Two hundred million naira for the presidency and seventy million for the House of Representatives,if you are poor in Nigeria, forget leadership, forget ambition, forget democracy.
Nigeria is staring at a moral crisis, and the price tag is written in naira. The recent revelation of the nomination fees for the All Progressives Congress elections is not just shocking. It is a declaration. It tells every Nigerian loud and clear: if you are poor, your voice ends at the ballot box. Your ambition ends at the margin of affordability. You cannot dream of governing this country.
Two hundred million naira for the presidency. One hundred million for a Senate ticket. Seventy million for the House of Representatives. One hundred and fifty million for governorship. Twenty million for state assembly. These are not errors or exaggerations. These are the gates erected at the entrance of our democracy. Gates that only a wealthy few can step through.
Two hundred million naira for the presidency. Seventy million for a House of Representatives ticket. Democracy in Nigeria now comes with a price tag. Who can afford to lead?
If you are poor, forget it. The gates of leadership have been built for the wealthy. This is the price of democracy in Nigeria.
Nigerians, ask yourselves: do we want leaders chosen by competence or by bank balance? Two hundred million naira just became the test of ambition.
This is not exaggeration. This is exclusion. This is democracy for the privileged few. And it is happening now.
Your dream to serve your country now has a price. If you cannot pay, you cannot lead. Democracy cannot survive like this.
Think about that for a moment. Two hundred million naira could build a hundred classrooms in rural communities, provide scholarship for thousands of children, or equip multiple hospitals with essential medical tools. Yet this same amount is now the price of entry for one man to sit in the highest office of the land. One man, one ticket, and millions of ordinary Nigerians are excluded before the campaign even begins.
In a country where millions struggle to survive, where parents cannot afford school fees, where electricity, water, and healthcare remain luxuries, political participation has become a commodity. Not a right. Not a civic duty. A privilege that comes with a price tag so high it borders on absurdity.
Is this moral? Is it ethical? Does it align with the very principle of governance as service? Or is it a brazen message that leadership is for the elite, for those who can write blank checks and not feel the sting?
Consider what this does to representation. How can a politician who paid hundreds of millions for a form genuinely understand the life of a farmer struggling to feed his family, or a trader whose business collapses under the weight of multiple taxes and insecurity? How can they represent ordinary Nigerians when they themselves start from a place of wealth unimaginable to millions?
This is more than exclusion. It is hypocrisy in its rawest form. It turns democracy into a marketplace where votes are secondary to bank balances. It ensures that the corridors of power are populated not by the most competent or the most visionary, but by the few who can afford the price of entry. Merit is sacrificed at the altar of money. Integrity is measured not by action, but by bank statements.
And the ripple effects are inevitable. When leadership is bought, corruption becomes almost certain. When politicians begin with wealth as their ticket, the temptation to recover that expense through public office is overwhelming. The system creates a cycle where the poor are voiceless, the middle class is excluded, and the wealthy monopolize influence under the guise of democracy.
Every naira charged as a nomination fee is a statement about who matters in Nigeria. And this statement is clear: if you are poor, you do not matter. If you cannot pay, your voice does not count. Democracy has been monetized, and the cost is the very soul of the nation.
Nigerians need to ask themselves hard questions. Do we want leadership determined by competence, vision, and service, or by the depth of one’s pocket? Do we want a government that listens to all citizens, or only to those who share the social class of those who bought their seats?
This is not a distant problem. This is your neighbour, your cousin, your community member who dreams of making a difference but cannot step past the gate. This is the young teacher with brilliant ideas who cannot pay seventy million for a House of Representatives form. This is the nurse who saved lives during the pandemic but cannot pay twenty million to run for state assembly. Democracy has excluded them before it even begins.
We cannot ignore this. We cannot shrug and say that politics has always been expensive. This is different. This is systemic exclusion, a moral failure at the highest level. It tells every young Nigerian with a dream that their ambition is worthless unless their parents are wealthy or their pockets deep. It tells every citizen that leadership is no longer about service, but about survival in a system rigged for privilege.
This is a moment for collective conscience. The ruling elite must be asked why leadership in a nation of over two hundred million people has become the preserve of the wealthy. The Independent National Electoral Commission must be asked whether such fees are justifiable in the context of the nation’s inequalities. Civil society must mobilize to ensure that the gates of democracy do not become walls.
Nigeria cannot thrive when its democracy is priced out of reach. It cannot progress when the corridors of power are occupied by the few who can afford entry rather than the many who have vision, courage, and commitment. The moral question is simple: do we accept a democracy for all, or governance for the privileged few?
And the answer must be loud, unambiguous, and immediate. Democracy cannot have a price tag. Leadership cannot have a ceiling. Nigerians cannot remain silent while the nation’s future is put on auction.
Stephanie Shaakaa
08034861434
