Tony Elumelu, one of Africa’s richest men, is a tycoon for the social media age. Flick through the Nigerian banker turned investor’s Instagram account, where he is followed by 2mn people, and you’ll find him gladhanding heads of state and famous musicians, holding yoga poses, kicking a ball around with legendary ex-footballers Robert Pires and Claude Makélélé. There are stops in Biarritz, Rome, Abu Dhabi and everywhere in between, all accompanied by the hashtag #TOEWay. “Soft Like Tony”, a song by the Nigerian rappers M.I. and Lord Vino about aspiring to a comfortable “soft life”, is testament to the aspirational figure he has become to many of the country’s youth.
When I arrive at the Dorchester hotel on a rainy London afternoon, I realise that I, too, am about to become a bit-part character in his fabulous online life. Elumelu’s entourage arrives first, then the man himself, dressed in a crisp, short-sleeved Dior shirt and jeans. As we lunch at the hotel’s Promenade restaurant, I’m aware of his photographer discreetly snapping away.
Now 61, Elumelu first made his name in banking, one of a cohort of moguls who embodied Nigeria’s full-throated embrace of go-go capitalism in the 1990s as the country transitioned from a blood-soaked military dictatorship ruled by a despotic general to a slightly less manic democracy in the early 2000s.
He oversees a family trust whose vast portfolio includes interests in financial services, oil and gas, power generation and an assortment of other sectors; he was worth $700mn in 2015, according to Forbes, and likely more now. He preaches “Africapitalism”, the idea that Africa’s private sector needs to actively contribute to the continent’s growth, to anyone who’ll listen. “We need to run government like a business,” is his formulation of how African governments should work, with administrations held accountable by legislatures as shareholders do chief executives.
The Promenade is quintessentially British: grand without being gaudy, with tasteful carpets and walls dotted with contemporary art. A piano plays gently in the background as waiters in smart jackets scurry about the place. We get our orders in before he makes a confession that bodes ill for the afternoon. “Most times, I’m not a dining person,” he admits. “I love buffets because you don’t waste time. Everything is laid out and you can select what you want and go.”
Elumelu describes himself as a “choosy” eater and, despite some gentle encouragement from me, declines a starter. He opts for a chicken and langoustine pie with a side of quail eggs. He wants mushrooms and vegetables, but no bacon or potatoes. I plump for a roast rack of lamb, medium, with a side of mashed potatoes. We stick to sparkling water.
“I had a very fast career,” says Elumelu, whose father was a builder and mother a caterer. At 26, having earned a masters in economics at the University of Lagos, he became a branch manager of the bank where he began his career. “It was unheard of . . . I like to take my destiny in my hands.”
After eight years of rising up the ranks at his old shop, Elumelu displayed a savvy streak in 1997 when he, alongside a group of investors, took over Crystal Bank, one of Nigeria’s many distressed banks. A liberalisation of the financial services industry in the late 1980s had lowered the barrier to entry, leading to an exponential growth in the number of licensed banks, many on shaky ground. A number of them would later go bust, with customers losing their deposits.
Elumelu and his band of young bankers renamed the entity Standard Trust Bank and cleaned up the mess they had inherited, turning it into one of the more stable banks in the country. In 2005, his bank merged with United Bank for Africa (UBA) and Elumelu came out on top in an almighty struggle to become the chief executive of the new operation. Elumelu was at the helm of UBA for another five years until a central bank edict that turfed out long-serving bank bosses put him out of a job.
“2010 was a pivotal year for me,” he tells me of his ouster as UBA boss. “The central bank ruling was a complete surprise . . . Was it fair? Look, as someone who believes in governance, it probably makes sense, but it was a shock. But it was also liberating, catalysing.”
By the end of that year, he had formed Heirs Holdings, the investment engine that launched the second act of his career and turned him from a banker to a multi-sector magnate.
I dig into the complimentary bread. Unsurprisingly, Elumelu doesn’t indulge in excess carbohydrates; he is broad-chested, with biceps that would not look out of place on a middleweight boxer or retired Premier League footballer.
As one of the few Nigerians who made their fortunes outside of oil, the headline act of the Nigerian economy, Elumelu’s decision to buy a 45 per cent stake in an oilfield three years ago surprised many. International oil companies such as Shell, Total and Eni are selling off their shallow water assets in Nigeria, with local companies taking charge. Does it feel like getting in at the end of the party, buying an oil asset in the age of energy transition and environmental, social and governance investing?
He lets out a hearty laugh. “We wanted to become a Fortune 500 company and we estimated what we needed. It’s not naira, it’s huge dollars,” he says. Energy security is crucial for a country that doesn’t produce enough electricity for its roughly 200mn citizens, he adds.
Heirs Holdings had been looking to purchase an oilfield since 2017, he tells me, and says he raised $2.5bn to purchase a different one. But in a twist, never previously disclosed, he claims that former president Muhammadu Buhari and his chief of staff, the late Abba Kyari, blocked the deal. He says he was told Nigeria couldn’t allow something of such strategic importance to fall into the hands of a private operator. This defied logic, he adds, since he would have been purchasing it from a foreign company.
He soon discovered first-hand why international oil companies were partly divesting from onshore assets, after criminal gangs began stealing crude from his pipelines. In 2022, when things got to a point where his company had to shut down production, Elumelu vented his frustration on social media, tweeting: “How can we be losing over 95% of oil production to thieves?”
Today, though, business is looking up. Elumelu shows me the status updates he receives on his phone from the field: 42,000 barrels of crude pumped out daily. Theft still takes away about 18 per cent of production, he tells me.
Who is behind the theft, I ask. It’s a question that has confounded many Nigerians.
“This is oil theft, we’re not talking about stealing a bottle of Coke you can put in your pocket. The government should know, they should tell us. Look at America — Donald Trump was shot at and quickly they knew the background of who shot him. Our security agencies should tell us who is stealing our oil. You bring vessels to our territorial waters and we don’t know?”
We’re working our way through our meals. My rack of roast lamb is slathered generously in balsamic jus but seems untouched by herbs or spices. Elumelu, who practises intermittent fasting, has gone through the chicken and quail eggs: the rest of his meal is untouched.
After all, Elumelu has an image to uphold. He has transcended the business world in a way that none of his Nigerian peers has, and at lunch I watch the consummate operator at work. One minute he’s sharing an embrace with the restaurant’s manager, the next he’s dishing out advice to a waiter on how to button his double-breasted jacket while asking about his family. A Nigerian couple come over. More photographs are taken.
“I don’t live for myself or my family alone, I know people look up to me,” he says of his fame outside of the boardroom. “I try to make sure I don’t disappoint people. Young Africans need role models, they want people they can look up to.”
If Elumelu is thriving, his country decidedly is not. Nigeria is in the grip of its worst economic crisis in a generation, with growth stalling and inflation at levels not seen in almost three decades.
Elumelu’s philosophy of “Africapitalism” is based on the premise that the continent cannot grow solely through the government, and that the private sector should actively invest even when — especially when — socio-economic conditions are tough.
“We can sit here today and the easiest part of the conversation would be to talk about all the things that have gone wrong, all the things that people have failed to do.
“But therein lies the philosophy of Africapitalism. For far too long, we have blamed foreign powers. We have blamed our own leaders. But what are we as the private sector doing to make things better? It’s a call on the private sector to stand up and show the way. Let us show the way through what is in our own power. We have the power to make investment decisions.”
With investments in 20 African countries and thousands of employees, he believes he is playing his own part. And through grants from his eponymous foundation, he says he is “democratising luck” for young entrepreneurs.
But it’s difficult to invest when the socio-economic conditions are unwelcoming, I say. “It’s true,” he concurs. “But we’re still managing to pay dividends to shareholders and to succeed.”
When I suggest he seems to have faith in Nigeria that many others don’t share, he is quick to acknowledge that “the environment is very tough”.
“I have my frustrations across the continent but I also have my wins . . . what I’m saying is we need to do something to have a better society.”
A series of economic shock therapies being delivered by Bola Tinubu, who became president last year, to jolt a decrepit economy back to life have further complicated matters, driving more Nigerians into grinding poverty. A malaise hangs over Africa’s most populous nation, and once its largest economy, and many of its bright young things are voting with their feet, seeking greener pastures abroad.
I’m curious what Elumelu makes of it all. As a member of Tinubu’s newly minted presidential economic advisory committee, he is one of a handful of business leaders close to the administration. The reforms that Tinubu — whose “courage” Elumelu likes — has embarked on are necessary for long-term growth, Elumelu says, but he wonders if the sequencing of removing costly but popular fuel subsidies and a sharp devaluation of the naira currency could have been implemented better to first provide a social safety net for the most vulnerable in society.
“I support it, totally,” he says of skilled young Nigerians emigrating. “I don’t have a problem with people saying ‘I’m going to Canada, UK or US.’
“Joblessness is the betrayal of a generation. You’ve gone to school and come back with your dreams and aspirations and you don’t have the opportunity . . . People who decide to find solutions elsewhere, no one should stop them. But for those who decide to stay, they should try to create an impact and build a legacy.”
Why has Nigeria largely failed to live up to its post-independence potential, I prod. I don’t expect him to give much away, in view of his closeness to the country’s leadership. His younger brother was a member of the national parliament for more than a decade before losing his seat in last year’s vote.
“Leadership,” he says, without hesitation, becoming animated for the first time. “It’s leadership in all facets.”
Then he launches into a broader point unlikely to earn him an invitation to speak at a liberal arts university. “We all grew up being taught about imperialism, colonialism, oppression, struggle and emancipation. But the truth is, in the 21st century, are we still going to be talking about that? America was colonised too and look at where they are.
“We need to take our destiny into our own hands,” he continues. “And also, stop blaming people and stop this entitlement mentality that we were put where we are by others, therefore they must rescue us. If they put us where we are, why do you think those people will come to your rescue? Struggle, strive!”
I offer that colonialism and imperialism did set Africa back.
“They did,” he concedes, before continuing with his argument. “But so was India and other economies. Why do you keep crying over this and not taking this in our hands? Let us be saying that in spite of colonialism we have succeeded and not that we have not succeeded because of it. Otherwise, it will go on forever.
“We got independence in 1960. Sixty-four years, please. It’s about time — it’s almost a century. We shouldn’t still be talking about this. We should move on. It’s arguable that the country they bequeathed to us is better than the country we have today.”
The crowd is picking up now and the familiar chatter of a busy restaurant slowly descends. Elumelu takes a brief phone call away from the table and I’m aware that our time is almost up. I ask for the dessert menu. The strawberry cheesecake would be quite nice now. Elumelu surveys the menu but nothing particularly seems to interest him. In any case, our waiter is nowhere to be found.
Given his frustration with Nigerian leaders of yesteryear, there is only one question left that needs answering. Would he run for president?
“People ask me this question,” he says, laughing. “All of us don’t have to be president but what we all want is good leadership. We will coalesce around people we believe are providing good leadership.”
Aanu Adeoye is the FT’s west and central Africa correspondent
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