For over a hundred years, one of Nigeria's most vital cities, Port Harcourt, has borne the name of Lewis Vernon Harcourt, a British Colonial Secretary whose legacy is now being fiercely questioned. The controversy simmers because Harcourt, a man who never even set foot in Nigeria, was honoured by Frederick Lugard, the British imperialist who unified modern Nigeria, by naming the new port city after him in 1913.
But the reason this story is making waves again isn't just about colonial arrogance or a lingering hangover from the British Empire. It's about who Lewis Vernon Harcourt actually was. Historical accounts paint a disturbing picture, suggesting his sexual behaviour towards the young, involving both boys and girls, was an open secret within his social circles. He died in 1922, reportedly from an overdose of sleeping medication, amidst whispers of suicide as allegations concerning his abuse of a child were threatening to surface.
Yet, here we are in 2026, and the name Port Harcourt persists, a supposed honour for a man and a system that owe Nigeria absolutely nothing. The push to change it isn't new. It was first highlighted back in November 2015 by Onyekachi Wambu, a distinguished London-based author and filmmaker, in an article titled 'Harcourt Must Fall'. Kio Amachree, a Kalabari son of the Delta and a staunch anti-corruption campaigner, is now leading the charge. He has repeatedly demanded that Rivers State shed this uncomfortable name.
Lugard himself admitted in his correspondence that he chose the name "in the absence of any convenient local name," when local names like Diobu or Iguocha were readily available. Harcourt, in his gracious reply, expressed his pleasure at having his name attached to the port. This pleasure has endured for over a century on a major Nigerian city.
Amachree’s current campaign zeroes in on a more complex, and perhaps more damning, reality. The reason the name hasn't changed isn't due to a lack of will, but a lack of local consensus on what to call it instead. The Ikwerre people have their preferred names and claims, as do various Okrika and other Ijaw communities. These discussions about renaming quickly spiral into heated arguments about ownership, indigeneity, and ethnicity.
And so, ironically, the dead English aristocrat 'wins' because living Nigerians can't agree on a replacement. Amachree's proposal is simple and sensible: separate the issues. First, decide if Harcourt deserves the honour. If not, remove the name. Then, and only then, debate the replacement. Why should an agreement on a new name be a prerequisite for ditching a disgraceful one, he asks.
This situation goes beyond Rivers State; it mirrors a broader African challenge. We often lament colonial inheritances. Yet, when the moment arrives to replace them, we sometimes find that establishing an African alternative requires agreement among Africans. This often proves far more difficult than simply leaving the European legacy untouched. Nigeria itself is a grand example.
English remains our official language, not because we lack our own rich languages, but because choosing one indigenous language nationally would inevitably ignite profound disagreements among a nation of hundreds of languages and powerful, competing ethnic identities.
The very name 'Nigeria' was proposed in 1897 by British journalist Flora Shaw, who later married Frederick Lugard. It was intended as a convenient label for Britain's territories around the Niger River. It's a striking irony that Lugard couldn't find a "convenient local name" for Port Harcourt. Yet, the country bears a name devised in London for administrative ease. It continues to use the colonial language as a supposed neutral ground.
This peculiar stasis, this inability to move past colonial nomenclature due to internal divisions, is a challenge that echoes across the continent. The debate over Port Harcourt is a stark reminder that sometimes, the most difficult battles aren't against external oppressors, but within ourselves, over who we are and where we truly belong.