Tag: Politics

 

Can a politician who loses the nomination process in one political party defect to another political party and still validly emerge as its candidate for election?

At first glance, Section 77 of the Electoral Act 2026 appears to have answered this question in the negative. A closer examination, however, reveals something else entirely: the section may not have been drafted tightly enough to completely shut the door against post-primary decamping.

The controversy lies in the interpretation of Section 77, particularly subsections (5), (6), and (7).

Section 77 provides:

“(4) Each political party shall make such register available to the Commission not later than 21 days before the date fixed for the party primaries, congresses or conventions.

(5) Only members whose names are contained in the register shall be eligible to vote and be voted for in party primaries, congresses and conventions.

(6) A political party shall not use any other register for party primaries, congresses and conventions except the register submitted to the Commission.

(7) A party that fails to submit the membership register within the stipulated time shall not be eligible to field a candidate for that election.”

At face value, the legislative intention seems obvious. The lawmakers appear to have inserted these provisions to prevent a situation where an aspirant contests for the ticket of one political party, loses, and immediately defects to another political party to secure its ticket.

And honestly, from a policy perspective, that makes perfect sense.

The Electoral Act clearly insists that:

1. Political parties must submit their membership registers to INEC at least 21 days before their primaries;
2. Only persons whose names appear in those registers can vote or be voted for in party primaries; and
3. No register other than the one submitted to INEC can be used.

Therefore, if an aspirant participates in the APC primary election and loses, then defects to the PDP afterwards, logic suggests that his name cannot possibly be in the PDP register already submitted to INEC 21 days earlier.

Consequently, he should not be qualified to vote or be voted for in the PDP primary. Simple enough? I sincerely do not think it is that simple.

As I said earlier and respectfully so, the lawmakers did not draft Section 77 comprehensively enough to completely prohibit post-primary decamping.

The key lies in the exact words used in subsections (5) and (6).

Let us examine subsection (5) again:

“Only members whose names are contained in the register shall be eligible to vote and be voted for in party primaries…”

Did you notice that?

The subsection specifically refers to party primaries. That distinction is critical. Under the new Electoral Act, specifically Section 84(2), there are two recognized methods by which a political party can produce its candidate:

1. Direct primaries, and
2. Consensus.

Now the issue is Section 77 repeatedly refers to party primaries. It mandates the use of the submitted membership register for primaries. It states that only persons whose names are contained in that register may vote or be voted for in primaries.

But what happens where the party adopts the consensus method? The law is conspicuously silent. It does not expressly state that the register submitted to INEC must also govern the consensus process. And courts do not possess the luxury of rewriting statutes.

One of the oldest principles of statutory interpretation is that: A court cannot read into a statute words which the legislature did not include.

If the National Assembly intended the restriction to apply to both primaries and consensus arrangements, it ought to have expressly said so. Instead, the repeated language of Section 77 is narrowly tied to party primaries. That omission may prove decisive.

Subsection (6) states:

“A political party shall not use any other register for party primaries…”

Again, the operative words are: “for party primaries.” Not consensus. Primaries. In fact, from the way the consensus process is explained in Section 87 of the Act, one can see that it has nothing to do with membership registers of political parties.

Thus, if Party B chooses to produce its candidate through consensus rather than primaries, what exactly prevents it from adopting a decamped aspirant whose name was never in the register earlier submitted to INEC? The Act does not expressly answer that question. And in law, silence can sometimes be fatal.

It is pertinent to point out that the law didn’t prohibit political parties from accepting new members, whether decampees or otherwise, after their registers have been submitted to INEC in preparation for the primaries.

In another remove, even if the process of adopting a decamped aspirant as a candidate is legally questionable, another problem immediately arises: Who has the legal standing or locus standi to challenge it? This is where the matter becomes even more complicated.

Nigerian electoral jurisprudence has consistently maintained that nomination and sponsorship of candidates are fundamentally internal affairs of political parties. So, only an aspirant who participated in the nomination process of that political party possesses the locus standi to challenge the validity of the process.

Suppose a politician loses the PDP primary and defects to the APC, where he emerges through consensus. Who sues to challenge his candidacy? The PDP he left behind cannot challenge the internal candidate-selection process of APC.

The courts have repeatedly resisted such invitations. I personally encountered this issue in the case of Cynthia v. Achadu, which I handled from the Federal High Court up to the Supreme Court. We succeeded at the trial court.

However, the appellate courts disagreed firmly with our position and maintained that since my client was a member of the PDP, he lacked the locus standi to question the process by which the APC produced its candidate. The implication is profound.

If the new political party adopts consensus and every other aspirant signs withdrawal or consent agreements, there will effectively be nobody with the legal standing to activate judicial scrutiny against the decamped aspirant. And where there is no competent challenger, even a legally vulnerable process may survive untouched.

It is my well considered opinion, that Section 77 of the Electoral Act 2026 did not completely shut the door against an aspirant defecting from one political party to another after losing a primary election or consensus process.

What the section clearly prohibits is participation in another party’s primaries where the aspirant’s name is absent from the membership register earlier submitted to INEC. I don’t think the same restriction automatically applies to a consensus candidacy.

I agree that this is politically and legally combustible. Any politician attempting such a maneuver should seek extremely careful legal guidance.

– Written by First Baba Isa, Esq., LLB, BL, LLM, MBA, FIMC, CMC, a PhD candidate researching the topic: “Evaluating the use of technology and its legal implications to elections in Nigeria.”

 

By Richard Ikiebe

Some politicians depend on massive turnout to win, while others thrive when citizens are too afraid to leave their homes to vote. The recent stream of videos from Benin City, of attacks on politicians and the vandalism of a party state secretariat, reprises a familiar script in Nigeria’s fear-based politics. They are harrowing reminders that this second logic is still an active strategy.

In political theory, “politics of fear” refers to the deliberate production and amplification of fear to secure power, shape opinion and justify the measures. In a landscape already saturated by insecurity and weak institutions, violence against segments of the electorate and opposition figures is a cheap and effective way to intimidate, exhaust and demobilise the opposition.

The goal is not to win the argument before the people. It scares enough people off the path to the polling booth so that a small group of loyalists remains. Those forced to abdicate their civic role reconsider and say, “politics no concern me.”  Thus, indifference becomes the first layer.

The next layer is cautious observation. This involves citizens who still watch, talk, and complain. They “sidon look,” attentive but disengaged. They have not entirely abandoned the system they no longer believe in; fear hardens their posture into resignation.

Stories of past electoral violence, thuggery at polling units, ballot snatching, and clashes with security forces add to the mix. Stay away begins to appear quite reasonable and justifiable: nothing will change, they will rig it anyway, and you might get hurt trying. At that point, “sidon look” turns fear and private cynicism into self-preservation and public silence.

Political fear is largely manufactured, crafted and transmitted through headlines, rumour and threats. Around every election, gruesome violence stories multiply about “unknown gunmen,” and neighbourhoods that had been “taught a lesson.” The discreet advice: today is not the day to move around.

With thugs and “area boys” at polling centres, masked security officers with uncertain loyalties, every citizen walking towards the polling unit is forced to ask themselves: is my single vote worth this risk? And the absence of credible protection reinforces the feeling. For many, even the determined, the answer is no. The result is low, skewed turnout, a quiet victory for the architects of fear.

In Nigeria’s patron-client landscape, fear largely travels through intermediaries. Traditional rulers, market leaders, transport union bosses and community gatekeepers sit between political elites and ordinary citizens, wielding mostly economic authority. In a healthy democracy, they would mobilise people to participate freely and defend their rights.

In our reality, these intermediaries “advise” citizens on which candidates must win to “deliver” results, and which parties must not gain a foothold in the community. The pressure for them ranges from loss of access to removal from office, or worse – physical harm. Under such conditions, their instructions become menacing signals not to come out at all. Bloc voting and mass apathy are the unlikely twins, the result of organised fear.

Fear-based politics has a simple electoral logic. High turnout creates uncertainty and genuine possibilities for change; low, selective turnout protects those already in control. When urban youth, minorities, or disillusioned swing voters decide it is safer to stay home, the electorate is filtered.

Those who remain are loyalists, dependants in patronage networks, or people mobilised by local intermediaries who can guarantee safety in return for forced obedience. In that narrower Nigeria, a winner need not be broadly popular. Fear has already structured the electorate in their favour.

As the Independent National Electoral Commission (INEC) releases the timetable for next year’s elections, fear-based politics risks hardening into the system’s default setting. Voters betrayed or endangered in 2015 and 2023 are already inclined to withdraw. Every election cycle that rewards intimidation and demobilisation tells politicians, this works, do more of it.

If this continues, elections will rest on the consent of a shrinking, skewed slice of the population, and state legitimacy will continue to erode steadily. Over time, a culture of learned helplessness takes root; the people assume that “they” will always rig elections, and the alternative begins to feel impossible. And democracy is devoid of popular choice.

Breaking this cycle requires justified outrage and a deliberate effort to change both the emotional climate of elections and the structures that make fear politically profitable. First, physical risks must be visibly reduced. Election security cannot be an afterthought or a mere show of force; it must credibly guarantee that voters can come and go unharmed, and that perpetrators and sponsors of violence face real consequences.

Second, intermediaries must be protected. Traditional rulers, religious leaders, and market associations will stay influential, while law and public scrutiny must limit how their authority is coerced or weaponised.

Third, fear narrative must shift through counterstrokes of courage, solidarity and efficacy. Civic and political education must speak directly to fear and “sidon look,” helping citizens recognise demobilisation tactics and see abstention as a costly choice, and not neutral self-protection.

If fear remains a most reliable political instrument, each election will become another expression of a paper-thin democracy that evaporates at the polling unit. The challenge is to move from rule by fear to rule by consent, from a politics defined by who stays away to one genuinely shaped by who dares to show up.

*Dr Richard Ikiebe is a Media and Management Consultant, Teacher and Chairman, Board of Businessday Newspaper*