It is astonishing that a seemingly harmless circular issued by the Office of the Delta State Head of Service, aimed at repositioning the civil service and redeeming its battered image could stir such loud dissenting voices, particularly on social media. What should ordinarily pass as a simple call for discipline and order has instead been twisted into a needless controversy.
According to the statement dated September 10, 2025, “suffice it to state that this circular is intended to promote discipline in dressing culture among public servants,” with clear instructions to all heads of extra-ministerial departments to enforce strict adherence to the revised dress code.
The policy itself is not new. In fact, it merely revisits an old regulation that many officers had long chosen to disregard. In recent years, it has become a common sight to see civil servants stroll into the office on a Monday in casuals, or turn up on a Tuesday in flowing traditional attire, as though the civil service were a private gathering or a weekend party. It is precisely this flagrant abuse that the circular sought to address.
Yet, rather than welcome the policy as a step toward restoring dignity, some critics have rushed to label it “draconian” or “anti-people.” Others even went as far as alleging that it violates fundamental rights. But where exactly is the violation?
Every profession across the world has codes of conduct, including dress. Bankers are known for their corporate outlook, doctors for their clinical neatness, and lawyers for their formal robes. These are not empty aesthetics—they inspire confidence, uphold professionalism, and protect the reputation of the institution they represent.
Consider the alternative: imagine walking into a hospital to be attended to by a nurse with exaggerated eyelashes, overly painted nails, and revealing clothing. Or picture yourself briefing a lawyer dressed in sagging jeans and a rumpled T-shirt. The very image contradicts the seriousness of the roles they occupy. As the saying goes, we dress the way we want to be addressed. If this is true in everyday life, how much more in the civil service, the machinery of government?
The hypocrisy of many critics becomes glaring when you probe deeper. The same individuals who rail against a dress code for civil servants would be the first to complain if police officers accosted them in untidy uniforms or even mufti. They would not hesitate to respect a mechanic dressed smartly over one dressed in rags. They understand the value of presentation in every other context, yet balk when the government applies the same logic to its workforce.
Some have tried to justify their opposition by blaming the harsh economy, claiming civil servants cannot afford shirts, trousers, or ties. Yet, these same civil servants somehow afford expensive Aso-ebi for weddings, funerals, and other social events. They can spend heavily on outward appearances when it suits them, but suddenly plead poverty when asked to maintain a professional standard at work. Others complain that suits are “unbearable in hot weather,” yet they wear sweaters in the fully air-conditioned Prof. Chike Edozien Secretariat. The double standards are staggering.
Beyond image, the dress code also serves a deeper purpose—it is a leveller. In the workplace, where class differences can easily breed resentment, the policy creates a culture of uniformity. Every officer, regardless of social status, is judged by the quality of their work and not by the designer labels or flashy outfits they parade. For men, it is simply a shirt and trousers, with a tie or suit depending on grade level or personal means. For women, equally modest, professional attire. This is hardly oppressive; if anything, it ensures fairness.
The outcry against the policy reflects a broader national problem: our allergy to positive change. Nigerians admire the professionalism, orderliness, and polish of societies abroad. Many even dream of escaping to those places, fully aware that their workplaces demand strict dress codes. Yet, when reforms are introduced here, we suddenly develop cold feet, shouting “oppression” and “dictatorship.” We want the results of a refined society but resist the discipline required to build one.
If there is any real concern to raise, it lies not in the policy itself but in its enforcement. Policies are only as effective as the mechanisms put in place to ensure compliance. However, it is on compassionate grounds to plead for grace or window period to adjust to the new reality.
No doubt, the Head of Service, Dr. (Mrs.) Mininim Oseji, deserves commendation. In just a few months of assuming office, she has already introduced bold reforms to reposition the service. Her first 100 days were marked by breakfast dialogue seminars with MDAs, capacity-building in financial management, and sensitization on the State Procurement Law.
She has revived the long-forgotten Public Service Week, expanded the Senior Management Staff Committee, and encouraged documentation of in-house training across MDAs, among other breakthroughs. These are not cosmetic gestures; they are foundational steps toward building a competent, disciplined civil service.
The dress code policy must therefore be seen as part of this broader reform agenda—a bid to restore pride, discipline, and professionalism in Delta State’s civil service. Rather than mock or resist it, civil servants should embrace it as a step toward restoring dignity to their calling. After all, government work is not just a job; it is public trust. And those who hold public trust must embody it, not only in performance but also in appearance.
One last thought experiment: imagine walking into a Ministry and finding a female officer dressed in revealing clothes, as though she were at the beach or in a nightclub, all in the name of “rights.” Still on the subject of rights—why then do we recoil in shock or look with disdain at a naked person in the market square? The truth is simple: rights must be exercised with responsibility, and professionalism demands boundaries.
