by Mohammed Bello Doka
In Nigeria today, almost everything slips—prices, security, wages, patience—yet one thing never seems to wobble: the mandate. It stands upright, polished daily by press releases, guarded by party apparatchiks, and reinforced by a political class that has discovered the stabilizing magic of proximity to power. The irony is unavoidable. While the President has, on more than one public occasion, stumbled before the cameras, the elite consensus around his mandate has never looked steadier.
That contrast—physical imbalance versus political rigidity—frames a deeper democratic question Nigerians are being discouraged from asking: when did a people’s mandate become a personal possession?
Because in a democracy, the mandate does not belong to a man, a party chairman, or a caucus of governors. It belongs to the people. Nigeria’s Constitution is explicit: sovereignty resides in the people, from whom government derives its authority. A mandate is therefore a trust, not a trophy. To “stand on” a person’s mandate—rather than defend the people who issued it—is not loyalty. It is a betrayal dressed up as discipline.
Yet betrayal has become the fashion of the season.
Across Abuja and the state capitals, the political class has assembled a human pyramid around the President. Former critics have discovered newfound balance. Governors who once found their voices on the campaign trail now find silence more comfortable. Lawmakers stand shoulder to shoulder, not in defense of voters, but in defense of access. Files move. Invitations arrive—or stop arriving. In Nigerian politics, gravity applies selectively. Those close to power rarely fall.
The country, however, is sliding.
Before May 29, 2023, inflation was already painful, hovering in the low twenties. Since then, it has surged sharply, peaking near 30 percent and above through much of 2024, with food inflation reaching historic highs—over 40 percent at its worst. These are not abstract figures. They translate into smaller meals, skipped medicines, children withdrawn from school. The National Bureau of Statistics’ own data show what markets already know: purchasing power has collapsed. Salaries did not triple; prices did.
The government replies with language, not relief. “Necessary pain.” “Short-term sacrifice.” “Inherited problems.” Nigerians are asked to adjust; the explanations are already tailored. The economy is on its knees, but the vocabulary is standing tall.
Then there is the choreography of reassurance.
At Eagles Square on Democracy Day in 2024, the President tripped while mounting a parade vehicle. In Ankara in early 2026, he stumbled again during a ceremonial reception. Each time, aides rushed in. Each time, statements followed. Carpets were blamed. Steps were blamed. Health concerns were waved away. Nigerians were told, firmly and repeatedly, that everything was fine.
Perhaps it is. But politics is not medicine; perception is part of power. Reassurance, when overused, curdles into doubt—especially in a country scarred by secrecy around leaders’ health. The issue is not mockery; it is transparency. Stability, after all, is not something you announce. It is something you demonstrate.
And this is where the irony sharpens into farce.
While the President soldiers on—hale by declaration if not by demonstration—other powerful men have quietly stepped aside citing health reasons. Abdullahi Umar Ganduje resigned as national chairman of the ruling party on health grounds. Mohammed Badaru Abubakar resigned as defence minister, again citing health. Sensible decisions, one might say. Responsible even. Health matters.
Apparently, however, it matters differently depending on your office.
In Nigeria, health is a reason to resign—unless you are President. Party chairmen may rest. Ministers may recuperate. But the most demanding job in the land requires no such caution. The burden is limitless; the body, we are told, is not.
So Nigerians are left with an unsettling picture: a President repeatedly assured to be fine; a political class standing rigidly on his mandate; and a country buckling under economic weight. Everyone is standing—except the citizens.
History offers unflattering mirrors for societies that personalize power and silence concern. Zimbabwe under Robert Mugabe did not unravel because of one man’s age alone, but because authority hardened into personal rule, insulated by loyalists who treated criticism as treason. Decisions became detached from reality. Institutions bent to flatter a figure. The economy collapsed long before the leader stepped aside.
The lesson is not about age or illness. It is about denial. When leaders are surrounded by those who exist to steady them rather than challenge them, nations lose balance. Political science and history—from Mugabe’s Zimbabwe to classic cases like Woodrow Wilson’s hidden incapacitation—show the danger of secrecy and concentration of power. States do not fail because leaders stumble. They fail because institutions are forced to kneel.
Nigeria is not there. Not yet. But the warning signs flicker.
Consider the opposition—loud online, fragmented offline. Hashtags trend. Press conferences multiply. Yet when it comes time to confront power institutionally, spines soften. Even dissenters seem unsure where to stand—except on social media. The result is a vacuum, conveniently filled by a ruling elite that equates unity with obedience and loyalty with silence.
And so the mandate becomes a shield.
Criticism is waved away as sabotage. Hardship is dismissed as impatience. Every question is framed as an attack on democracy itself. But a mandate is not armor for a government; it is a promise to the governed. When that promise is invoked to silence suffering, democracy turns into theater.
Ask the sensitive questions. They are overdue.
If the mandate belongs to the people, why are the people treated as an inconvenience?
If sacrifice is necessary, why is it so unevenly distributed?
If health is a legitimate reason for party leaders and ministers to step aside, why is it taboo to ask questions about the health of the Commander-in-Chief?
If reforms are working, why do markets, households, and hunger statistics tell a harsher story?
And if everyone in power is standing on the mandate, who exactly is standing for Nigerians?
The answers matter because legitimacy is not static. It erodes quietly, not with coups but with queues; not with protests alone but with resignation. Power may be secure, but consent is conditional.
In the end, the satire writes itself.
The mandate stands.
The elite stand.
The speeches stand.
Nigerians sit—in traffic, in darkness, in clinics without drugs, in homes where meals are rationed and hope is deferred. The applause is loud in Abuja. The silence is louder everywhere else.
Everyone, it seems, is standing on his mandate. The tragedy is that no one appears to be standing for the people.
Mohammed Bello Doka can be reached via [email protected]
Abuja Network News
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opinion