Local Government Autonomy: Review Statutory Revenue Sharing Formula

 By Emeka Chiaghanam

I once watched two old friends’ part ways on a cobbled street in Lagos. The harmattan air carried the scent of woodsmoke and damp wool as their hands met, not with ceremony, but with the easy familiarity of shared history.

Their fingers intertwined briefly, palms pressing with unspoken understanding, before releasing with a quiet finality. In that ordinary moment, I saw something extraordinary: the handshake isn’t just a greeting. It’s a silent contract written in flesh and bone, a relic of our deepest instincts.

But why do we do it? Why does this peculiar ritual, this pressing of palms, persist across centuries and cultures? The answer lies in the shadows of medieval marketplaces, where every outstretched hand carried a hidden question: Friend or foe?

The Dagger Check

Picture a 14th-century trading post. The air is thick with the metallic tang of blood from the butcher’s stall, the sour-yeast stink of ale, the musky sweat of horses. A stranger approaches. Your right hand, your sword hand, drifts instinctively toward your belt. But instead of drawing steel, you open your palm. Empty. The stranger mirrors you. Your hands clasp. Your fingers tighten just enough to feel for hidden blades in the other’s sleeve. The shake? A final test, a jostle to dislodge any last dagger.

This wasn’t politeness. This was survival.

Fast forward to today: that same gesture happens in job interviews, first dates, diplomatic meetings. We’ve forgotten the violence baked into it, but our bodies remember. A firm grip still signals trustworthiness; a limp hand still sets off alarms. Evolutionary psychologists call this "haptic intuition", our ability to read character through touch. When your boss crushes your fingers, your hindbrain still whispers: Dominance. When a stranger’s palm is clammy, your pulse still quickens.

The Alchemy of Touch

Close your eyes and recall the last meaningful handshake you shared. The warmth of their skin. The slight roughness of a laborer’s calluses or the polished smoothness of an office worker’s palm. The faint citrus of hand sanitiser or the earthy musk of leather from a well-worn briefcase.

Dr. Eleanor Voss, a neuroscientist at Cambridge, explains why these details matter: "Skin-to-skin contact triggers a cascade of oxytocin, the same hormone that bonds mothers to infants. A good handshake isn’t just etiquette. It’s biochemistry."

This explains why Zoom meetings leave us hollow. We might exchange words, even smiles, but without that crucial touch, our brains never fully register the other person as real. I learned this the hard way during lockdown, when air hugs and elbow bumps left me feeling like a ghost. Then, at a rare in-person meeting, my editor reached out his hand. The moment our palms met, two years of pixelated small talk dissolved. Suddenly, we were here, together, in a way no screen could replicate.

The Silent Language of Palms

Not all handshakes speak the same dialect. In Botswana, a lingering grasp asks for patience. In the Philippines, a gentle press of the knuckles shows respect. The French poignée de main is a brisk ballet, two quick pumps, then release. Each variation whispers cultural values: hierarchy in Japan’s bowed handshake, egalitarianism in America’s firm grip.

Yet everywhere, the core message remains: I come in peace.

This universality fascinates anthropologists. Dr. Kwame Osei, who studies tribal rituals in Ghana, notes: "Even in communities where handshakes aren’t traditional, the gesture spreads instantly. There’s something primal about it—a language older than words."

A Ritual Under Siege

Then came the pandemic. Suddenly, our most instinctive greeting became suspect. We invented alternatives—elbow bumps that felt like bad comedy, toe taps that made us look like dancing cranes. The more creative we got, the more we ached for the real thing.

Studies from the University of Chicago tracked this longing. Participants who substituted waves for handshakes reported feeling "unfinished" after interactions, as if conversations lacked punctuation. MRI scans showed reduced activity in the brain’s social cognition regions during touchless greetings. We evolved to need this contact.

The Future of the Handshake

Will it survive? Maybe not unchanged. Gen Z already prefers fist bumps—quicker, cooler, less formal. Globalisation introduces new norms; Japanese executives now practice firmer grips for Western business deals. Some predict the handshake will fade like hat-tipping or curtsies.

But I doubt it.

Because beneath every modern adaptation, the ancient need remains: to prove we’re not threats. To bridge the gap between you and me. To say, without words, I trust you enough to let you feel my pulse.

Next time you shake hands, try this: pause mid-grasp. Feel the life thrumming against your skin—the slight moisture, the subtle pressure, the unique topography of their palm. That’s not just a greeting. That’s the echo of a thousand medieval marketplaces, a million cautious first meetings, an unbroken chain of humans saying: Let’s take this chance.

The daggers are gone. The trust remains. And perhaps that’s the most remarkable evolution of all.