Across Lagos, towns, and villages in Nigeria, there is a familiar name when it comes to gambling, Baba Ijebu. To some, it’s just a game. A shot at fortune. A harmless pastime. 

But behind the catchy name and widespread popularity, there are some speculations that there lies a darker reality that most Nigerians either ignore or simply don’t know. The question is, is Baba Ijebu just a game, or it is a system that preys on dreams, fuels addiction, and quietly chips away at personal ambition and community value.

Baba Ijebu, the face of a friendly game

Baba Ijebu is officially known as Premier Lotto Limited, founded by Chief Kessington Adebutu in 2001. What began as a small betting business has grown into a nationwide phenomenon, with thousands of agents and kiosks planted in every corner of the country. 

The name Baba Ijebu originally a street-born nickname has now overshadowed the company’s official name. It evokes a sense of familiarity, almost like referring to a wise old uncle who helps you “see the future.”

But this branding is far from innocent. By turning a lottery system into something culturally relatable and seemingly harmless, Baba Ijebu has cleverly made gambling feel like part of everyday life.

What people don’t see beyond the bets

A silent addiction epidemic

Gambling addiction is real, and Baba Ijebu is at the center of it for many Nigerians. From market women to civil servants, people are drawn into the cycle of betting daily, hoping to “hit it big.”

 What starts as small stakes quickly turns into a dangerous obsession. The problem isn’t just losing money, it’s losing focus, losing purpose, and in some cases, losing sanity.

There have been disturbing stories, like that of a young man in Ogun State who allegedly beheaded his aunt, convinced she was the spiritual reason he kept losing his Baba Ijebu bets. This kind of madness isn’t magic, it’s the product of addiction disguised as entertainment.

Corrupting the minds of children

While the official rules say only those above 18 can play, the reality on the streets is different. Teenagers, even primary school children are getting hooked. They sneak small change into kiosks, hoping today is the day their lucky numbers come through. 

These young minds are being taught that success doesn’t come from studying or working, it comes from guessing the right number. It’s a mentality that kills ambition before it even has a chance to grow.

Destroying lives in one jackpot at a time

A former banker, now a school bursar, once confessed to embezzling school funds to feed his Baba Ijebu habit. His story is not unique. For every big winner the company celebrates, there are thousands whose lives are quietly falling apart, debts piling, families breaking, and futures wasted.

The most dangerous part? Baba Ijebu doesn’t look dangerous. It doesn’t come with loud warnings or obvious signs. It operates in plain sight, normalized by society, ignored by regulation, and funded by the desperation of everyday people.

Breeding grounds for misconduct

The local Baba Ijebu kiosks have also become hotspots for criminal behavior. They attract loiterers, miscreants, and petty thieves. In many neighborhoods, these outlets are seen not just as gaming centers but as social decay zones. People gather not only to gamble but to drink, smoke, and plan petty crimes. Yet, few talk about the role these gambling spots play in feeding that behavior.

What could be the real agenda?

While Baba Ijebu presents itself as a business offering economic opportunities and entertainment, its deeper purpose seems clearer when you look closer: it profits from poverty, desperation, and broken dreams.

The more people lose, the more the system gains. It thrives on repeated failure, not success. It doesn’t encourage growth or hard work. It doesn’t reward effort. It only rewards risk and punishes it far more often.

It has become a tool for pacifying the poor, selling hope without substance, and distracting a restless population from the fight for real change.

What we all should think about

The time has come to question what kind of future we’re gambling with. Baba Ijebu isn’t just a game, it’s a carefully designed system that traps people in a loop of false hope. It has become a quiet social crisis hiding behind colorful tickets and numbered balls.

If we want to protect the next generation, we must:

• Enforce stricter age limits at betting centers.
• Educate people about the long-term effects of gambling.
• Regulate and monitor the operations of companies like Premier Lotto.
• And most importantly, start conversations about how betting has replaced hard work as a dream-maker in Nigerian society.

Until then, the hidden agenda will remain profiting from the people’s pain, while pretending to offer them hope.