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What is unfolding in Nigeria today is not routine politics; it is a test of whether democracy here is substance or stagecraft. The Tinubu era is beginning to look less like democratic stewardship and more like power guarding itself against the people it claims to serve. A government that cannot stomach criticism is a government that fears the verdict of its own citizens.
Democracy is not a favour politicians grant the public; it is a leash the public places on power. When those in office start tugging at that leash – tightening civic space, frowning at dissent, and treating opposition as a hostile act – they reveal a dangerous impulse: the desire for control without accountability.
The experiences surrounding figures such as Nasir El-Rufai and Abubakar Malami have become cautionary tales in elite circles. These are not radicals or street agitators; they are establishment figures who know how power works. When such actors appear to face intense pressure after falling out of favor, the signal is unmistakable. The message travels far beyond them: dissent at your own risk. And when fear enters politics, democracy quietly exits.
President Bola Ahmed Tinubu built his legend as a defender of pluralism, a patron of opposition politics, a man who once framed himself as a bulwark against one-party dominance. That history now stands in judgment over the present. Because nothing is more politically damning than a leader who once demanded democratic space but now appears uncomfortable with it. Nigerians are not naïve; they recognize when democratic language becomes a ladder to power that is kicked away once the climb is complete.
Look at the institutions. The National Assembly of Nigeria increasingly looks less like a check on the executive and more like its choir. Oversight has dulled into applause. Confirmation hearings feel pre-decided. When a legislature stops asking hard questions, it stops representing the people and starts representing proximity to power. That is how republics weaken – from inside the chamber, not outside it.
The judiciary, meant to be the citizen’s shield, now labours under a cloud of public suspicion whenever politically sensitive rulings arise. Allegations and reports of hurried orders, opaque processes, or conveniently timed detentions – whether ultimately upheld or not – chip away at the one currency courts cannot afford to lose: trust. A court that citizens do not trust becomes just another arena of power, not a refuge from it.
Then there is the electoral arena, the heart of democratic legitimacy. The Independent National Electoral Commission (INEC) should be the one institution above suspicion. Yet public debate around its leadership shows how fragile confidence has become. Critics have raised concerns about perceived religious bias linked to the commission’s new head – concerns that resonate in a country where faith and identity are politically sensitive. The point is not only whether such fears are fair; it is that they exist at all. An electoral umpire must not merely be neutral; he must be seen as neutral by Muslims, Christians, and everyone in between. Anything less invites crisis.
Let us be blunt: Nigeria is flirting with civilian authoritarian habits. Not tanks on the streets, but pressure in the background. Not decrees, but selective enforcement. Not bans on opposition, but a climate that makes opposition costly. This is how modern democratic backsliding works. It is polite on the surface and ruthless underneath.
And the timing is not accidental. As 2027 approaches, the incentives to manage the political environment grow stronger. Incumbent power rarely trusts the unpredictability of the ballot. It prefers to shape the field before the whistle is blown. That is the oldest trick in political survival: don’t win the game fairly – tilt the pitch.
But here is the activist truth many would rather whisper than shout: democracy cannot survive where citizens are intimidated, where institutions are domesticated, and where dissent is stigmatized. A nation of over 200 million vibrant, argumentative, politically conscious people cannot be governed like a private estate.
Nigerians must remember that every democratic gain they enjoy today was wrestled from power, not donated by it. Civil rule itself was born from struggle, protest, and the refusal to be silent. When citizens grow quiet out of fear or fatigue, power grows loud with impunity.
This is not a call for chaos; it is a call for vigilance. Democracies die not only when soldiers seize power, but when citizens surrender scrutiny. The vote matters only where the environment allows it to matter. The constitution lives only where people insist that it does.
The real danger is not that Nigeria will wake up under dictatorship tomorrow. The real danger is slower and more insidious: that Nigerians will gradually adjust to less freedom, fewer choices, weaker institutions, and call it normal. That is how democratic expectations shrink. That is how nations with loud democratic histories become quiet managed states.
Power must be reminded – constantly – that it is temporary. The ballot must remain a threat to leaders, not a ritual that flatters them. Opposition must remain legitimate, not suspicious. Institutions must serve the republic, not the ruler.
If Nigerians do not defend democratic space now, they may soon find themselves negotiating for its return later. And history shows that rights reclaimed are always more expensive than rights defended.
