By Paul Chimodo
By the time the talking drum rises and the master of ceremonies calls a name, the crowd already knows what comes next. Crisp naira notes appear from pockets and envelopes, fluttering through the air as guests step forward to spray celebrants at weddings, birthdays, funerals, album launches, political rallies, and graduation parties. In Nigeria, celebration often speaks in cash.
Spraying money is not a new phenomenon. It is deeply rooted in communal life, honour, and public affirmation. Long before modern banking systems, cash gifts were a visible way to support families during rites of passage. What was once modest and symbolic has, however, grown into a public performance shaped by social pressure, class competition, and the enduring power of cash in everyday life.
At a recent wedding in Port Harcourt, a guest quietly stepped away from the dance floor to a POS agent stationed near the venue. He transferred money, paid extra charges, collected freshly minted notes, and returned to spray them within minutes. “It’s part of the celebration,” he said casually. “You can’t dance empty-handed.” The irony is familiar. Money briefly exits the banking system, incurs transaction costs, and returns to circulation creased, stepped on, and sometimes damaged.
Economists view the practice through both cultural and financial lenses. Dr. Emmanuel Unekojo, a development economist, describes spraying as a reflection of Nigeria’s complicated relationship with cash. “This is a society transitioning toward digital finance but emotionally anchored in physical money,” he explains. “Cash is tangible. It gives a sense of presence and recognition that electronic transfers do not always provide.”
Still, the economic implications are hard to ignore, and in recent years the legal consequences have become more visible. Nigeria’s law is clear. Under Section 21 of the Central Bank of Nigeria Act, spraying, stamping on, trampling on or otherwise mutilating the naira is a criminal offence. The law prescribes penalties ranging from fines to jail terms, or both, for anyone found guilty of abusing the national currency.
For years, the law existed largely on paper. That changed when a wave of arrests brought public attention to the consequences of spraying money. High-profile entertainers, social media personalities and party guests have been arrested, prosecuted and, in some cases, jailed. One social media influencer who was convicted for spraying naira at a party later told reporters that she never imagined celebration could lead to prison. “I thought it was normal,” she said. “I grew up seeing it at every event. Nobody ever told us it was a crime.”
Others who have faced arrest describe the experience as a shock. A Lagos-based businessman, briefly detained after a video of him spraying money went viral, said the enforcement felt sudden. “This is something politicians, musicians, everyone does,” he said. “It felt like the law woke up overnight.” His view reflects a common public complaint: that enforcement appears selective and inconsistent.
Anti-graft agencies and law enforcement authorities reject that argument. According to an official of the Economic and Financial Crimes Commission, spraying money is “a clear abuse of the naira, not a cultural exemption.” The official insists the crackdown is aimed at protecting the dignity of the national currency and discouraging reckless displays of cash in a struggling economy.
Beyond the law, there is growing condemnation from civic, religious and economic voices. Financial analyst Kemi Afolayan describes spraying as “celebrating waste in a country battling scarcity.” According to her, “We complain about inflation and cash shortages, yet we throw money on the floor for entertainment. It sends the wrong message about value and discipline.”
Religious leaders have also raised moral concerns. Pastor Petter Effiong of a Port Harcourt based church warns that celebration should not become compulsion. “Giving should come from joy, not pressure,” he said. “When people feel forced to spray money to meet social expectations, the meaning is lost.” Some Islamic clerics have similarly criticised spraying as an extravagant display that contradicts principles of moderation and purposeful charity.
Sociologists, however, caution against viewing the practice only through condemnation. Dr. Halima Musa, a sociologist based in Zaria, describes spraying as public reciprocity. “In many Nigerian communities, what you give today will come back to you tomorrow,” she notes. “It reinforces belonging. The problem begins when it becomes competitive and financially destructive.”
That competition is increasingly visible. Where elders once gently placed a note on a celebrant’s head, modern events feature aggressive spraying, bundles waved high as cameras capture the moment for social media. Musicians pause performances to acknowledge donors. The biggest spender often earns the loudest applause.
Event professionals say the pressure to perform generosity has intensified. Wedding planner Ifunanya Okeke notes that many families now budget specifically for spraying. “Some people borrow money just to avoid embarrassment,” she said. “They want their event to look successful, even if it leaves them struggling afterward.”
Among young Nigerians, opinions remain divided. Some see spraying as outdated and reckless in a time of rising living costs. Others defend it as cultural expression. “It’s how we celebrate,” said 24-year-old dancer Chiamaka Eze. “When people spray you, they acknowledge your effort. It motivates performers.”
Technology is slowly reshaping the ritual. QR codes, bank transfers announced publicly, and digital gifting are gaining acceptance at urban events. Fintech consultant Yemi Ogunleye believes the shift is inevitable. “Culture evolves,” he said. “People still want public giving, but cash may no longer dominate.”
There are also concerns about dignity and safety. Performers complain of slipping on scattered notes, while some celebrants express discomfort with money being pressed against their bodies. Many event organisers now employ professional collectors to manage cash quickly and maintain order.
For ordinary Nigerians grappling with inflation, the practice raises difficult questions. “I enjoy celebrations,” said Musa Bello, a civil servant in Minna. “But when rent, food and school fees are rising, spraying money feels excessive.”
Yet, for all its contradictions, spraying money endures because it represents something deeply human. It is joy made visible, generosity made public, and community expressed through ritual. As the law tightens and criticism grows, Nigeria is left to confront a hard question: can celebration evolve without losing its soul, and can culture adapt without colliding with the law?
