The unending carousel of defections

Nigeria’s political arena, ever the theatre of intrigue, is witnessing yet another season of defections. Governors, senators, and party chieftains are abandoning opposition ranks for the ruling All Progressives Congress (APC), echoing patterns seen in the Second and Third Republics when politicians treated party loyalty as a revolving door. The latest domino to fall is […]

Nigeria’s political arena, ever the theatre of intrigue, is witnessing yet another season of defections. Governors, senators, and party chieftains are abandoning opposition ranks for the ruling All Progressives Congress (APC), echoing patterns seen in the Second and Third Republics when politicians treated party loyalty as a revolving door.

The latest domino to fall is Delta State Governor Sheriff Oborevwori, who defected from the Peoples Democratic Party (PDP) alongside his predecessor, Ifeanyi Okowa—a man whose tenure remains under the cloud of EFCC investigations. Akwa Ibom’s Governor Umo Eno, meanwhile, has openly pledged allegiance to President Bola Ahmed Tinubu’s 2027 ambition, while NNPP’s Rabiu Kwankwaso reportedly weighs a similar move.  

To the casual observer, this might signal the APC’s invincibility. But as history reminds us, Nigeria’s democracy has always thrived—or withered—on the whims of its political class, not the aspirations of its people. The current wave of defections, far from being an anomaly, is a recurring script in Nigeria’s political playbook, one that prioritises survival over ideology and personal gain over public good.  

The spectre of one-party dominance looms large over Nigeria’s Fourth Republic. In the First Republic, the Northern People’s Congress (NPC) held sway in the North, while the National Council of Nigerian Citizens (NCNC) and Action Group (AG) dominated the East and West. These regional blocs, though fragmented, ensured a balance of power.

• Funding freeze, high treatment cost, heighten Nigeria’s malaria burden
• Tinubu’s aides, Atiku’s coalition bicker over defections

By the Fourth Republic, however, the PDP’s 16-year rule became a masterclass in political monopoly, until internal fractures birthed the APC in 2013. Today, the APC appears poised to replicate that hegemony, buoyed by defectors fleeing a crippled PDP and smaller parties like the NNPP.  

Yet, one-party dominance in Nigeria rarely stems from ideological appeal. Instead, it is forged through federal might, patronage, and the tactical use of state institutions. The EFCC’s relentless pursuit of opposition figures—even as APC allies like Ganduje evade scrutiny over bribery allegations—suggests a playbook where anti-graft agencies double as political enforcers.

For governors like Okowa, defection may well be a survival tactic, trading party loyalty for legal insulation. This pattern is not new: in 2014, then-ruling PDP stalwarts like Rotimi Amaechi and Rabiu Kwankwaso defected to the APC, citing “internal injustice,” only to replicate the same culture of impunity in their new party.  

The APC’s growing dominance risks eroding Nigeria’s federalist ethos. With state governors increasingly dependent on federal allocations and “security votes,” the autonomy of subnational governments diminishes, centralising power in Abuja.

This centralisation stifles innovation and accountability, as seen in states like Kano and Rivers, where opposition voices are routinely suppressed through financial or judicial coercion.  

Amid the APC’s ascendancy, opposition elements are scrambling to forge a “mega coalition.” Former Vice President Atiku Abubakar, ex-Kaduna Governor Nasir El-Rufai, and Labour Party’s Peter Obi have reportedly begun talks—a move reminiscent of the 2013 PDP exodus that birthed the APC. But history also warns of coalition pitfalls. The 1983 Progressive Parties Alliance crumbled under personal ambitions, just as the 2007 Mega Progressive Peoples Party (MPPP) dissolved into irrelevance.  

For a coalition to succeed today, it must transcend vanity and vendetta. Nigerians care little for elite squabbles; they seek solutions to collapsing infrastructure, hyperinflation, and insecurity. A viable opposition must articulate a clear alternative to Tinubu’s reforms—beyond criticising subsidy removal or naira devaluation. Can Atiku and Obi, architects of past PDP and Labour Party failures, reinvent themselves as champions of systemic change? Or will this coalition, too, collapse under the weight of competing egos?  

The Labour Party’s surprise performance in the 2023 elections, fuelled by youth discontent, offers a blueprint. However, its reliance on Peter Obi’s persona rather than institutional structures mirrors the PDP’s over-dependence on Atiku. Without robust grassroots mobilisation and policy frameworks, even the most charismatic leaders risk becoming figureheads in a system rigged for dynastic politics.

Behind the defections and coalition theatrics lies a nation in distress. The cost-of-living crisis has pushed millions into poverty, with inflation nearing 34 per cent and unemployment at 33 per cent. 

Yet, Nigeria’s political elite remains engrossed in a game of musical chairs, oblivious to the music’s dissonance with public suffering. The National Assembly recently earmarked ₦110 billion for luxury vehicles amid a nationwide fuel scarcity, while state governors jet to Dubai for medical tourism, leaving dilapidated hospitals in their wake.

This disconnect is not merely ideological but existential: a 2023 Afrobarometer survey found that 72 per cent of Nigerians distrust political parties, viewing them as vehicles for elite enrichment.  

Defections may fortify the APC’s 2027 prospects, but they deepen voter cynicism. When politicians pivot from corruption-accused to ruling party stalwarts overnight, citizens see not democracy, but a cabal trading power while the masses bleed. The 2023 voter turnout—26.7 per cent, the lowest since 1999—reflects this disillusionment.  

The media, often hailed as the Fourth Estate, is complicit in this decline. Many outlets, dependent on government advertising or owned by politicians, sanitise corruption and amplify partisan narratives. Investigative journalism, once a bulwark against impunity, is stifled by threats and dwindling revenues. Meanwhile, social media—a double-edged sword—fuels misinformation, reducing complex policy debates to viral hashtags and personality clashes.  

Financial hegemony further entrenches the status quo. The APC’s war chest, bolstered by defectors’ “dollarised” contributions, dwarfs opposition resources. In the 2023 elections, vote-buying surged, with party agents openly auctioning PVCs in rural strongholds. This commercialisation of politics excludes the poor and cements a cycle of transactional governance.  

Nigeria is not yet a one-party state, but the drift is unmistakable. The APC’s growing tent risks entrenching a system where opposition exists in name only, sustained by defectors seeking refuge, not reformers seeking change. Yet, hope flickers in the coalition talks. If opposition leaders can shed their baggage, prioritise policy over personality, and speak directly to the electorate’s pain, they might yet revive competitive politics.  

The road ahead demands more than elite realignments. Civil society, labour unions, and the judiciary must reclaim their roles as arbiters of accountability. Citizens, too, must move beyond apathy, leveraging platforms like the #EndSARS movement to demand systemic overhaul.  

As the late political theorist Claude Ake once noted, Nigeria’s democracy thrives not on elite consensus, but on the people’s resolve to demand accountability. Whether that resolve can outlast the defection carousel remains to be seen. For now, the nation stands at a crossroads: one path leads to democratic renewal, the other to entrenched oligarchy. The choice, ultimately, lies with the people.   

 

Musa wrote from Abuja