In the global theatre of politics, democracy is often hailed as the ultimate ideal “a government of the people, by the people, and for the people” a phrase we have recited since childhood, a mantra that has echoed through classrooms, political rallies, and national celebrations. We were taught that democracy rests on the pillars of equality, justice, and accountability. We were told it is a system where every citizen has a voice, where leaders are answerable to the people, and where the will of the masses is the compass that guides governance.
But what happens when the government deliberately ignores that will? What happens when the very institutions created to represent us drown out our voices with their own self‑interest? In Nigeria, this democratic ideal is too often sacrificed on the altar of personal ambition, ethnic loyalty, and elite entitlement. What we are witnessing today is not governance; it is a grand performance. A multi‑billion‑naira masquerade where the masks change, but the choreography of exclusion remains the same.
We are forced to confront a chilling question: Is this truly a democracy, or is it a sophisticated crime scene?
They told us June 12 was the sacrifice and May 29 the resurrection. They told us the era of military decrees was over, and that power now belonged to the trader in the market and the woman in the village. But look closely at Nigeria in 2024, 2025, and 2026. Does this look like a government of the people? Absolutely not.
What we are witnessing is the funeral of freedom, conducted in a five‑star hall, paid for with the taxes of the grieving family.
In the so‑called “Giant of Africa,” democracy is no longer a system of governance; it is a meticulously choreographed heist. We are told the ballot box is sacred, yet the hands that carry it are often stained with the ink of pre‑written results. We are told the will of the people is supreme, yet that will is suffocated by a small elite who treat the Nigerian state as a private estate. If democracy is truly for the people, why do the people feel like victims of their own government?
In Nigeria, democracy has become a kind of political voodoo. You enter the polling booth, perform the ritual of voting, but the “spirits” in the collation room decide the miracle. We live in a country where leaders use the constitution like a napkin, wiping their mouths after feasting on our collective future. It is a paradox, a tragedy, and a daylight robbery dressed in a fully starched agbada.
The 24‑Hour Miracle: Speed Over Substance
Nothing exposes the hypocrisy of our political class more than the lightning speed with which the Electoral Act 2026 was passed and signed into law. In a country where basic infrastructure takes decades to complete, our lawmakers and the Presidency managed to “perfect” the rules of our democracy in less than one business day. If it wasn’t so tragic, it would be comedic.
The ink was barely dry on the Electoral Act 2026 (Amendment) Bill before Nigerians felt the sting of disappointment. President Bola Tinubu’s swift assent, within 24 hours of passage sparked outrage and criticism nationwide. The haste with which the bill was signed into law has raised questions about whether the president had adequate time to review the document, given its significance and the concerns raised by various stakeholders. How does a bill of such national significance, one that determines the fate of elections, get reviewed, debated, and signed at such supernatural speed?
Was it genuine governance, or simply a formality dressed up as democracy?
Protests, petitions, and public outcry have become routine in Nigerian politics. But are these voices being heard? Or are they treated as background noise, irritating but ultimately irrelevant to those in power?
The 2026 Electoral Act: A Legalized Heist
For years, Nigerians believed technology would save our elections. We believed IReV, the INEC Result Viewing Portal would shine light into the dark corners of rigging. But our politicians are always one step ahead of the software.
The 2026 amendment is a masterclass in legislative deception. It was marketed as a “gift to the nation,” yet it is nothing more than a Trojan horse.
Yes, the Act finally acknowledges IReV in statute, but it also introduces a deadly loophole: the infamous “network failure” clause.
This clause allows a return to manual collation whenever technology “fails”, a term the law conveniently refuses to define.
In a country where “technical glitches” are the preferred excuse for electoral manipulation, this provision hands politicians a legal shield for the very fraud the law claims to prevent. It is a masterpiece of doublespeak, appearing to modernize elections while ensuring the old guard retains the master key to the counting room.
The Executive Monarchy: Rule by Decree in an Agbada
We were told that in a democracy, the President is a servant of the people. But in Nigeria of 2025 and 2026, the Presidency has morphed into an executive monarchy, unquestioned, unrestrained, and unaccountable.
Take the 2025 fuel subsidy removal and the subsequent currency float. On paper, these were economic reforms. In reality, they were academic experiments performed on living human beings without anaesthesia.
When the subsidy was removed, we were promised that the savings would fix our roads, schools, and hospitals. But a glance at the 2026 Budget tells a different story. While ordinary Nigerians can barely afford transportation, billions were allocated for a “Presidential Yacht” and offices for the “First Lady”, offices that does not even exist in the constitution.
This is the hypocrisy: the poor are told to tighten their belts while the elite buy bigger trousers. They preach “renewed hope” to a man who has not eaten in two days. It is psychological warfare, where suffering is rebranded as patriotism.
The National Assembly: The Most Expensive Rubber Stamp in the World
If the Executive is the king, the National Assembly has become the praise‑singer. A Nigerian legislator earns more than a brain surgeon, yet their primary function in 2026 appears to be chanting “The ayes have it!” to every request from the Villa.
Where is the oversight? Where is the accountability?
Instead of summoning ministers to explain why 133 million Nigerians are multi‑dimensionally poor, they summon TikTok comedians for “offensive skits.” Instead of interrogating the missing ₦26 billion PTDF funds, they debate their own allowances and constituency projects, projects that often amount to solar streetlights that stop working after two weeks.
Meanwhile, the Naira continues its freefall, and the people continue to suffer.
The Myth of the Voice of the People:
They tell us to protest peacefully. But when we do, the government responds with intimidation, blackmail, and propaganda. If you complain about hunger, you are labelled an agent of destabilisation. If you demand transparency, you are branded a tribal bigot.
The bitter irony is that many of today’s leaders rode into power on the back of protests in 2014 and 2015. They were the activists of yesterday who have become the oppressors of today. They climbed the ladder of democracy and then kicked it away so no one else can follow.
The Bitter Taste of Empty Plates
This brings us to the most painful aspect of the Nigerian experiment: the fractured relationship between the state and the common man. Real democracy in Nigeria is not found within the hallowed, air-conditioned chambers of Abuja; rather, it is found in the weary eyes of a father standing at a Lagos bus stop, agonizing over a mental calculation of whether his salary can stretch to cover both a loaf of bread that his family will eat and his transportation back home. It is found in the quiet heartbreak of the graduate who realizes that their hard-earned certificate is merely a decorated piece of paper in an economy that rewards connection over competence.
There is something almost saint‑like about the Nigerian citizen’s patriotism. He loves a country that repeatedly breaks his heart.
Consider the labourer who wakes at 4 a.m., trekking past crumbling infrastructure to reach a job whose minimum wage cannot buy a single bag of rice. Consider the youth who, despite being branded “lazy” by the elite who stole their future, still waves the green‑white‑green flag with pride whenever a Nigerian athlete triumphs abroad.
The Nigerian loves Nigeria with a fierce, irrational, almost desperate passion. He will stand in the pouring rain for hours just to cast a vote, clinging to the fragile hope that maybe, just maybe, this time the Giant of Africa will finally rise from its slumber. He pays his taxes into a fiscal black hole, yet still contributes to buying transformers, repairing boreholes, and organising community security, all to help the state perform duties it has long abandoned.
But Nigeria, as a political entity, does not love him back.
To the elite, the common man is not a stakeholder; he is a statistic to be managed, a pawn to be moved, a stomach to be bought with a five‑kilogram bag of salt and a two thousand naira note every four years. It is a tragic, one‑sided romance where millions of citizens surrendering their sweat, their soul, and their blood, while the state offers nothing in return but austerity, excuses, and ever‑increasing tariffs.
We have become a nation of two hundred million lovers, systematically jilted by a handful of heartless suitors.
Our leaders are playing a game of chess with our lives, but they are the only ones with the pieces. To them, the masses are numbers, useful during elections, disposable during governance. They remember the people only when the drums of campaign season begin to beat; once the votes are counted, the citizens are pushed back into the shadows while the national cake is shared among the privileged few.
There is a specific, sharp pain in realising that the very people who swore on the Bible and the Quran to protect you are the ones draining your blood. It is the pain of a child discovering that his father sold the family house to buy a bottle of champagne. We are not just poor; we are betrayed.
And beneath the famous Nigerian “suffering and smiling,” a cold, quiet anger is brewing. You can starve a man for a long time, but the moment you tell him that his hunger is illegal, you cross a line from which there is no return.
The Call to Action: Beyond the Lamentation
We can no longer afford to be a nation of suffering and smiling spectators. If the political class has turned democracy into a masquerade, then we, the audience, must refuse to clap. Apathy is the oxygen of corruption. When citizens check out, the corrupt breath easier. When we stop caring, they have already won.
This is the moment to reclaim the “Office of the Citizen,” the highest office in any democracy. Not with violence, not with chaos, but with deliberate, organised, relentless civic engagement.
Here is what we must do:
- Question the Law:
Use your constitutional power as citizens to demand transparency. Tag your representatives. Ask them the hard questions. Use your social media platforms, your community meetings, your town halls, your WhatsApp groups, every available space, to interrogate your councillors, your House of Assembly members, your Senators.
Democracy dies when citizens stop asking “Why?” - Reject the Stomach Infrastructure:
The 2027 cycle has already begun. The political class is counting on our short memory and our empty pockets. We must educate our communities that a bag of rice today is the reason there will be no hospital tomorrow. A two‑thousand‑naira note today is the reason your child will sit on a broken classroom chair next year.
We must break the cycle of selling our future for crumbs. - Support the Watchdogs Civil society organizations
Like Yiaga Africa, The Surge Network, SERAP, Connected Development (CODE), and others are the last line of defence against total institutional capture. They are the ones dragging corrupt officials to court, demanding transparency, and shining light into the dark corners of governance.
Support them. Amplify them. Defend them. - The Power of the Paper:
Your voter’s card is not just plastic, it is power. If you have not updated your registration, checked your polling unit, or transferred to a closer location, do it now. Do not wait for election fever. By then, it will be too late.
A democracy where citizens do not vote is a democracy waiting to be stolen. - The Office of the Citizen Never forget
The Presidency is not the highest office in the land. The Citizen is. But an office is only powerful when the occupant is active. Silence is surrender. Participation is power.
A Nation Too Beautiful to Abandon
Nigeria is too beautiful, too rich, and too full of promise to remain in the hands of those who love only its resources and not its people. The time has come for the common man to stop settling for crumbs and demand a love that is mutual, a love that protects rather than plunders. We must decide, here and now, whether we will continue as silent, grieving victims of this sophisticated crime scene or confront the hypocrisy of our democracy head‑on. The moment demands that we stop watching our own exploitation like spectators at a tragic play and instead rise as architects of our own liberation. Our responsibility is to transform this system from a machine of greed into a structure that nourishes our children’s futures rather than feeding the bottomless ambitions of a privileged few.
We must make our votes count, or make our voices so loud, so persistent, and so heavy with truth that those in power cannot sleep. The masquerade of governance continues only because we, the spectators, keep clapping while our pockets are being picked. It is time to stop the music, tear down the curtains, and unmask the dancers. We are not statistics. We are not pawns. We are the soul of this nation. And the time is long overdue for us to demand a country that finally, truthfully, and wholeheartedly loves us back.
Boma Lilian Braide(Esq.) is the founder of the Surge Network
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