igarra), a language closely related to Ebira. They reside in the Akoko Edo Local Government Area, where their town, also named Igarra, serves as the administrative headquarters. Surrounded by the rugged Kukuruku Hills, the area is known for its striking landscape and rich cultural heritage. 

Yet in February 2025, the Igarra’s Ekuechi masquerade festival was abruptly suspended after rivalries between masked troupes escalated into threats of violence. Although the suspension was justified on security grounds, it also reflected a deeper issue: the state’s persistent neglect of minority communities. For the Igarra, this meant the silencing of a central expression of their cultural identity.  

Born and raised in Igarra, Emmanuel Alaba recalls how his identity was often misunderstood: “At university, they handed me a joke: ‘You aren’t Igbo? Then why do you look like you could be from the East?’ No one believed I’m Anetuno.” Like many Igarra—also known as Anetuno—Emmanuel experienced firsthand how minority identities are misrecognized or erased in national narratives. He reflects on the recent suspension of the Ekuechi masquerade festival, describing how it left community elders “sitting at home, no drums, no dances.” For him, growing up Anetuno meant navigating his cultural pride quietly, in a space where his heritage was rarely acknowledged. Without recognition or support from the state, he says, traditions like Ekuechi risk fading into memory. Furthermore, Nigerian anthropologist Dr. Aisha Musa notes, “when a festival is state-suspended, it signals that it’s expendable—an extracurricular, not a rights-bearing tradition.” What’s often missed, she adds, is that these practices form a vital social infrastructure—one that sustains identity, cohesion, and intergenerational memory.

For many minority tribes in Nigeria, openly expressing cultural identity is a delicate balance, often approached with caution to avoid scrutiny or exclusion based on Indigeneity. A tribal elder from the Igarra Kingdom Council, speaking anonymously, reflects on this challenge: “Our youth learn English and Yoruba in school; no one teaches them Etuno anymore. The heart of our tribe is eroding.”

Still, Igarra’s resilience shines. Patriarchs and matriarchs quietly teach Etuno at home; they continue to stage their Irepa rites (rite of passage). But it’s the activists who livestream Aba Festival clips, serving as a beacon of hope for the preservation of Igarra’s culture. “That’s our refusal,” the elder explains. “If someone seeks to erase us, we shall remember ourselves.” This sentiment echoes across Nigeria: the Ikwerre of Rivers State, the Osu descendants among the Igbo, and the Atyap in Kaduna—all preserve ancestral song, dance, and land rights, even when excluded from ethnic power plays.  

Experts urge federal leadership to implement equitable reforms—something many states resist politically. Revitalizing cultural justice in Nigeria means acting on multiple fronts: legal reform to standardize Indigene-settler policy and remove ancestry limits, ensuring that residency and civic contribution carry equal legal weight; cultural recognition through funding for minority festivals, language preservation, and local museums; education reforms that rewrite curricula to include minority histories and challenge dominant ethnographic narratives; community empowerment through training cultural custodians and supporting oral history projects; and finally, identity redefinition—rebuilding a civic identity where one is Nigerian first, ethnic second.

In this moment, Nigeria stands at a crossroads. Its official mosaic of pluralism remains a façade while ethnic majoritarianism goes far deeper. The systemic exclusion of minority tribes like the Igarra shows that true unity requires embracing multiplicity, not just majority arithmetic. The voices of Emmanuel and the council of elders remind us of what’s at stake. “We are not asking for special favor,” the elder says. “We only want to belong to our land, our people, our nation.”

Imagine a Nigeria where an Etuno (Igarra) child in Edo, a Bajju student in Kaduna, or an Ijaw woman in Abuja is not just tolerated but fully seen and celebrated, where history curricula honor the country’s rich diversity, and state identity gives way to true national belonging. Such a Nigeria would be not only more just but also far stronger and more resilient. 

Indigeneity must no longer serve as a gatekeeper to opportunity; the future demands a shift from ancestral privilege toward inclusive civic pluralism. Nigeria’s greatest strength lies not in the numbers of its largest tribes, but in the full chorus of its many peoples.