The theatre of Nigerian politics never truly closes. The actors only change costumes, switch stages, and rehearse old scripts beneath new slogans. Last week, my searchlight rested on the Senate. This week, it drifted toward the state Houses of Assembly, those often-neglected chambers where democracy quietly either breathes or suffocates.
The media space has recently been animated by the unfolding political drama in Surulere involving former Speaker of the House of Representatives and current Chief of Staff to the President, Femi Gbajabiamila, and actor-turned-politician Desmond Elliot. Elliot appears determined to return to the Lagos State House of Assembly once again, almost as though public office was becoming permanent residency. The Yoruba would ask, “Ṣé wọn rí ibi ẹ̀ mọ ibẹ̀ ni?” Must power become a lifelong destination? That question sits dangerously at the centre of Nigeria’s democratic anxieties.
For too many politicians, politics is no longer public service. It has become survival. A frightening number enter the office and gradually abandon every previous identity, profession, or vocation. Careers disappear into the appetite for political continuity. Elections cease to be contests of ideas and increasingly resemble struggles for personal preservation.
Before politics, Elliot was already one of Nigeria’s most recognisable thespians. He earned fame through film long before he found influence through public office. Ironically, politics later transformed him into one of the most ridiculed figures on Nigerian social media. There was a period when nearly every disagreement on X, regardless of subject, ended with the phrase: “God punish Desmond Elliot.” It became ritualised outrage, detached from context and sustained by the excesses of digital mob culture.
However, despite the hostility, he survived politically. He secured re-election in both 2019 and 2023, largely through the resilience of entrenched political structures and strategic alliances within Lagos politics. Today, however, the tide appears less certain. Ahead of the 2027 political permutations, reports suggest that influential interests within the same establishment may now prefer a replacement. Politics, after all, possesses little sentiment. Loyalty is temporary. Relevance is rented.
Also, beyond the intrigues of godfathers and succession calculations lies a more important question of why must representation become an endless occupation? If, after more than a decade in office, a constituency still feels incomplete without one individual, then democracy itself has failed to renew its bloodstream. Representation is not ownership. It is stewardship.
That same disturbing pattern is increasingly visible in Ogun State, where the politics of favouritism, recycling, and carefully managed succession continue to shape public perception. The weakening of opposition parties such as the PDP and ADC has left the ruling APC with enormous political latitude. Predictably, prolonged dominance has also intensified internal rivalries within the party itself.
As things stand, the strongest and most widely accepted consensus within the Ogun APC appears to favour Senator Solomon Adeola, popularly known as YAYI. More revealing is the fact that several figures who once opposed his ambition now appear strategically aligned with him. That shows his level of acceptance and how commendably he has done his assignments.
Looking beneath the surface of endorsements and alignments, however, lies a party still grappling with internal fractures. Even Governor Dapo Abiodun continues to contend with political resistance from figures such as Gbenga Daniel over influence and territorial control within Ogun East. These tensions show broader anxieties among party members who increasingly feel excluded from access, opportunity, and participation.
Nepotism is often narrowly defined as the unfair elevation of family members. In practice, however, it evolves into something broader and more corrosive. It becomes the concentration of political access within familiar circles of surnames, loyalists, protégés, and connected associates. Public office gradually begins to resemble inherited property. Power simply moves from one familiar hand to another while ordinary citizens watch democracy transform into an exclusive club. This is where Ogun’s political atmosphere becomes particularly troubling.
The politics of consolidation within narrow circles has matured into culture. Commissioners pursue legislative seats. Former deputies seek Senate tickets. Chiefs of Staff transition seamlessly into elective ambitions. Political offices rotate endlessly within interconnected networks, while many competent outsiders discover that merit alone is insufficient currency.
The situation in Odeda shows this tension sharply. A considerable number of residents opposed the return bid of the Speaker of the Ogun State House of Assembly, whose legislative presence dates to 2011. Their dissatisfaction was rooted not merely in fatigue with longevity, but also in the perception that more than a decade in office has not translated into proportionate developmental impact.
Representation is meaningful only when citizens can feel its weight in their daily lives. Roads, schools, healthcare, youth empowerment, economic opportunity, and visible constituency engagement remain the true grammar of democracy. Without these, political longevity becomes little more than prolonged occupancy.
Despite visible grassroots resistance, the Speaker eventually secured the party ticket with the backing of influential political actors. Among those contesting the same political space was the son of the Ogun APC chairman, who until recently served as Special Adviser to the Governor on Agriculture.
Curiously, the once-vibrant “Youth O’Clock” — championed by the APC chairman’s son — rhetoric that dominated local political conversations suddenly lost momentum immediately after the ticket was decided. Shortly afterwards, the Ogun APC chairman’s son emerged as a commissioner nominee and was screened, confirmed, and sworn in with remarkable speed. Understandably, many observers interpreted the sequence of events through the lens of political compensation and internal balancing.
One is therefore compelled to ask what becomes of the ordinary Ogun indigene with no famous surname, no political lineage, and no access to elite patronage?
Increasingly, the political atmosphere suggests that participation itself is becoming inherited capital. Consider the son of a former governor in the state, whose political pathway many observers already regard as structurally advantaged. Add the emergence of several second-generation political actors across Nigeria to that equation, and a troubling pattern begins to crystallise.
At what point does legitimate participation begin to resemble monopolisation of access? At what point does democracy quietly surrender to dynastic continuity?
Then came the disturbing spectacle of exhausted voters standing helplessly in line while individuals conducted delegate counts with astonishing irregularity. They begin at one, reach 80, leap to 300, skip to 700, and, before anyone can properly verify the figures, the numbers have mysteriously climbed into the thousands.
The first video I encountered of this absurdity involved an aspirant for the House of Representatives in the Remo Constituency. Soon afterwards, similar scenes surfaced from the eastern and northern parts of Nigeria. Such moments lead to public distrust because they reinforce the dangerous perception that internal party democracy is increasingly performative rather than credible.
The tragedy is compounded by public docility. Many citizens have retreated into political apathy, exhausted by repetition and convinced that outcomes are predetermined. Yet democracy weakens not only through oppression, but also through indifference.
I return often to the works of Hannah Arendt because they clarify many anxieties within political societies. She once warned that “the most radical revolutionary will become a conservative the day after the revolution.” Power, left unchecked, naturally seeks self-preservation. That instinct is visible across many Nigerian political structures today, where renewal is frequently preached but rarely practised.
It was through the legendary columnist Mike Awoyinfa that I encountered a reflection on Obafemi Awolowo that has lingered in my mind ever since: “Part of the mystery of Awolowo’s strong appeal lies in his moral authority. He represented a politics driven by ideas rather than personal ambition.” That distinction matters profoundly.
Awolowo’s lasting influence was not built on electoral victories or political machinery. It rested on ideological clarity, intellectual discipline, personal restraint, and visible commitment to public purpose. Even his critics acknowledged his seriousness. He represented a tradition of politics in which ideas mattered more than inheritance, and public service carried moral weight beyond ambition.
Today, many politicians invoke the language of Awolowo while abandoning the burden of his principles. They inherit rhetoric but neglect rigour. They celebrate legacy while avoiding sacrifice.
Incontrovertibly, development rarely grows from favouritism. Sustainable progress emerges from competence, inclusion, institutional strength, and healthy competition. A political system that repeatedly substitutes familiarity for excellence eventually weakens itself from within. Square pegs inevitably find themselves in round holes, and governance suffers accordingly.
Ogun State risks that fate if political opportunity continues shrinking into hereditary privilege and carefully managed succession. No society truly advances when leadership circulation becomes restricted to the same interconnected class.
In the end, the survival of any political party depends not on how long it controls power, but on how deeply it retains the trust of the people. Power can be acquired through structure, influence, and calculation. Legitimacy cannot. It must be earned continuously.
Sadly, history has never been kind to political establishments that mistake dominance for permanence. The story of the PDP remains a sufficient reminder. Sooner or later, every closed political system confronts the consequences of exclusion.
The danger before Nigeria today is no longer simply poor leadership. It is the gradual normalisation of inherited access masquerading as democracy.
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