As Nigeria approaches the 2027 general elections, a familiar pattern is once again unfolding across the political landscape.
From Delta to Rivers to Akwa Ibom to Osun States, defections and rumours of defections have dominated the airwaves, revealing a political culture driven more by self-interest than by ideology or the welfare of the people.
With very few exceptions, politicians continue to jump from one party to another, not out of conviction, but in pursuit of personal gain.
This season of defections is fueled by greed and a long-standing tradition of clueless political idolatry that has left the country stagnant.
The much-promised dividends of democracy remain elusive, while the Nigerian people bear the brunt of this endless cycle of political opportunism.
Nigeria’s political arena, ever the theatre of intrigue, is witnessing yet another season of defections.
Governors, senators, and party chieftains are abandoning opposition ranks for the ruling All Progressives Congress, echoing patterns seen in the Second and Third Republics when politicians treated party loyalty as a revolving door.
The latest domino to fall is Delta State Governor, Sheriff Oborevwori, who defected from the People’s Democratic Party alongside his predecessor, Ifeanyi Okowa, a man whose tenure remains under the cloud of EFCC investigations.
Akwa Ibom’s Governor Umo Eno has openly pledged allegiance to President Bola Tinubu’s 2027 ambition, while NNPP’s Rabiu Kwankwaso reportedly weighs a similar move.
To the casual observer, this might signal the APC’s invincibility. But as history reminds us, Nigeria’s democracy has always thrived—or withered—on the whims of its political class, not the aspirations of its people. The current wave of defections, far from being an anomaly, is a recurring script in Nigeria’s political playbook, one that prioritises survival over ideology and personal gain over public good.
“The current wave of defections, far from being an anomaly, is a recurring script in Nigeria’s political playbook, one that prioritises survival over ideology and personal gain over public good.”
The spectre of one-party dominance looms large over Nigeria’s Fourth Republic. In the First Republic, the Northern People’s Congress held sway in the North, while the National Council of Nigerian Citizens and Action Group dominated the East and West. These regional blocs, though fragmented, ensured a balance of power.
By the Fourth Republic, however, the PDP’s 16-year rule became a master class in political monopoly, until internal fractures birthed the APC in 2013.
Today, the APC appears poised to replicate that hegemony, buoyed by defectors fleeing a crippled PDP and smaller parties like the NNPP.
Yet, one-party dominance in Nigeria rarely stems from ideological appeal. Instead, it is forged through federal might, patronage, and the tactical use of state institutions.
For governors like Okowa, defection may well be a survival tactic, trading party loyalty for legal insulation.
This pattern is not new: in 2014, then-ruling PDP stalwarts like Rotimi Amaechi and Rabiu Kwankwaso defected to the APC, citing “internal injustice,” only to replicate the same culture of impunity in their new party.
The APC’s growing dominance risks eroding Nigeria’s federalist ethos. With state governors increasingly dependent on federal allocations and “security votes,” the autonomy of subnational governments diminishes, centralising power in Abuja.
This centralisation stifles innovation and accountability, as seen in states like Kano and Rivers, where opposition voices are routinely suppressed through financial or judicial coercion.
Amid the APC’s ascendancy, opposition elements are scrambling to forge a “mega coalition.”
Former Vice President Atiku Abubakar, ex-Kaduna Governor Nasir El-Rufai, and Labour Party’s Peter Obi have reportedly begun talks, a move reminiscent of the 2013 PDP exodus that birthed the APC. But history also warns of coalition pitfalls. The 1983 Progressive Parties Alliance crumbled under personal ambitions, just as the 2007 Mega Progressive Peoples Party dissolved into irrelevance.
For a coalition to succeed today, it must transcend vanity and vendetta. Nigerians care little for elite squabbles; they seek solutions to collapsing infrastructure, hyperinflation, and insecurity.
A viable opposition must articulate a clear alternative to Tinubu’s reforms, beyond criticising subsidy removal or naira devaluation.
Can Atiku and Obi, architects of past PDP and Labour Party failures, reinvent themselves as champions of systemic change? Or will this coalition, too, collapse under the weight of competing egos?
The Labour Party’s surprise performance in the 2023 elections, fuelled by youth discontent, offers a blueprint.
However, its reliance on Peter Obi’s persona rather than institutional structures mirrors the PDP’s over-dependence on Atiku. Without robust grassroots mobilisation and policy frameworks, even the most charismatic leaders risk becoming figureheads in a system rigged for dynastic politics.
Behind the defections and coalition theatrics lies a nation in distress. The cost-of-living crisis has pushed millions into poverty, with inflation nearing 34 per cent and unemployment at 33 per cent.
Yet, Nigeria’s political elite remains engrossed in a game of musical chairs, oblivious to the music’s dissonance with public suffering.
This disconnect is not merely ideological but existential: a 2023 Afrobarometer survey found that 72 percent of Nigerians distrust political parties, viewing them as vehicles for elite enrichment.
Defections may fortify the APC’s 2027 prospects, but they deepen voter cynicism. When politicians pivot from corruption-accused to ruling party stalwarts overnight, citizens see not democracy, but a cabal trading power while the masses bleed. The 2023 voter turnout—26.7 per cent, the lowest since 1999—reflects this disillusionment.
Financial hegemony further entrenches the status quo. The APC’s war chest bolstered by defectors’ “dollarised” contributions, dwarfs opposition resources.
In the 2023 elections, vote-buying surged, with party agents openly auctioning PVCs in rural strongholds. This commercialisation of politics excludes the poor and cements a cycle of transactional governance.
Nigeria is not yet a one-party state, but the drift is unmistakable. The APC’s growing tent risks entrenching a system where opposition exists in name only, sustained by defectors seeking refuge, not reformers seeking change.
Yet, hope flickers in the coalition talks. If opposition leaders can shed their baggage, prioritise policy over personality, and speak directly to the electorate’s pain, they might yet revive competitive politics.
The road ahead demands more than elite realignments. Civil society, labour unions, and the judiciary must reclaim their roles as arbiters of accountability.
As it stands, Nigeria appears headed toward a one-party system, another phase in its political evolution. Whether the APC will dominate for 16 years or eventually implode, (as did PDP after 16 years) leading to the emergence of new parties, remains to be seen. Political evolution in Nigeria is dynamic, unpredictable, and often mirrors natural survival patterns.