by Mohammed Bello Doka
21 April, 2026
There is an old and unsettling political instinct that has haunted republics across history: when power begins to slip, some ruling elites would rather destabilize the system than surrender control of it. The fear is not merely of losing office, but of losing relevance, protection, and access. In such moments, governance gives way to survival politics. Institutions are bent, narratives are weaponized, and divisions are sharpened. The result is often a nation pushed to the brink—sometimes deliberately.
Nigeria stands at a delicate crossroads, and the warning signs are neither abstract nor unprecedented. The patterns are familiar to students of political history and strategy. As Niccolò Machiavelli observed, “It is better to be feared than loved, if you cannot be both.” That maxim, often misread as an endorsement of cruelty, is in fact a warning about rulers who substitute coercion for legitimacy. When fear becomes the primary instrument of governance, instability is not an accident—it becomes a political tool.
The danger today is not simply about one party or one administration. It is about a governing logic that prioritizes control over cohesion. When political actors begin to see the nation itself as expendable in the pursuit of power, the consequences ripple far beyond elections. Economic fragility deepens, security deteriorates, and public trust—already thin—evaporates.
Nigeria’s recent political climate offers troubling indicators that make this conversation unavoidable. The 2023 general elections, widely described as one of the most consequential in the country’s recent democratic history, were followed by intense disputes over electoral credibility, logistics failures, and public confidence in the electoral process. The controversies surrounding result transmission and institutional transparency did not merely end at the ballot box—they spilled into courts, streets, and everyday political discourse.
At the same time, economic shocks have compounded public frustration. The removal of fuel subsidies, while defended as economically necessary, triggered immediate hardship for millions of Nigerians already struggling with inflation and currency instability. In many urban centers, transport costs doubled or tripled within weeks, feeding a perception of elite insensitivity and widening the gap between government policy and lived reality.
Insecurity has remained another persistent fault line. From insurgency in the North-East to banditry in the North-West and communal violence in parts of the North-Central, citizens continue to experience a state that often appears reactive rather than decisively preventive. The repeated nature of mass abductions, rural attacks, and displaced communities reinforces a narrative of state fragility that political actors cannot ignore—and sometimes exploit.
While these crises are complex and deeply rooted in structural conditions predating any single administration, the perception that they are being politically managed, selectively addressed, or rhetorically exploited is what makes them especially dangerous. Perception, in politics, often becomes reality faster than facts can correct it.
History teaches that nations rarely collapse overnight. Instead, they erode gradually, through a series of calculated compromises. Baltasar Gracián warned that “a single lie destroys a whole reputation of integrity.” When governments are perceived to manipulate truth—whether through propaganda, selective enforcement of laws, or suppression of dissent—the legitimacy that sustains democratic order begins to crumble.
Nigeria’s political communication environment has increasingly reflected this tension. Competing narratives between ruling and opposition elites often leave citizens trapped in a fog of conflicting claims. Social media accelerates this fragmentation, turning every incident into a battlefield of interpretations rather than a shared factual reality. In such an environment, governance becomes performance, and truth becomes negotiable.
Consider also the escalation of political rhetoric during election cycles and governance crises. Statements framing political opposition as existential threats, or portraying dissent as disloyalty, contribute to a climate where disagreement is no longer seen as democratic necessity but as sabotage. This rhetorical hardening does not remain in speeches—it filters into institutional behavior, policing strategies, and public trust.
We have seen how quickly tension can escalate in Nigeria’s federal system when political disputes intersect with identity politics. In several states, electoral outcomes have triggered protests, legal battles, and deepened mistrust between communities and political blocs. In some cases, ordinary citizens begin to interpret national politics through ethnic or regional lenses, a dangerous development in a country as diverse as Nigeria.
Economic distress intensifies this volatility. Inflation, unemployment, and declining purchasing power create fertile ground for unrest. Citizens who feel excluded from economic opportunity become more susceptible to anger, withdrawal, or radicalization. When basic survival becomes uncertain, political stability becomes secondary in the minds of many.
Yet, it would be overly simplistic—and analytically weak—to suggest that any single party alone possesses the capacity to “set Nigeria on fire.” Nations are not undone by one actor. The more accurate concern is systemic: a political ecosystem that rewards dominance over consensus, short-term victory over long-term stability, and tactical advantage over institutional trust.
This is where comparative political history becomes useful. As Socratic thought reminds us, governance is ultimately a moral question. Socrates famously argued that “the price good men pay for indifference to public affairs is to be ruled by evil men.” The essence of this warning is not that leadership is inherently evil, but that civic disengagement allows the worst incentives in politics to flourish unchecked.
Nigeria’s democratic survival therefore depends less on rhetoric and more on civic architecture. Citizens must refuse the normalization of dysfunction. Electoral participation must deepen, not weaken, after moments of controversy. Civil society must maintain pressure for transparency regardless of which party is in power. The judiciary must continue to assert independence even in politically sensitive cases. And the media must resist becoming an echo chamber for elite conflict.
Institutional integrity remains the central pillar. When institutions such as the electoral commission, the courts, and security agencies are perceived as impartial, political tension is contained within manageable bounds. When they are perceived as extensions of partisan power, every dispute becomes existential.
Nigeria has already experienced warning signs of what happens when institutional trust weakens. Post-election disputes increasingly spill into prolonged litigation and public skepticism. Security responses to crises are often interpreted through political lenses, further eroding neutrality. Even development projects and policy decisions are sometimes viewed not through technical merit, but through partisan advantage.
There are also important contemporary lessons from Nigeria’s own democratic evolution. Despite repeated crises, the country has maintained a pattern of electoral transitions, civil activism, and judicial arbitration of disputes. These are not minor achievements in a region where democratic reversals are not uncommon. They represent a fragile but real foundation that must not be undermined by short-term political calculation.
The responsibility, however, does not rest solely with citizens. Political elites across the spectrum bear a disproportionate obligation to de-escalate rhetoric, strengthen institutions, and prioritize national cohesion over partisan advantage. When leaders choose inflammatory narratives, they set the tone for the entire political ecosystem. When they choose restraint, they create space for stability.
It is worth returning once more to Machiavelli, not as a celebration of political manipulation but as a warning about its limits. Power built on fear is inherently unstable. It requires constant reinforcement, escalating coercion, and perpetual tension. Over time, it becomes self-destructive. Stability, by contrast, requires legitimacy, consent, and institutional trust.
Nigeria still possesses the resources to avoid descent into deeper instability. It has an engaged youth population, a resilient civil society, and a politically aware electorate that is increasingly unwilling to accept narratives without scrutiny. These are powerful safeguards if properly mobilized.
The central question is whether these safeguards will be activated in time. Political systems rarely fail because warning signs are absent. They fail because warnings are ignored, rationalized, or weaponized until intervention becomes too late or too costly.
Nigeria does not need to be set on fire for anyone to rule its ashes. But the conditions that make such an outcome conceivable—if left unchecked—are already visible in economic strain, political mistrust, security fragmentation, and institutional fatigue.
The alternative is still available. It requires restraint where there is temptation, accountability where there is power, and participation where there is fatigue. Above all, it requires a citizenry unwilling to surrender its future to political cynicism.
If there is a final lesson from history, it is this: nations are not destroyed by fate alone. They are shaped—sometimes preserved, sometimes imperiled—by choices. Nigeria’s next chapter will be written not only in the corridors of power, but in the collective refusal of its people to let instability become strategy.
Mohammed Bello Doka can be reached via bellodoka82@gmail.com
