The Niger State Government has declared today, Thursday, October 30th, and tomorrow, Friday, October 31st, 2025, as public holidays ahead of the local government elections slated for Saturday, November 1st. Across the state, the air hums with campaign jingles, blaring megaphones, and anxious laughter. It is a carnival of democracy, full of drums, cheers, and suspense, a day of reckoning for some, and for others, the beginning of an awakening. It feels, as Jean-Paul Sartre once wrote, like “the hour when men are forced to confront themselves.”
As usual, the state is awash with promises, hopes, expectations, and calculations, those fragile illusions that politics so effortlessly breeds. Yet, at the end of it all, the ballot box delivers a verdict that silences all speculation: an empirical revelation of who truly commands the people’s trust, and who merely entertained it. For the ruling APC government under Governor Umar Bago, this election is more than a routine exercise, it is an examination of conscience, a public feedback session written in ink and sealed by the people’s will.
But beyond the arithmetic of votes lies something far more unsettling. In Niger State, as in most parts of Nigeria, poverty has become both a political weapon and a political wound: a double-edged sword that cuts through every campaign promise. Opposition parties try to harness the people’s anger, pointing to inflation, food scarcity, and rising costs as proof of government failure. Yet, the same poverty that fuels resentment can also be exploited through token gifts, envelopes, or bags of rice. In the theatre of Nigerian politics, hunger has become both the audience and the actor. It is a cruel irony: the same deprivation that should provoke resistance instead sustains manipulation. And this, as sociologist Karl Mannheim once warned, is “the tragedy of political consciousness shaped by want.”
As campaign fever thickens, one can feel the tension in the air: palpable, electric, almost suffocating. It’s not that the aspirants have lost faith; it’s that faith itself has become an expensive luxury. Only those who are well-fed seem capable of smiling sincerely these days.
Recently, I stumbled upon two campaign videos that pierced me with a strange mix of empathy and sadness. The first featured a councillorship aspirant trembling as he spoke to voters, his voice quivering under the weight of uncertainty, his eyes reflecting exhaustion and quiet desperation. The second showed another aspirant addressing a cheering crowd, their synchronized nods resembling a scene from a stage play—too rehearsed, too theatrical, too hollow to be real. Watching both, I couldn’t help but feel pity, not for their politics, but for their humanity.
We rarely pause to see the humanity in those who seek to lead us. To many Nigerians, political aspirants are villains in waiting—people driven by greed, not service. “They deserve no pity,” we say, as though running for office were a moral crime. Indeed, the moment an ordinary citizen declares interest in politics, they become a suspect, a target for mockery, a cash cow for everyone around. In this country, the fastest way to lose your peace, and your friends is to aspire for public office.
Our young people have perfected the art of “taxing” aspirants, visiting them under the pretense of loyalty, only to demand handouts. It is an open game of manipulation, each side trying to outwit the other. I once watched a scene that perfectly captured this tragic comedy: a candidate surrounded by nodding supporters, every gesture choreographed, every smile counterfeit. Beneath the chants and slogans was a silent transaction, the understanding that the only meaningful message was, “Put something down.”
Trust has evaporated from our politics like morning dew under a harsh sun. We no longer believe in ideals; we believe in incentives. Campaigns have become marketplaces where votes are auctioned to the highest bidder, and character is measured by generosity, not integrity. As political scientist Robert Dahl observed, “Democracy depends on mutual trust between leaders and citizens; once trust collapses, all that remains is bargaining.”
It is not true that all politicians are parasites. Some are genuine public servants long before they hold any office. I know of a councillor who drilled boreholes and repaired drainages in his ward, long before he was elected, acts of service that no official entitlement could ever repay. Yet, such sacrifices are rarely recognized. In our society, political aspirants are seen as bottomless wells of obligation. A single “I don’t have now” can erase a hundred good deeds. We measure compassion by consistency of giving, not sincerity of effort.
Politics in Nigeria has thus become a survival test. Only the overfed can afford to smile through the hunger of others. Only those shielded by wealth can survive the emotional malnutrition that comes with rejection, blackmail, and exploitation. The process is toxic—unsuitable for the modest or principled. Truth-tellers are outshouted by entertainers; sincerity is mistaken for weakness. People crave drama, exaggeration, spectacle, not honesty. Voters say they want integrity, but they vote for visibility. They say they detest corruption, but they revere those who can “drop something.”
And then, after the election, the same electorate who sold their conscience for peanuts will lament that politicians have betrayed them. The hypocrisy is breathtaking. During campaigns, many voters take “double shares” from rival aspirants, laughing in secret at their “wisdom.” Meanwhile, those same aspirants sell personal property, run into debt, and lose sleep to meet endless demands. When they eventually win and change, we call them heartless. But perhaps, by then, they are simply exhausted.
In truth, the road to leadership in Nigeria resembles a love story gone wrong. Like a suitor wooing his bride, every aspirant must charm, flatter, and impress. But once the vows are made and the gifts have been spent, reality sets in. The bride no longer smiles; the groom no longer kneels. What began as affection turns to endurance.
As Niger State heads to the polls this weekend, the carnival of democracy reaches its climax. There will be dancing, laughter, and noise, but behind the rhythm lies a silent tragedy. For while voters cheer, many aspirants bleed quietly—financially, emotionally, even spiritually. It is a “flogging season,” as locals call it, when politicians are stripped of dignity and empathy alike.
Yet, as we prepare to cast our votes, perhaps we should remember that leadership is not born in isolation. The character of our leaders reflects the conscience of our followers. We cannot demand honesty from those we have bribed, nor integrity from those we have mocked. Our politics is a mirror, and the reflection is ours to fix.
As the philosopher Alexis de Tocqueville once wrote, “In a democracy, the people get the government they deserve.” Maybe the time has come for Nigerians to ask—do we really deserve better, or have we simply refused to be better?
Bagudu can be reached at bagudumohammed15197@gmail.com or on 0703 494 3575.
