In the year 2000 or 2001, I found myself seated in a semi-circle inside the Presidential Villa in Aso Rock, Abuja. We were waiting for President Olusegun Obasanjo to arrive for the monthly Presidential Media Chat, a forum where select editors grilled the leader on national issues. The Nigerian Television Authority was set to broadcast it live. As a first-timer, I turned the room into a canvas of historical reflection. My mind wandered to the mythic Aso Rock, where a once-powerful Ibrahim Babangida had proclaimed his grip on power, and where Sani Abacha, behind his dark goggles, breathed his last. I recalled Francisco Goya’s painting, Saturn Devouring His Son, a depiction of the Greek myth where Saturn, fearing a prophecy that his child would overthrow him, devoured his own offspring. It struck me how Babangida, in his own way, tried to gobble up Nigeria’s democracy during the June 12 crisis, right inside this cultic home of power.
The event itself was a mix of anticipation and theater. John Momoh of Channels TV anchored, joined by Nkechi Nwankwo of the Champion newspaper, a representative from New Nigerian, and me, from the Nigerian Tribune. Opposite us sat a coterie of media aides and ministers, including presidential spokesman Tunji Oseni, who clapped like fawners when Obasanjo entered. The president made several gaffes, but the god must earn his praise. Earlier, Oseni had lent us his office to plan our questions, dividing them into social, political, and economic segments. No one, not even Obasanjo, knew what we had in store.
Just a few months before, on May 29, 1999, Nigeria had celebrated the return to democratic rule after decades of military oppression. Nigerians sang victory songs, like the traditional Yoruba chant “Ìwonpápá, ìwonnà/A ti m’óyè yìí je/Ìwonnà…” Expectations hung in the air like strange hieroglyphics. The media had painted democracy as an El Dorado that would solve all existential challenges. The military, under Abacha and others, had become a symbol of repression, and the people yearned for freedom. The Second Republic, a fleeting four-year interregnum, had danced like the magical Yoruba masquerade Eégun Aláré, but it was short-lived. For 28 years, men in starched khaki had ruled, and May 29, 1999, was seen as an arrival from Egypt to the promised land.
But as George Orwell’s Animal Farm warned, the dream often turns sour. In the novella, animals overthrow their oppressive human farmer, Mr. Jones, only to be ruled by pigs who become even more tyrannical. Nigeria had its own Old Majors—activists like Gani Fawehinmi, Alao Aka-Bashorun, and Femi Falana—who canonized democracy. They promised that agbada and babanriga would trump khaki and jackboots, bringing joy. Yet, like the pigs, our leaders morphed into corrupt dictators. In Aso Rock that day, I asked Obasanjo a pointed question: “Mr President, the common man says life under the military was better than under democracy. Aren’t you bothered?” He cleared his throat and defended his record, but his answer was simplistic.
The background was ominous. Labour was threatening to strike. Food prices had skyrocketed. Obasanjo hadn’t shed his military toga, as seen in the Odi and Zaki-Biam massacres. Politicians began living like new Snowballs, tampering with the rule that all animals are equal, replacing it with a parody: politicians are more equal than others. From Obasanjo to Umaru Yar’Adua, Goodluck Jonathan, Muhammadu Buhari, and now Bola Tinubu, we’ve merely exchanged one punisher for another. Our democratic Napoleons have no blood in their veins.
Twenty-seven years after civil rule, Nigerians ask a painful question: “Òpáláńbá ń’wájú, kùmò l’éyìn orùn, sé b’òjú ti rí nìyí, t’áa fi ńje obì l’ójà Ede?” Broken bottle on the forehead, bludgeon on the back—is this how they play comradeship at the Ede market? Democracy has been a huge disappointment. A recent NOIPolls survey shows 72% of Nigerians are dissatisfied with democratic governance, with 46% “not satisfied at all.” Dissatisfaction is highest in the South-East (58%) and South-South (56%). Yes, democracy brings freedom, but we still see manacles on our hands. More Nigerians have died in the last 27 years than in the civil war or under military rule. Insurgency, banditry, and kidnappings have claimed more lives. Retired General Rabe Abubakar was recently kidnapped and died in captivity, while hundreds remain captive.
The quality of governance has dwindled. Ethnic tensions are higher than in 1999. Food security is a famine situation. Some blame the actors, not the concept. Others call for decolonizing democracy by blending it with local content. But party politics is cannibalized for personal gain. Politicians have become archetypes of Rastafarians’ Babylon—oppressive, corrupt, and unjust. Democracy has become a vampire, as Bob Marley sang, “suckin’ the children day by day.” Institutions like the electoral commission are mannequins for the executive. Corruption in the last 27 years is worse than the previous 39. Politicians today steal the total sum of contracts, unlike the 10 percenters of the First Republic.
The ballot box, which should free us, has become our affliction. In 1973, a bank robbery in Stockholm led to hostages bonding with their captors—Stockholm syndrome. In Nigeria, voters love politicians who afflict them, praising them on social media while hunger clobbers their bellies. By 2027, even with hopelessness as a neighbor, they will still vote for their captors.
But we must continue to hope against hope. We will not cease asking democracy, our supposed comrade: “Òpáláńbá ń’wájú, kùmò l’éyìn orùn, sé b’ójú ti rí nìyí, t’áa fi ńje obì l’ójà Ede?” Why did you hit us with a broken bottle on the forehead and a bludgeon on the back, democracy? Is this how they play comradeship at the Ede market?
