In any functioning democracy, party primaries exist to allow party members to choose who will represent them in a general election. In Nigeria, however, that purpose has been systematically eroded. What now exists in many parties are political fiefdoms where state governors effectively determine who receives party tickets. This concentration of power has reduced the entire process to a mockery of democratic participation.
By Shu’aibu Usman Leman
Every electoral cycle in Nigeria begins with the same familiar spectacle. Political parties unveil elaborate timetables, aspirants purchase nomination forms worth tens of millions of naira, and party officials appear before television cameras promising “free, fair, and credible” primaries. Yet, by the end of these exercises, what emerges bears little resemblance to democracy as understood in any mature political system. Instead, Nigerians are subjected to a chaotic display of manipulation, intimidation, vote-buying, and backroom bargaining masquerading as political competition.
What is perhaps most disturbing is that the public is no longer shocked by this disorder; it has become fully institutionalised and entirely predictable. Every electoral cycle follows the same script, producing the same frustrations and deepening public cynicism about the democratic project itself.
During the recent primary exercise in Bauchi, I decided to observe part of the process firsthand. I expected to see delegates gathering, debates taking place, or at the very least some visible form of democratic engagement. Instead, there was virtually nothing to witness. The atmosphere around several party offices was eerily deserted and clouded with uncertainty. Even acquaintances moving between different party secretariats had little information to offer. There was no tangible activity to suggest that any meaningful political selection was underway.
That unsettling experience reinforced an uncomfortable truth that in contemporary Nigerian politics, the real decisions are no longer made in public. The formal primary has become little more than a hollow ritual designed to legitimize outcomes already determined elsewhere.
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In any functioning democracy, party primaries exist to allow party members to choose who will represent them in a general election. In Nigeria, however, that purpose has been systematically eroded. What now exists in many parties are political fiefdoms where state governors effectively determine who receives party tickets. This concentration of power has reduced the entire process to a mockery of democratic participation.
Even where queue-counting or open Option A methods are employed to create the appearance of transparency, the exercise often descends into outright farce. It is now common for figures recorded during physical counting to be duplicated or outrageously inflated in order to produce predetermined outcomes. To describe such exercises as democratic is an insult to the intelligence of the electorate. It is merely a choreographed performance in which ordinary party members are used to legitimize decisions already finalised in government houses. It is political theatre at its worst, and Nigerians know it.
At the centre of this structural dysfunction lies the corrosive influence of money. In modern Nigerian politics, financial power has become the primary qualification for political relevance. Delegate votes are openly monetised, party tickets carry unofficial but exorbitant price tags, and political loyalty is negotiated through patronage rather than conviction or competence.
This toxic environment excludes not only the economically disadvantaged but also many credible and highly qualified Nigerians who lack access to entrenched political networks. Individuals with ideas, vision, and integrity are routinely sidelined by those with deeper pockets or stronger political connections. In some instances, aspirants who are widely regarded as credible and principled — particularly those known for challenging poor governance or speaking independently — are deliberately pushed out of the process through dubious disqualifications, manipulated delegate lists, administrative technicalities, or sudden procedural changes designed to neutralise perceived threats to entrenched interests.
Politics therefore ceases to be about public service and instead becomes a high-risk commercial enterprise — one in which enormous investments are made with the expectation of substantial returns once political office is secured.
The consequences for governance are severe. When political office is treated as a business venture, public resources inevitably become instruments for patronage and debt repayment rather than tools for national development. Leaders become accountable not to the citizens they claim to serve, but to the networks that financed their rise to power.
This crisis is further compounded by the weakness of party institutions themselves. On paper, most Nigerian political parties possess constitutions, guidelines, disciplinary committees, and internal dispute-resolution mechanisms that suggest structure and accountability. In reality, however, these mechanisms collapse the moment powerful interests are involved.
Aspirants who challenge irregularities quickly discover that internal appeal processes are either ineffective or thoroughly compromised. Disputes therefore spill into the courts, placing additional strain on an already overburdened judiciary. Meanwhile, party leaders demonstrate little willingness to enforce their own rules when doing so threatens influential actors. Over time, impunity becomes normalised, and violations are no longer treated as exceptions but as standard political practice.
In many cases, state governors hand-pick loyalists and sycophants as preferred candidates for legislative offices. The recycling of mediocrity has become deeply entrenched, while highly competent aspirants are denied opportunities simply because of personal or political disagreements with those in power. Only the “anointed” candidates are permitted to advance. This is profoundly frustrating because, by the time general elections arrive, voters are often left with a Hobson’s choice — selecting merely between competing varieties of incompetence.
The damage caused by these deeply flawed primaries extends far beyond the political parties themselves. When candidate selection lacks credibility, the general election that follows loses much of its democratic value. Nigerians are left choosing between candidates produced by elite arrangements rather than genuine political competition. Elections cease to be contests of ideas and instead become battles between rival political machines.
The long-term consequences are even more dangerous. Citizens are steadily losing faith in democratic participation, while young people are becoming increasingly cynical about politics altogether. Many competent individuals now avoid public office entirely, convinced that the system is fundamentally hostile to fairness and merit. Gradually, society begins to normalize dysfunction, and democracy is hollowed out from within.
But none of this is beyond repair — if the political class is genuinely willing to change. Democracies elsewhere also experience factional battles and internal rivalries, yet their systems retain credibility because institutions are allowed to function and rules are enforced consistently. Nigeria can still strengthen its democratic culture, but that requires political parties to embrace genuine internal accountability rather than treating reform as empty rhetoric.
Delegate registers, for instance, must be independently verified, finalised, and published well ahead of primary elections in order to eliminate the manipulation that routinely occurs at the last minute. There must also be meaningful consequences for vote-buying, intimidation, violence, and the unlawful exclusion of aspirants. Rules without enforcement merely encourage further impunity.
Equally important is the need for transparent and genuinely independent dispute-resolution mechanisms within political parties themselves. Aggrieved aspirants should not be compelled to seek justice in the courts simply because internal processes have already been compromised by vested interests. If party institutions are incapable of resolving disputes fairly, they cannot credibly claim to be democratic organisations.
While the Independent National Electoral Commission (INEC) undoubtedly has an important regulatory role to play, it cannot substitute for the responsibility of political parties to reform themselves. No external body can impose democratic culture on institutions that are fundamentally unwilling to practise democracy internally.
Nigerians are no strangers to political disappointment, but we must stop pretending that every chaotic gathering labelled a “primary election” deserves to be described as democratic. What unfolded across many venues recently was not democratic competition; it was commercial transaction, elite negotiation, and, in some instances, outright political confrontation.
If political parties genuinely wish to be regarded as legitimate vehicles for democratic choice, they must begin behaving like democratic institutions. Until then, Nigeria will remain trapped in the same cycle of outrage, resignation, and recycled leadership — while the nation continues to bear the heavy cost of a democracy hollowed out from within.
