Nigeria is a nation of parties—literal and metaphorical. It is a Nation too vibrant for monolithic politics. From the fiery debates over whose jollof rice reigns supreme to the cultural pride in regional delicacies like Amala, Tuwo, and protein-laced soups, Nigerians are wired to reject monotony. This culinary diversity mirrors the country’s political appetite: a craving for choice, competition, and flavor. The idea of a one-party system? As implausible as a national consensus on the “best” dish. The 2023 presidential election results, and the political drama unfolding since, only reinforce this truth.

While it is a feast of fractured mandates, a look at the 2023 verdict—whether court-backed, IREV-maligned—reveals no landslide, only a smorgasbord of lessons. The figures speak plainly. President Bola Tinubu of the ruling All Progressives Congress (APC) secured 8,794,726 votes (37% of valid votes), narrowly defeating Atiku Abubakar of the Peoples Democratic Party (PDP) with 6,984,520 votes (29%) and Peter Obi of the Labour Party (LP) with 6,101,533 votes (25%). Rabiu Kwankwaso of the New Nigeria Peoples Party (NNPP) trailed with 1,496,687 votes (6%). Tinubu’s victory was neither a sweep nor a mandate of invincibility. Notably, Atiku and Obi’s combined votes (13 million) dwarfed Tinubu’s tally, underscoring a fragmented opposition’s self-inflicted defeat. Had Kwankwaso aligned with Obi or Atiku swallowed his ambition to back a single challenger, the APC’s grip might have snapped.

But let’s not sugarcoat it: the opposition’s failure wasn’t just tactical—it was existential. The PDP, once a behemoth that governed for 16 years, now resembles a retirement home for recycled ideas, while the LP’s surge, though impressive, relied more on Obi’s cult of personality than institutional depth. The NNPP? A regional footnote. Meanwhile, Tinubu’s 37%—the lowest winning share since 1999—exposes a leader ruling with a fractured mandate in a nation where 63% voted against him.

We see a geography of discontent with the nation sliced three ways, such that it further diluted Tinubu’s dominance. He won 12 states, the same as Atiku, while Obi clinched 11 states plus the Federal Capital Territory (FCT). This regional split—Tinubu in the Southwest, Atiku in the Northwest/Northeast, Obi in the Southeast/South-South—reveals a nation divided yet defiant against hegemony. In Lagos, Tinubu’s “kingmaker” aura cracked as Obi snatched the state, a symbolic blow to the godfather’s invincibility. In Kano, Kwankwaso’s NNPP trounced APC, proving that even the North’s political machine isn’t monolithic.

But here’s the rub: Nigeria’s voting patterns are less about ideology and more about identity. Ethnicity and religion still dictate ballots, with parties serving as vehicles for regional champions. The Southeast’s embrace of Obi, a Christian Igbo, and the North’s loyalty to Atiku, a Fulani Muslim, underscore this reality. Tinubu’s “national” victory? A patchwork of backroom deals, not a unifying vision.

For APC, it must be a gathering storm or a gathering rot, two years is a lifetime in Nigerian politics. The PDP’s 16-year rule collapsed in 2015 under the weight of arrogance and corruption. Today, the APC faces similar vulnerabilities, even as it parades new defectors. Since 2023, the party has absorbed governors, senators, and influencers from the PDP and LP—a trend it touts as strength. But history warns otherwise.

Defectors in Nigerian politics are political nomads, driven by opportunism, not ideology. Recall how Governor Godwin Obaseki defected from APC to PDP in 2020, only to later feud with his new party. Or Senator Dino Melaye, a serial defector whose loyalty shifts with the wind. These “fair-weather allies” dilute party cohesion, breeding internal strife and policy paralysis. The APC’s swelling ranks now resemble a crowded marketplace—full of noise, low on trust. Is this a Trojan horse strategy to implode the party from within? Perhaps. After all, a party bloated with rivals becomes a theatre of war.

It is also important to note that there is also the opposition’s inertia, more like the art of snatching defeat from the jaws of victory. While the APC grapples with defection-driven chaos, the opposition’s inertia is equally glaring. Beyond critiquing the APC’s failures—rising insecurity, economic ruin, corruption—the PDP and LP offer little innovation. Their playbook? Recycled promises from the 1990s. Where are the bold visions for Nigeria’s 21st-century crises?

Take youth unemployment: 53% of young Nigerians are jobless, yet neither PDP nor LP has articulated a credible plan to harness this demographic time bomb. Where is the Marshall Plan for renewable energy in a nation where 92 million lack electricity? Or the blueprint for healthcare in a country losing doctors to global brain drains? Instead, opposition leaders recycle slogans like “restructuring” and “unity,” buzzwords as empty as a campaign promise.

Peter Obi’s 2023 momentum, fuelled by youth disillusionment, exposed a hunger for fresh faces. Yet, the LP’s post-election strategy has devolved into legal theatrics and social media hype. Meanwhile, Atiku, 77, clings to his perennial candidacy like a relic, oblivious to a nation where 63% of the population is under 25. The opposition’s fatal flaw? Mistaking anti-APC sentiment for pro-opposition fervor. Nigerians crave solutions, not slogans.

Scary for analysts like us, is the silent majority, the 36 Million ghost voters and our democracy’s unseen crisis. They are perhaps the loudest message from 2023, the 36 million registered voters who stayed home. With just 24 million votes cast (29% of 93 million registered voters), apathy overshadowed enthusiasm. In 2015, turnout was 44%; by 2023, it plummeted to a historic low. For many, politics feels like a choice between “the devil and the deep blue sea.”

But apathy isn’t indifference—it’s dissent. Nigerians are protesting a system rigged against them: a 2023 election marred by voter suppression, technical glitches, and allegations of judicial complicity. Why vote when the courts “correct” the people’s “mistakes”? Why engage when politicians swap parties like runway models change outfits?

This disillusionment is a tinderbox. If 2027 mirrors 2023’s apathy, Nigeria risks a legitimacy crisis—a government elected by a minority, ruling over a seething majority. The stakes? Not just democracy’s survival, but social stability in a nation where 70% live in poverty.

Yet, Nigerian politics thrives on chaos and surprise. Today’s underdog could be tomorrow’s kingmaker. President Muhammadu Buhari lost three elections before clinching power in 2015. Peter Obi rose from LP’s obscurity to win 25% of the 2023 vote. Who’s next?

Watch the youth. With 42% of Nigerians under 14, the next generation is a sleeping giant. Movements like #EndSARS proved their power—and their rage. A candidate leveraging youth angst, tech, and social media could redraw the political map. Imagine a “zebra” candidate—an outsider like #EndSARS activist—channelling this energy into a presidential bid.

Or watch the states. Governors like Babajide Sanwo-Olu (Lagos) or Alex Otti (Abia) are building subnational legacies that could eclipse federal failures. A coalition of progressive governors might just bypass Abuja’s dysfunction altogether.  I believe that there are wildcards and game-Changers—the zebras in the room.

The kitchen is still hot: No One-Dish Democracy. Nigeria’s political menu will never be a one-dish affair. The APC’s current lead is no guarantee of 2027 success, just as the opposition’s disarray isn’t permanent. For democracy to thrive, parties must evolve beyond transactional defections and tired rhetoric. Voters, too, must re-engage, turning apathy into accountability.

To the political class: Adapt or perish. The youth are watching, the hungry are waiting, and the clock is ticking. To Nigerians: The 2027 pot is simmering. Will you add your ingredient, or let others dictate the flavor?

As the dance toward 2027 begins, one truth endures: in a nation where jollof rivalry sparks passion, political complacency is a recipe for disaster. Nigeria’s democracy, like its parties, thrives on vibrancy, not monochrome. The next act awaits—and the audience is starving for change—May Nigeria win!

Prince Charles Dickson PhD

Politics in Nigeria over the years has always been denominated by notable peculiarities. This of course is relative to time and season. The gamut of its aesthetics resides in the frills and thrills, dramas and theatrics, which it throws up. Electioneering engenders colourful rallies in stadia and open arenas, complete with songs, chants and dance. Oftentimes, such events build up into resplendent carnival crescendos in the African sunshine. Roadshows offer similar excitement, music booming and blaring from loudspeakers mounted on branded automobiles, electrifying the streets and cities, as huge processions accompany mobile platforms. It is the season when aliases are minted and sobriquets conjured, when major political dramatis personae are conferred with novel honorifics and nomenclatures.

Nigeria’s First and Second Republic politics featured notable legends like Jeremiah Obafemi Awolowo; Samuel Ladoke Akintola; Augustus Meredith Adisa Akinloye; Moses Adekoyejo Majekodunmi; Busari Adelakun and Adeniran Ogunsanya, from Nigeria’s present day South West. From the South East came icons like Alvan Azinna Ikoku; Nnamdi Benjamin Azikiwe; Kingsley Ozumba Mbadiwe; Michael Iheonukara Okpara, while today’s global North had the Abubakar Tafawa Balewas; Sa’adu Zungurs; Aminu Kanos; Yusuf Maitama Sules, among others. Awolowo was nicknamed Awo evidently derived from the full spelling of his surname, while the fearless, daring Adelakun was festooned with the alias Eruobodo, which means the “river fears no one.” For his pan-Africanist endeavours, Azikiwe was commonly referred to as Zik of Africa, while Aminu Kano was the Baba’n Talakawa, on account of his strident advocacy for the proletariat, the down-trodden.

Aliasing on the political trail subsists even up until the present. Lamidi Adedibu a colossus in the politics of Oyo State in his time, was reputed for his affinity with the underprivileged. As many urchins and street kids who accessed his expansive home in Molete, Ibadan, were assured of regular meals, the staple being amala, yam flour. While Adedibu in one breath was the exemplar of amala politics, he was also famously known as Alaafin Molete. Alaafin is the title of the king of Oyo, a foremost kingdom in Yoruba and Nigerian history. Adedibu was said to have been eminently influential in his district, Molete, Ibadan, his hands strengthened by the swarming army of youngsters beholden to him as their ultimate benefactor. His wishes were his commands. The title of Alaafin, arguably the Number One royal in Oyo State, was therefore appropriated and honorarily bestowed on him. For as long as he lived, Adedibu was a major factor in the politics of Oyo State, whose voice indeed echoed in Aso Villa, seat of national governance.

Nigeria’s botched Third Republic brought forth Isiaka Adetunji Adeleke as Governor of Osun State, in January 1992. He was a very cosmopolitan and charismatic personality who was born in Enugu in Nigeria’s South East. He was noted for the remarkable styling of his headgear, which pointed skywards like that of a chef, as against the norm in Yoruba land. He contested for the governorship of Osun State on the platform of the extinct Social Democratic Party, (SDP) and won, just months after the creation of the entity in August 1991. The manner of his first time sweep of the gubernatorial poll earned him the sobriquet Serubawon, the one dreaded by his adversaries. Isiaka Adeleke’s younger brother, Ademola Adeleke who like his older sibling is Governor of Osun State, has since adopted and popularised his brother’s signature cap. Such are the variegated spin-offs of politics in our own part of the world.

Conversations around Nigeria’s 2027 presidential poll have begun rather early. The administration of President Bola Tinubu is barely two years in office, yet the national space has been drowned in the din of an election which is more than 700 days away. Cross-carpeting and defections have assumed fever-pitch as politicians try to secure their places in the political scheme, post-2027. Governors, parliamentarians, government appointees, serving and retired continue to move around like yo-yos. Their whole lives, their eternal relevance seem solely predicated on the sustenance of their proboscis, deep inside the torso of our collective patrimony. Many politicians in the present milieu have become permanent fixtures in our politics. As though they are the only Nigerians capable of adding value to governance and nation-building.

Proclamations about Tinubu being the sole presidential candidate of the All Progressives Congress, (APC) in the 2027 presidential ticket have been made. He will run unopposed. Olusegun Obasanjo, the First President of the ongoing Fourth Republic, was challenged at the 2003 presidential primary of his party at the time, the Peoples Democratic Party, (PDP), by no less a politician and statesman, than Alex Ekwueme, Nigeria’s Second Republic Vice President, a foundation member of the PDP. This underscores the politics of accommodation promoted by Obasanjo a strong President in his own era. Affirmations are equally being chanted, as affixture to the on your mandate we shall stand chant, popularised by Tinubu promoters during the 2022/2023 electioneering exercise. Mere mortals are making matter-of-fact declarations and pronouncements with the manner of certitude and conviction about the future which presupposes they know the plans and workings of the mind of the Almighty God Himself.

Nigeria’s former Vice President, Atiku Abubakar, has remained a very formidable factor in Nigeria’s politics since the days of the primordial SDP, back in 1992. Despite being a newcomer to partisan politics having just retired from public service at the time, Atiku posted a notably strong performance for a newbie at the party’s presidential primary in 1993. This ensured he was a decider in the subsequent emergence of Moshood Kashimawo Olawale Abiola, (MKO), as presidential candidate of the SDP. Abiola beat Baba Gana Kingibe, in the runoff between both men, in Jos that year, largely because of Atiku’s personal sacrifice. Atiku continued to hone his skills as a politician, build cross-national friendships and relationships and to align with democratic elements even under the dreadful regime of Nigeria’s former pseudo-maximum ruler, Sani Abacha. He was tracked to his Kaduna home by Abacha agents and attacked. A number of armed security operatives on guard in his house were neutralised just as he escaped by the whiskers and went into exile.

Atiku was Governor-elect of Adamawa State, early 1999. He was awaiting inauguration when he was chosen to pair Obasanjo’s presidential ticket, after the PDP presidential primary. Instructively, the primary took place in Jos, where the SDP presidential primary in which he previously participated, held six years before. The Obasanjo/Atiku ticket won the presidential election proper and Atiku Abubakar became the First Vice President of Nigeria subsisting Fourth Republic. Talk about one politician who has friends and associates across all of Nigeria’s 774 local government areas and you find that in Atiku Abubakar. He needs not grope in the dark searching for acolytes. And because he is ever in touch with his affiliates and foot soldiers, they rally spontaneously to his beckoning and causes.

If there is one politician today whose name evokes trepidation in the ranks of the establishment, that person has to be Atiku Abubakar. His vast public service experience; his successful forays into the private sector; his profound knowledge of the Nigerian conundrum; his deft organisational skills; his flexibility as a team player; his charm and charisma, combine to underline his formidability. Concerned Nigerians in recent weeks and months, have been reaching out to Atiku to lead the charge for change in the nation’s political leadership. While the overall socioeconomic health of the nation is draped in gloss and fine print by incumbents, the situation is excruciating on the streets. There is palpable hunger, worsened by skyrocketing inflation. Insecurity continues to pummel the citizenry by way of kidnappings, banditry, insurgency and wanton killings across the breadth of the country. Depression has accentuated suicide rates as many succumb to despair and despondency. The national space is thick and dark with tangible foreboding.

True, Nigeria’s opposition parties are almost irredeemably discombobulated as we speak. The very thought of Atiku commitedly attempting to sew a pathway out of the tatters, however, is very concerning to the status quo. The experience of the 2023 presidential election where the APC capitalised on the fact of the dismemberment of the PDP behemoth into three political smithereens remains very fresh. Hopefully, political archaeologists will some day unearth the debauchery and chicanery which attended the tallying of the final results of that election. To forestall a recurrence of that incident, a viable cross-party partnership is being conceived to rescue Nigeria from its present abyss, as Nigerians continue to agonise about the glaring failures and failings of the incumbent regime. This underlines mass angst, with the Tinubu administration consistently fingered for excruciating hardship and the attendant national lachrymose.

The evolving political alliance calculated to confront the incumbent dispensation, is gathering adherents by the day. At the centre of this movement is Atiku Abubakar whose every guest, every visit to like-minded politicians, every event he participates in, evokes interest and debate, in opposing political quarters. Atiku is fittingly the contemporary Serubawon. He is the one whose sneezes reverberate across the political sphere, causing tremors in the ranks of his adversaries. The journey to 2027, by the way, is just beginning. There are no foreclosures as yet. Not at all.

Olusunle, PhD, Fellow of the Association of Nigerian Authors, (FANA), is an Adjunct Professor of Creative Writing at the University of Abuja

Last week’s column took state governors to task, and the response was electric: inboxes flooded, phone lines buzzed, and hashtags trended. Nigerians are starved for public office scorecards that rely on more than rumour and partisan noise. In that spirit, and with the second anniversary of the 10th National Assembly staring us in the face, the spotlight now swings toward the legislature.

In Washington, where we borrowed our presidential model, lawmakers live under the unforgiving glare of the Legislative Effectiveness Score: fifteen indicators that weigh everything from the originality of bills to the art of steering them through committees. Add the Healthy Congress Index (HCI),which checks the institution’s pulse—how often it debates and how transparent the votes are—and you have an ecosystem where inertia is quickly shamed. Abuja, by contrast, offers no such dashboard. All we possess are lofty promises voiced from the rostrum on Inauguration Day and the quiet, often-seething expectations of 220 million citizens. Those promises form the spine of this mid-term review; those expectations supply its moral urgency.

First, the numbers. In its opening year, the Senate introduced 464 bills and passed 19; in the second year, up to this May, 341 bills produced a meagre seven enactments. The House looked busier—1,727 bills filed by December 2024, 114 of them passed—but peel away the seven executive-sponsored measures and the apparent productivity deflates. Committee clerks admit that roughly one-third of all texts are recycled from earlier parliaments, some lifted almost verbatim from the 8th and 9th Assemblies. It is legislative déjà vu: copy, paste, rename, re-announce. Quantity, yes. Originality and rigour, no. This Assembly would languish in the bottom quartile by the American yardstick that prizes innovation and shepherding skill.

The quality deficit shows up in what lawmakers choose to rush. The National Anthem Bill of 2024—re-introducing the 1960 song “Nigeria, We Hail Thee”—sailed through first, second and third readings in a single sitting, then became law within eight days. Critics wondered why a symbolic lyric change earned lightning attention while food-price bills languished. A similar haste-then-rethink story dogs the Students’ Loan Act: passed in 2023, repealed and reenacted in 2024 after design flaws emerged. Speed seems reserved for headline bills and presidential priorities; everything else becomes legislative traffic.

If legislative output has been underwhelming, economic stewardship has been positively somnolent. The economy has seesawed from subsidy removal through currency free-fall to inflation that makes a mockery of monthly pay slips, yet Parliament has rarely mounted an independent critique of budgets, revenue forecasts or tax proposals. Hearings on the 2025 Finance Bill—an instrument that will decide whether families stay afloat or sink—featured more cabinet ministers than civil society witnesses. The optics are unmistakable: the legislature has abandoned its role and now promoting the agenda of the executive . The National Assembly held just two stand-alone debates on monetary or fiscal strategy and rubber-stamped the record-sized 2025 budget in 31 sitting hours—barely one-third the time the 8th Assembly devoted to the smaller 2016 estimates.

Where the economy goes, social misery follows. Nigerians now speak of poverty, food prices, banditry, kidnappings and unemployment as if they were the weather—inescapable, ever-present, uncaring. One might expect a flurry of poverty-reduction bills, police reform blueprints, or social welfare overhauls. Instead, the Order Paper remains eerily devoid of landmark initiatives. The lone poverty-relief measure that did clear both chambers has been trapped in the harmonisation mill for half a year, gathering dust while food queues at all gatherings lengthen.

Public sentiment is matching the numbers. Citizens have noticed. A media sentiment scan across 18 dailies found a 72-per cent negative slant toward the Assembly this year. The latest Afrobarometer country brief finds that only 19 % of Nigerians trust National Assembly “somewhat” or “a lot,” a figure lower than the police and barely above political parties. In an era when Instagram comedians draw bigger live audiences than oversight hearings, that statistic feels less like survey data and more like lived reality.

When the Policy and Legal Advocacy Centre (PLAC) set out to gauge public faith in National Assembly, its findings were bleak: confidence in the National Assembly hovered near rock bottom. Wanting to test whether that verdict was an outlier or a mirror, I sifted through months of news coverage and then spoke, quietly and without a script, to two hundred Nigerians spread across markets, campuses and motor parks. Their verdict echoed PLAC’s numbers—distrust has hardened into something close to resignation. The Speaker of the HOR, writing in the Guardian, conceded that Parliament must “earn back the people’s faith.” It takes no political genius to decode that sentence: the legislature’s legitimacy is in free fall, and even its highest officers can feel the rush of air.

Why the distance? Many civil society voices point to the Electoral Reform Bill, which should sit at the heart of any democracy worth the name. Instead, it idles on committee desks, adjourned and re-adjourned while more photogenic bills leapfrog it on the order paper. Electoral rules shape everything else—how leaders are chosen, how accountable they feel, and how national resources are shared. Treat that foundation lightly, and the cracks spread into every social and economic wall we’re trying to shore up. Until lawmakers urgently confront that truth, the trust deficit they bemoan will only widen.

Another reason for that collapse is the anaemic quality of debate. Plenary sittings open without forming a quorum. Though you have 100 per cent attendance on the register, the Senate hardly witnesses more than 40 persons on the floor. The House of Representatives (HOR) is worse; not more than 50 members are out of 360 on a good day. Bills often sprint through first and second readings in minutes. Committee rooms—those sweatshops of legislative business —registered a mere 14 investigative hearings in two years, compared with 61 during the equivalent stretch of the 8th Assembly, confirming that the watchdog’s bark now registers as a whimper. Civil society groups invited to testify say draft bills sometimes arrive the night before or not at all. Oversight this thin cannot scarify an errant minister, let alone a recalcitrant bureaucracy.

Institutional reform, loudly trumpeted on inauguration day, has suffered the same fate. The presiding officers promised digital voting boards, live attendance logs, televised committee sittings and a root-and-branch rewrite of the standing orders. Two years later, the boards are dark, the logs are unpublished, the cameras are absent, and the rulebook is “with consultants.” Promises postponed are promises broken. Misuse of voice voting for a serious national issue, such as declaring a state of emergency in Rivers state, screams of a National Assembly ready to sell its soul for the “porridge” of the Executive.

And then there is money—the ₦6.9 trillion worth of projects smuggled into the 2025 budget, spanning a staggering 11,122 individual schemes. There is no need assessments, community consultations, or GPS-tagged disclosure of location —just pork-barrel politics on a scale large enough to feed an ark. This total legislative add-on is above the combined capital votes of health and education. Just imagine that!

Civil society trackers can find locations for barely a quarter of the projects, procurement portals list even fewer contractors. The optics feed a perception of “Legis-looting” so potent that 21 citizens have already sued the presiding officers for budget opacity, while anti-graft agencies circle but have yet to pounce.

Patterns emerge: a recycling culture that dilutes policy innovation; deference to the Executive that hollows out checks and balances; token oversight that lets scandals slip through the net; opaque spending that deepens the conviction that everyone under the dome is on the take. Each pathology feeds the next like cogs in a depressing machine.

What to do? Borrow, yes—but not mindlessly—from the United States. The National Institute for Legislative Studies could design a Nigerian Legislative Effectiveness Index in concert with civil society and the media, weighting originality, cross-party sponsorship, committee diligence and real-world impact. Every bill should face a “rigour filter” before the second reading: a clear problem statement, a fiscal note, and evidence of stakeholder consultation.

Constituency projects could be forced into the sunlight by a public, geo-tagged dashboard that lets citizens upload smartphone photos of progress—or the lack thereof. Committees deserve independent counsel, research budgets and minority-party chairs for at least 30 per cent of probes, reversing the rubber-stamp culture. And National Assembly must anchor quarterly, nationally televised debates on the economy, timed to the budget cycle, forcing lawmakers either to defend fiscal choices or fold under the klieg lights.

None of this is utopian. All of it is achievable. The 10th National Assembly is not the laziest in purely numerical terms—thousands of bills tell that story—but by any honest qualitative yardstick, it is the least consequential in a decade. Nigeria’s cascading crises require a legislature that legislates, scrutinises and inspires confidence. The good news is that redemption is still possible; the bad news is that the window is shrinking by the week. Citizens have started counting the seconds aloud. Whether lawmakers can still convert this chorus of disillusion into a spur for reform will decide not only the legacy of the 10th Assembly but also, in part, the trajectory of Nigeria’s fragile democracy.

Two years remain. That is enough time to pivot from legislative theatre to legislative therapy: subject every new bill to rigorous stakeholder input , schedule quarterly macro-economy debates that cannot be waived; and adopt a Nigerian-tailored Legislative Effectiveness Index data. These and not outrage should drive the end-term review. Until such reforms take root, the 10th National Assembly’s legacy risks being summed up in one brutal statistic—nineteen per cent.

Since leaving office in May 2023, former Nigerian President Muhammadu Buhari has evoked all manner of sentiments. While his die-hard supporters idolize him for his perceived integrity and simple mien, most Nigerians write him off as, perhaps, the most inept to ever lead Africa’s most populous Black nation. Indeed, very few people look back at Buhari’s tenure for inspiration or with any nostalgic feeling, not necessarily because the present administration has done substantially better, but because the systemic rot in the nation’s economy assumed a worse dimension on Buhari’s watch. 

Buhari sunk so low in the estimation of reasonable Nigerians that only a handful of those who served in his 8-year administration will defend it with any pride. And, as if he is aware of the public disdain for his low-energy performance, the former military strongman has tactfully remained out of public view, holed up mostly in his Daura village. 

The past month, however, was different. Not only was Buhari drawn into the public space once again by politicians seeking to benefit from whatever remains of his goodwill, but the flurry of activities connected to political realignments ahead of the 2027 elections thrust him into an undeserved positive spotlight. 

Like a bride, he is being gilded in gold; his flaws are being buried in the heap of eulogies by all manner of opportunistic politicians. The gilding has come from leaders of his APC desirous of using his influence to mend the cracks in the party, as well as opposition politicians who are interested in latching onto his famed popularity among the North’s talakawa.

The visit by governors of the ruling All Progressives Congress at his newly renovated Kaduna home threw up similar visits by leaders of the fledgling coalition of opposition politicians led by Atiku Abubakar and Nasir el-Rufai, as well as the APC National Working Committee, led by its National Chairman, Alhaji Umar Ganduje. But it was the governors’ visit and the overly patronizing words of their leader, Governor Hope Uzodinma, that agitated many Nigerians. 

Ostensibly for the Eid-el-Fitr celebrations, the visit had all the trappings of partisan politics following the disquiet in the APC over President Tinubu’s lopsided appointments that relegated members of Buhari’s faction in the APC, the Congress for Progressive Change. 

After praising Buhari for publicly affirming that the APC remains his party, despite CPC members’ grumblings, Governor Uzodinma of Imo State, who is also the Chairman of the Progressive Governors Forum (PGF), went on a mission to gild the man in gold. He claimed, without offering evidence, that Buhari’s handling of the nation’s affairs during his presidency, specifically security, the economy, and anti-corruption, was outstanding and commendable. He was quoted in a statement by Garba Shehu, Buhari’s media aide, as saying “Your Excellency, your legacy in Nigeria’s history is secure…Your administration gave expression to our party’s core principles through your focus on security, economic recovery, and anti-corruption. Your efforts reclaimed territory from insurgents, extended social investment programs … and ushered in road and rail revolution that is still bearing fruit…” 

Uzodimma was either massaging Buhari’s ego or he was genuinely trying to rewrite history. He did not bother to elaborate on the nation’s security gains when he was in power, nor the positives of whatever economic policies he initiated. But, since the scars of Buhari’s poor handling of those two national issues – security and the economy – are still fresh, it is important to interrogate Uzodinma’s claim against the reality of our experiences.

Buhari was in charge when the Global Terrorism Index shockingly ranked Nigeria as the third most insecure nation on Earth, a designation that highlighted the alarming levels of violence and instability that plagued the country. On his watch, terrorists displayed a brazen audacity, carrying out attacks on a wide range of targets, from strategic national institutions to elite military formations, leaving many citizens feeling vulnerable and unsafe in their homeland. 

In what seems to be an attempt to rewrite our recent history, it appears that he has conveniently forgotten, perhaps deliberately, some of the most egregious incidents that marked the era of terrorism. A few reminders will suffice. Notably, over a hundred armed terrorists on motorcycles launched a daring assault on Kuje Prison, successfully freeing nearly a thousand of their associates who were held behind bars. This audacious breach of security not only exposed the vulnerabilities in our correctional facilities but also raised critical questions about the effectiveness of the national security apparatus under Buhari.

To further illustrate the poor security climate, in 2021, terrorists shockingly invaded the prestigious Nigerian Defence Academy, a key institution responsible for training the nation’s military leaders. In this attack, they killed two soldiers. Even the Brigade of Guards, the elite team assigned to protect the President himself, faced a serious security breach, shamefully so for a regime headed by a retired army general. 

So what was the basis of Governor Uzodinma’s outlandish claims? 

If Buhari’s handling of the nation’s security was poor, his economic policies were nothing short of disastrous. And to call him a prudent man and an anti-corruption hero would be to distort the realities of his administration. For a leader who inherited a debt profile of just over 10 billion dollars, it is astonishing to note that Nigeria’s debt soared to nearly 45 billion dollars during his tenure, a steep increase that raised serious questions about the administration’s fiscal prudence.

It was under Buhari’s administration that the controversial policy of upfront payment for proceeds from the country’s oil was introduced. This practice, novel in its absurdity, seriously undermined the financial stability of the nation, the scars of which exist till today.. 

In addition to these absurdities, the Fiscal Responsibility Act of 2007 was brazenly contravened as the Central Bank of Nigeria was exposed to trillions of Naira through that dubious mechanism known as Ways and Means. Like many of his policies, this ultimately jeopardised the nation’s financial health, with all its negative impact that still torment hapless Nigerians to this day.

It was political opportunism at its best for the governors to seize such a visit, ostensibly for the Eid-el-Fitr, to turn facts on their head. 

I can understand President Bola Tinubu’s continued pandering to Buhari, including the reported renovation of his Kaduna home. Although their relationship has occasionally been viewed as politically transactional, Tinubu has made deliberate efforts to maintain close ties with Buhari for broader strategic aims, especially in preventing the emergence of a rival APC faction around Buhari. 

He owes his emergence to the former President, but he hasn’t bothered to praise him unduly, mainly because, in saner climes, Buhari ought to still be with anti-corruption agencies rendering account of what was generally adjudged a disastrous tenure. It is Tinubu’s aides that find it expedient once in a while to take swipes at Buhari, blaming him for the mess they met on the ground in 2023.

The plaudits on Buhari are not only misplaced, they are fundamentally disconnected from the lived experiences of Nigerians. While one may not begrudge Governor Uzodinma the right to promote his party and its leaders by painting them in whatever bright colours he finds necessary, decency demands that he does so without insulting the sensibilities of other Nigerians.