They say rats flee a sinking ship. In Nigeria, politicians flee parties not because the ship is sinking, but because another vessel promises a fancier cabin. One election cycle after another, Nigerians watch with a mix of disbelief and exhaustion as familiar faces trade party flags like football jerseys often without offering a credible reason. The question that echoes with each political season is both simple and unnerving: why do Nigerian politicians keep jumping ship? Is it about ideology, relevance, survival, or just plain greed?
Let’s be honest Nigeria’s political parties are not exactly built on ideas. They don’t even pretend to differ much. What we have are not ideological battlegrounds but platforms of convenience. Party loyalty in Nigeria is more like a rented apartment than a home you stay as long as the rent is cheap or the neighborhood suits you. The moment it doesn’t, you pack your bags and cross the street.
Every election year, we see the same charade. Someone who once swore allegiance to Party A suddenly discovers Party B is “where the people are.” Another insists they are decamping “in the interest of their constituents,” as though their people sent them an SMS urging them to defect. Voters? We nod, sigh, and move on. We’re supposed to pretend like this isn’t an insult to our intelligence.
A woman in Benue once said, ‘It’s not the party I vote for. It’s the man who brings rice during Sallah.’ That’s the tragedy.
I remember a conversation with a teacher in Jos during the 2023 elections. She said, “I don’t even follow party names anymore. I just watch who defects last that’s the person likely to win.” That’s how distorted our sense of democracy has become. Defection is now a strategy, not a scandal.
Look back at recent history. In 2015, the floodgates opened when the then-opposition party smelled blood. Politicians left the ruling PDP in droves not out of conviction, but calculation. By 2019, the tide shifted again. And in 2023? The same story, just new names. It’s almost comical how quickly loyalty becomes negotiable in Nigerian politics. You don’t need a crystal ball to know where a politician stands, you just need to know who’s in power.
And while they jump, the rest of us are expected to applaud. Some of them even get rewarded with ministerial slots, party tickets, and immunity from probes. Yes, there’s that too. Decamping has become a sneaky route to escape scrutiny. One moment you’re facing a corruption charge; the next, you’ve “repented” into the arms of the ruling party and, like magic, your sins disappear.
It’s not just about greed or cowardice. It’s about survival. Political godfathers decide who stays relevant, and if your patron falls out of favor, you either jump ship or drown. Nigerian politics is not for the faithful, it’s for the flexible. That’s why manifestos mean nothing here. The same man who tears one party’s ideology apart in February will be wearing their branded cap by June.
But where does this leave the voter? Confused. Betrayed. Tired. How do you trust a system where no one stays true? Where politicians recycle themselves like plastic bottles, jumping from one platform to another depending on who’s holding the mic?
We may laugh, we may tweet, we may move on but it’s not funny. It’s dangerous. It means elections are no longer about choice. It means there’s no ideological compass guiding leadership. Just ego. Just access. Just power.
Until something changes, until we demand more than slogans and stunts, this cycle will continue. Politicians will keep jumping ship. And the rest of us will keep drowning in disappointment.
We are watching. We’re listening. And maybe just maybe we’re reaching a point where we’ll stop cheering for defectors and start demanding consistency.
We can’t stop them from jumping ship, but we can stop following them blindly into the water.
Stephanie Shaakaa
shaakaastephanie@yahoo.com
