Youth in politics: For real change or just to stay relevant?

I have sat in countless rooms filled with brilliant young Nigerians, rooms buzzing with energy, frustration, and raw hope. I have listened to voices trembling with both passion and pain. I’ve seen eyes light up with dreams of a better country, and I’ve also seen those same eyes grow weary, dimmed by broken promises, systemic […]

I have sat in countless rooms filled with brilliant young Nigerians, rooms buzzing with energy, frustration, and raw hope. I have listened to voices trembling with both passion and pain. I’ve seen eyes light up with dreams of a better country, and I’ve also seen those same eyes grow weary, dimmed by broken promises, systemic injustice, and the weight of survival.

And so, I ask myself, and I ask all of us:

Are we, as young people, rising to change Nigeria or just struggling to be seen?

This question is not about judgment. It’s about reflection. Because behind every protest, policy paper, or campaign slogan, there is a human story. A young Nigerian tired of being used as a political prop. A girl who organised her community’s first townhall because her cousin died from a preventable illness. A boy who led a sanitation drive in his area because he’s tired of watching children fall sick from dirty water.

In today’s Nigeria, where institutions falter and the promises of democracy often feel like broken echoes, there is one undeniable truth: the youth are rising. Whether through civic engagement, digital advocacy, protest movements, or the bold step into politics, young Nigerians are stepping into spaces they were once told to wait their turn for.

It is an inspiring moment, one filled with energy, innovation, and the collective hunger for a different future.

But alongside the hope, there is a creeping concern. A concern that beneath the surface of youthful energy lies a subtle drift, not toward transformation, but toward imitation. Are we, the youth, truly rewriting Nigeria’s political narrative, or are we simply learning to play the same old game better? Are we fighting for real systemic change, or are we just seeking our share of relevance in a system we claim to detest?

For decades, young Nigerians have been instrumental in driving political campaigns, mobilising votes, and amplifying messages. Yet, when it comes to leadership and decision-making, we are often sidelined. Used, not included. Praised, but rarely empowered. The frustration with this dynamic is real. It has birthed youth movements, hashtags such as the #NotTooYoungToRun,  and calls for generational power shifts. But change is not about age alone. It is about mindset, methods, and maturity.

The uncomfortable truth is this: not every young person in politics today is driven by values. Many are driven by vanity. Some of us have turned activism into performance, and political engagement into branding opportunities. We wear the language of change like a costume, while behaving no differently than the older generation we often criticise. The same power-hoarding tendencies, the same cliquish politics, the same obsession with status over service, these habits are not bound by age.

This is why we must pause and reflect.

What exactly are we trying to build? What is our vision for Nigeria, not just as a country, but as a system of values, institutions, and people? Are we building a new foundation or just repainting the same crumbling walls?

If youth participation in politics is to mean anything beyond trending hashtags and photo ops, then we must hold ourselves to higher standards. We must build something deeper than social capital, we must build moral capital, intellectual capital, and institutional credibility. Our movements must be grounded not in noise, but in purpose.

We must ask ourselves some serious questions:

What values are we committed to beyond the badge of youth?

Is our process inclusive, participatory, and democratic, or are we just recycling elite behaviour in youthful clothing?

Are we building structures that can endure, or are we fixated on moments that can go viral?

Are we mentoring, or just marketing?

Are we investing in policy knowledge, governance expertise, and community development, or are we settling for visibility as the end goal?

From my personal experience working with thousands of young people in civic spaces, advocacy campaigns, and community development projects from the grassroots to high-level, I have seen the full spectrum. I have witnessed raw brilliance, passionate, innovative young people solving problems with limited resources and unlimited courage. But I have also seen ego undermine progress. I’ve seen initiatives collapse because they were built around personalities, not principles. I’ve seen people more interested in media coverage than measurable impact.

This must change.

If we truly want to lead Nigeria, then we must first learn to lead ourselves, with discipline, integrity, and humility. Leadership is not defined by who speaks the loudest or who has the most social media followers. It is defined by who can build institutions that outlive them, who can influence ideas beyond their circle, and who can deliver outcomes that improve people’s lives.

We must begin to build internal leadership pipelines,not just spaces for charismatic individuals, but systems that nurture competence, values, and collaboration. We must create room for mentorship, for capacity development, for ideological grounding. And yes, we must learn to engage elders without being consumed by their politics. Respect is not submission. Wisdom does not mean weakness.

Equally, our struggle must be intersectional. It must include young women, people with disabilities, those from rural communities, not as decoration, but as co-creators of the future we seek. Leadership must reflect the diversity of our lived experiences. Anything less is tokenism.

Zainab Ahmad is a youth advocate and development practitioner based in Kano

We must also rethink how we measure success. Too often, youth movements begin with revolutionary zeal and end up chasing political appointments or contracts. That’s the danger of relevance. It feeds the ego, not the society. It provides access, but not necessarily impact. If all we want is to sit at the table without changing what is being served, then we are not a threat to the status quo, we are a continuation of it.

This is not a call to cynicism, but to deeper commitment. The real fight for Nigeria’s transformation is not glamorous. It is slow, frustrating, and requires consistency. It demands people who are willing to build in silence, to lose popularity for the sake of principle, and to labour for results they may never personally benefit from.

Because ultimately, the fight for a better Nigeria is not a sprint, it is a relay. We must run our leg of the race with vision, integrity, and strength. And when the time comes, we must be willing to hand over the baton with dignity, knowing we have built structures that are bigger than our names.

Let us resist the temptation of becoming a generation obsessed with optics. Let us instead become a generation obsessed with outcomes. Let us define ourselves not by what we protest, but by what we build. Not by what we oppose, but by what we imagine and implement.

The youth of Nigeria have what it takes. But we must choose between performance and purpose. Between fame and legacy. Between chasing relevance and creating real, lasting reform.

So I leave you with a question that haunts me and should haunt every young Nigerian who believes in change:

Are we here to transform the system or just to be seen?

The answer will shape our future. And history, as always, is watching.