Politics, as it is practiced in Nigeria, is less a noble contest of ideas than a ceaseless duel between betrayals and loyalists. The battlefield is crowded, the weapons are words and promises, and the casualties are trust, friendship, and faith. Betrayal is not an exception—it is the grammar of the game.
A headline just caught my attention and has refused to leave my mind. It was attributed to former President Goodluck Jonathan and read with painful simplicity: “Buhari defeated me in 2015 because I was betrayed.” Another headline, this time from Daily Trust of September 4, 2025, put it bluntly: “Jonathan: How I was betrayed in 2015.” At the 70th birthday celebration of Chief Mike Oghiadomhe in Benin, Jonathan lamented that he had “witnessed a lot of betrayal” during his reelection bid, noting that Nigerian politicians were hardly dependable. His words carried the bitterness of one who trusted too much: “You’ll find it difficult to see somebody who will say the same thing in the morning and repeat it in the evening. But Oghiadomhe is different; he’s someone who would take a bullet for me.”
His reflection is not just Jonathan’s personal wound—it is the mirror of Nigerian politics. In truth, every politician and every voter has a tale of loyalty kept and betrayal endured. Jonathan, like the rest, cannot escape the double-edged sword. Betrayal is not simply an act; it is the very structure of political interaction in Nigeria. Political science scholar Richard Hofstadter once described politics as “the art of self-interest clothed in the language of public good.” Nigerian politics takes this further—it is a contest of supremacy between betrayals and loyalists, with the stronger side always emerging dominant.
A friend once shared with me his own bewildering experience in politics. He contested an election with high hopes, certain that his closest friends and relations would support him without hesitation. To his shock, many of those he thought were his strongest allies abandoned him, while strangers he never expected rallied to his side. This paradox, he said, was the cruel beauty of politics—that betrayal often comes from the trusted, and loyalty sometimes blossoms where you least expect it. His story made me realize that politics is never simply about relationships; it is about interests, calculations, and convictions that change with the wind.
Even in personal life, betrayal creeps in like an uninvited guest. I recall the story of two inseparable friends whose bond shattered when one decided to pursue marriage with the younger sister of the other. Instead of joy and honour, the move was met with resentment and rejection. What seemed like loyalty to love became betrayal to friendship. It taught me that human beings do not always interpret loyalty in the same way—and politics, built on fragile expectations, magnifies this reality.
Jonathan himself, as an elder statesman, now receives politicians seeking his blessing. He must smile, nod, and offer kind words without committing too openly. How can he? One cannot possibly endorse two rival aspirants vying for the same seat, yet politicians often expect precisely that. I recall how top contenders used to troop to General Babangida’s Hilltop residence in Minna or to Obasanjo’s Otta farm to seek endorsement. Nearly all left with smiles, convinced they had received approval. It was like birthday wishes—warm, hopeful, and insincere all at once. In truth, it was empathy disguised as support, but the perception of betrayal comes later when reality strikes.
And it is not only the politicians. The electorate is no less complicit. Voters too play the game of betrayal. They welcome every aspirant with open arms, smile at every promise, and secretly calculate who will give the most immediate benefit. Many even confess that they have two close friends contesting for the same office and do not know whom to vote for, while openly supporting both to preserve friendship. To survive in Nigerian politics is to perfect the art of double loyalty.
This explains why politicians often overpromise and underdeliver, not out of malice, but because betrayal is baked into the system. Jonathan promised to rescue the Chibok girls but could not. Buhari promised to end insecurity, revive refineries, and end the fuel subsidy scam, but failed. Their intentions may have been genuine, but the inability to fulfill them bred the perception of betrayal. As social theorist Niklas Luhmann argued, “Trust reduces complexity.” Once trust is broken, the complexity of politics becomes unbearable.
Defection, another hallmark of Nigerian politics, deepens this sense of betrayal. Jonathan himself has argued that laws should prevent politicians from defecting at will, citing Kenya’s model of regulating party structures. He also proposed that the president should not appoint the INEC chairman, for the credibility of elections depends on impartiality. His pain was perhaps personal: the system he once helped sustain produced the very umpire whose declaration ended his presidency. Politics, in that sense, is a theater where those you lift today may tomorrow pull you down.
Even at state levels, betrayal reigns supreme. Consider the case of Brigadier General John Sura (rtd), once a confidant of Plateau State Governor Caleb Mutfwang. After sacrificing his time, risking his life, and investing loyalty in the PDP, he cried neglect and betrayal when his calls and counsel were ignored. His resignation was his revenge. Yet the governor’s camp denied the allegations, insisting he was still held in high esteem. Who was right? Perhaps both. In politics, betrayal and loyalty are always matters of perception.
History is littered with broken alliances: Atiku and Wike, Tinubu and Osinbajo, Jonathan and Sanusi, Buhari and Buba Galadima, El-Rufai and Uba Sani, Tinubu and Aregbesola. The list is endless, confirming the cynical adage that in politics there are no permanent friends or enemies, only permanent interests. To occupy public office is to guarantee that some will feel pleased, others offended, and still more disappointed. Every political act, no matter how noble, betrays someone’s expectation.
Nor is betrayal a Nigerian peculiarity. History’s greatest dramas have often turned on acts of treachery. Julius Caesar’s assassination in 44 BC is perhaps the most famous—betrayed not by his enemies but by his closest ally, Brutus, whose dagger embodied the collapse of trust at the heart of power. In modern Britain, Winston Churchill himself shifted parties twice—crossing from Conservative to Liberal, then back again—betraying former comrades for what he deemed national interest. Across the Atlantic, Richard Nixon’s resignation during Watergate was not only a self-inflicted wound but also the culmination of betrayals among allies who abandoned him to save themselves. Even Nelson Mandela’s ANC was no stranger to internal fractures, where comrades turned rivals in the contest for post-apartheid influence. These examples remind us that politics everywhere—Rome, London, Washington, Johannesburg—thrives on betrayals as much as on loyalty. Nigeria is simply a more visible stage for the same ancient play.
Jonathan’s recent dilemma, whether to contest again in 2027, illustrates this perfectly. Reports suggest he fears offending the Igbos, who supported him even more than his Ijaw kinsmen. Their hope of producing a president remains their deepest yearning since Nnamdi Azikiwe’s largely ceremonial headship in the First Republic. For Jonathan to re-enter the race would be read as betrayal of a people already scarred by marginalization. Here lies the paradox: the very decision to serve in politics is already an act of betrayal to some interest, some group, some expectation.
In the end, no politician in Nigeria—or anywhere—can claim sainthood. All are both betrayers and betrayed, loyalists and victims. To play politics is to walk a tightrope between promises and disappointments, between friends and foes, between survival and sacrifice. From Caesar’s Rome to Jonathan’s Nigeria, betrayal has always been the shadow trailing power. Perhaps, then, the most accurate definition of politics is that it is not a contest of ideology or morality, but a perpetual fight between betrayals and loyalists—where the victor is not the most virtuous, but the one who survives the longest in the storm.
Bagudu can be reached at bagudumohammed15197@gmail.com or on 0703 494 3575.
