Every year, the rains arrive in Nigeria, and every year, we act surprised. This is quite an achievement for a country that has a rainy season, a meteorological agency, flood prediction systems, ministries of environment, emergency management agencies and, interestingly, an Ecological Fund.

We know when the rains are coming, we know many of the communities likely to be affected, and we even issue warnings ahead of time. Yet somehow, when the floods arrive, government officials appear on television looking almost as shocked as the victims.

Perhaps the rains have developed a habit of arriving without official permission.

The recent flooding across parts of the country has once again brought this familiar national embarrassment to our doorsteps. In Port Harcourt, streets became waterways, homes were submerged, businesses were disrupted and residents struggled to salvage their belongings.

Other communities across the country have experienced their own share of flooding and erosion. From the riverine settlements of the South to flood-prone communities in the North, the geography may differ, but the story is painfully familiar.

The water comes, people lose their property, emergency agencies mobilise, relief materials are distributed, government officials promise lasting solutions, and eventually, everyone moves on. Until the next rainy season, of course.

But there is something about this annual ritual that deserves more attention than the flood itself. Something we have become remarkably comfortable ignoring.

In the midst of all the conversations about climate change, flood mitigation, adaptation, resilience and environmental sustainability, there is one rather simple question Nigerians are not asking loudly enough.

What exactly are our governments doing with the ecological funds they receive?

For years, climate change conversations in Nigeria have become something of an intellectual festival. We organise conferences, inaugurate committees, convene stakeholders, commission studies, develop frameworks and produce communiqués.

Our public officials have mastered an impressive collection of climate vocabulary. They speak passionately about building resilience, strengthening adaptive capacity, promoting sustainable ecosystems and developing innovative financing mechanisms for climate action. By the time the speeches are over, one could almost imagine that flooding has been permanently defeated.

The only problem is that the water does not seem particularly interested in our English. And neither, apparently, are the blocked drainage channels, disappearing shorelines, abandoned erosion-control projects and communities that must relocate whenever the clouds gather.

It would seem that while we have made extraordinary progress in discussing climate change, the actual business of protecting people from its consequences remains considerably less impressive.

To be fair, climate change is a serious global problem. Nigeria faces real environmental threats that require significant investment, technical expertise and international cooperation. There is nothing wrong with seeking additional climate financing or participating in global negotiations. But surely, before we begin another passionate conversation about the money we need, we should first explain what we have done with the money we already have.

Nigeria’s Ecological Fund has existed since 1981. It was established as a dedicated mechanism to address serious ecological problems, including flooding, erosion and other environmental emergencies. In other words, the government recognised more than four decades ago that environmental disasters required special funding arrangements. This was long before climate adaptation became a regular feature of international development conferences and government speeches.

So this is not entirely a story about the absence of money. It is also a story about what happens to the money that is already allocated.

In August 2026, I examined ecological allocations to the nine Niger Delta states in a special report published by LINCgreen. Using the Office of the Accountant-General of the Federation’s FAAC disbursement records, the findings showed that approximately ₦12.23 billion was recorded as gross ecological allocations for these states between January and June 2026.

About ₦6.12 billion was transferred to the Niger Delta Development Commission, in line with the statutory arrangement, while approximately ₦6.12 billion was retained by the nine states.

Just six months. Just nine states.

These figures represent allocations, not proof of expenditure or wrongdoing, and they do not capture the entire national Ecological Fund system. But they raise a question that should interest every Nigerian, whether in Rivers, Lagos, Benue, Kogi, Anambra, Borno, Oyo or any other part of the country: If these amounts are being allocated, where are the corresponding results, and how easily can citizens identify them?

Take Rivers State, for example. Our analysis showed that the state retained approximately ₦746.9 million from this particular ecological allocation stream during the first six months of 2026.

That is not the state’s entire environmental budget, nor does it mean every flooding problem can be solved with that amount. But it is public money. And surely, the public should be able to ask what specific interventions it financed. Which drainage systems were rehabilitated? Which erosion sites were addressed? Which flood-prone neighbourhoods benefited? Where are the projects? Who executed them? How much did they cost? Can the people living in those communities confirm that anything has changed?

These are not hostile questions. They are the ordinary questions that should accompany the use of public funds. Yet in Nigeria, asking such questions can sometimes make one appear unreasonable, as though citizens should simply appreciate the generosity of government for spending money that already belongs to them.

The Niger Delta Development Commission has similar questions to answer concerning the ecological allocations transferred to it. But this conversation must not end in the Niger Delta.

Every relevant federal institution, state government and public agency responsible for ecological interventions should be able to account for the funds under its control and demonstrate the environmental problems those resources were used to address.

The difficulty is that our public finance conversations often end where they should begin. We celebrate allocations, announce contract awards, commission projects and publish photographs of officials wearing reflective jackets.

Sometimes there is even a beautifully designed plaque to remind the community who graciously provided the infrastructure. But connecting an ecological allocation to a particular project, its cost, its contractor and its actual environmental impact can become an entirely different investigation. And when the next flood comes, we begin the conversation again.

There is, of course, another convenient explanation: climate change. These days, almost every environmental disaster is quickly placed at its doorstep. A community floods? Climate change. A drainage channel overflows? Climate change. A riverbank collapses? Climate change.

Certainly, rising temperatures and changing rainfall patterns can intensify these problems, but it would be intellectually dishonest to pretend that every flooded street is simply the unfortunate consequence of a changing global climate.

A drainage channel blocked with refuse is not a climate policy problem alone. Building on natural waterways is not adaptation. Allowing known flood-risk infrastructure to deteriorate is not an unavoidable act of nature. And failing to act on predictions that have already identified vulnerable communities cannot be adequately explained by the convenient phrase, “the impact of climate change”.

Sometimes the problem is not that we lack another sophisticated environmental strategy. Sometimes somebody simply needs to clear the drainage before the rain starts.

That may not sound particularly impressive at a climate conference. It is difficult to turn routine drainage maintenance into a grand presentation about transformative climate resilience. There are no complicated diagrams required, no elaborate declarations and perhaps not enough ceremonial excitement.

But to the woman whose shop floods every year or the family that must move its mattresses to higher ground whenever heavy rain begins, a functioning drainage channel is a far more meaningful climate intervention than another beautifully worded communiqué.

This is not to suggest that ecological funding alone can eliminate flooding. No serious environmental policy should make such a promise. Extreme rainfall, geography, urbanisation and changing climate conditions create risks that cannot always be prevented.

Communities also have responsibilities, including proper waste disposal and respect for environmental regulations. But these realities make public accountability more important, not less. Where risks cannot be eliminated, public investments should demonstrably reduce their frequency, severity or consequences. That is the standard we should be discussing.

Imagine if, instead of another elaborate speech about the government’s commitment to environmental sustainability, every state published a simple annual account of its ecological funding. How much came in? Which projects were approved? Where were they located? How much was paid? What was completed? What remains unfinished? And, most importantly, what environmental risk has actually been reduced?

Imagine if residents could enter the name of their local government into a public database and see which ecological projects had been funded in their communities. They could visit the locations, examine the work and report whether the promised interventions exist and function. The media would have something more useful to investigate than press releases, and civil society organisations could compare the government’s expenditure claims with conditions on the ground. The information would not need to be a state secret. In fact, governments genuinely delivering results should welcome the opportunity to show them.

We must also stop treating emergency relief as a substitute for prevention. Distributing mattresses, rice and blankets after flooding may be necessary and humane. But the success of a government’s flood-management policy cannot be measured primarily by how efficiently it distributes relief materials after people have lost their homes. A serious system should be judged by the lives protected, the losses prevented and the infrastructure maintained before the disaster.

Perhaps this is where Nigeria’s climate conversations need a little less ambition in their language and considerably more honesty in their accounting.

As the country prepares for another round of international climate discussions at COP31, our delegates will undoubtedly have important things to say about climate finance, adaptation and the responsibilities of developed nations. Those demands are legitimate. Wealthier countries have responsibilities concerning the global climate crisis, and Nigeria should continue to seek the resources required to protect vulnerable populations.

But as our officials prepare their presentations and assemble their delegations, Nigerians should prepare a few questions of their own. Not necessarily about the number of delegates attending, the quality of their presentations or the ambitious resolutions they intend to endorse. We have spent enough years admiring the sophistication of our climate vocabulary.

We should ask what existing ecological allocations have financed. We should ask how many communities have benefited, which projects are functional, which ones have failed and who is responsible for their maintenance.

We should ask why the records of ecological expenditure are not as accessible as the announcements of ecological allocations. And we should ask whether the next round of funding will be subjected to any more scrutiny than the last.

These questions should follow public officials beyond COP31. They should be asked at state budget presentations, legislative hearings, town-hall meetings and every government event where climate resilience is discussed.

They should also form part of routine reporting by journalists and civil society organisations. The objective is not to manufacture accusations against every government institution, but to establish a simple principle: public funding must produce publicly verifiable accounts and results.

Because if we do not ask these questions, the cycle will continue quite comfortably. The forecasts will arrive, the warnings will be issued, the rains will fall, the floods will come, the government will express concern, and another committee will probably be inaugurated to develop a comprehensive framework for addressing the unfortunate situation.

We are exceptionally good at frameworks. Meanwhile, somewhere in Nigeria, a family will once again lift its furniture onto blocks, a trader will watch floodwater enter her shop, and another community will wait for an intervention that has been promised for years.

The tragedy is not simply that Nigeria experiences flooding. Countries across the world experience extreme weather, sometimes despite substantial investments in prevention. The deeper failure would be to keep collecting money for environmental protection without making it possible for citizens to establish what that money has achieved.

Perhaps before the next grand conference on climate resilience, we should organise a much simpler meeting. No elaborate presentations. No intimidating technical vocabulary. Just government officials, communities, the ecological allocation records and a list of actual projects.

Let someone explain where the money went. Let the communities tell us what was done. And let the results speak for themselves. After all, the rain has been giving us its own annual performance report. It is only fair that the government provides one too.

• Tobechukwu Diolu is an environmental researcher and executive director of the LINCgreen Initiative.