By Mohammed Bello Doka
5th April,2026
Good morning, my fellow gladiators in this never-ending Nigerian political arena! Welcome to another edition of Sarcastic Sunday, your weekly therapy session where we study Nigeria’s political gymnastics with the kind of sarcasm that keeps us breathing. Because let’s be honest: if we took these things seriously, we would choke to death on our own indignation. So we laugh — loudly, obnoxiously, and unapologetically — so we don’t smile through gritted teeth while our democracy gets a gentle “revalidation” massage from the very people sworn to protect it.
Ah, INEC. The Independent National Electoral Commission. Or, as the streets are now calling it, the Independent National APC Enforcement Commission. Because nothing says “neutral referee” quite like stepping into the ring, blowing the whistle, and then personally tackling one team while winking at the other. This week, our beloved electoral umpires decided to serve two masterclasses in creative governance: first, the surgical deletion of Senator David Mark, Ogbeni Rauf Aregbesola, and their entire National Working Committee from the African Democratic Congress (ADC) portal; second, the announcement that 93.5 million Nigerians must now revalidate their so-called Permanent Voter Cards in roughly seven weeks or kiss their 2027 voting rights goodbye. Permanent, you say? Darling, in Nigeria, even “permanent” has an expiry date when INEC is feeling bureaucratic.
Let us begin with the ADC saga, shall we? INEC looked at the Court of Appeal’s preservatory order — that fancy Latin phrase “status quo ante bellum” — and decided it meant something far more exciting. Status quo ante bellum. Rolls off the tongue like a Supreme Court judgment after three bottles of palm wine. But wait, my learned friends in the bar have reminded this ignorant columnist that it is Latin, not Igbo or Yoruba. So pardon my village-boy ignorance. I initially read it as “status quo aunty Bello” because, well, Bello is family and aunties love to preserve peace by deleting troublesome nephews. Then I remembered: Bello is a man. A full-grown, beard-wearing Nigerian man. So it must be “status quo uncle Bello.” My bad. The court simply said “preserve things as they were before the fight started,” and INEC, in its infinite wisdom, translated that to: “Before the conflict began, the ADC had no leadership at all. Zilch. Nada. Empty office. So we shall delete the names that were already on our portal and pretend the party is a headless chicken until further notice.”
Cynical question number one: When exactly did the ADC become a political party with no leaders in INEC’s eyes? Was it the moment David Mark and Aregbesola emerged from that July 2025 NEC meeting where the previous executives reportedly handed over the baton like responsible adults? Or was it the precise nanosecond the court order landed and INEC suddenly discovered the magical power of retroactive invisibility? Because according to INEC’s own categorical insistence, before any conflict began, the ADC simply had no leadership. Poof. Leadership evaporated like fuel subsidy money. One minute Mark and Aregbesola are uploaded on September 9, 2025; the next, they are ghosts. Status quo uncle Bello indeed.
Oh, how thoughtful of INEC to act as the disciplinary branch of the All Progressives Congress. Yes, you read that right. The ruling party’s very own internal affairs department, dressed in electoral robes. Opposition parties misbehaving? Too much coalition talk? Too many big names defecting? Bring out the cane! INEC will discipline them by freezing their recognition, refusing to monitor their congresses, and politely declining any correspondence signed by “those people.” It is almost touching how INEC has taken it upon itself to teach errant parties the virtues of sitting down, shutting up, and behaving like good boys and girls until 2027. “Class dismissed, ADC. Go and rewrite your leadership in the corner while the APC continues its uninterrupted victory lap.” Subtle? Not really. Effective? Terrifyingly so.
And then, just when you thought the comedy couldn’t get richer, comes the Permanent Voter Card revalidation circus. Permanent, my people. The word “permanent” is right there in the name, like “Permanent Secretary” who somehow gets retired every election cycle. Yet INEC has decided that a register built painstakingly over fifteen years — 93.5 million souls who queued under sun and rain, gave biometrics, and received their PVCs like sacred relics — must now be scrubbed clean in less than two months. Seven weeks. Forty-nine days. Less time than it takes to plan a proper owambe. Online portal or physical centre, NIN verification or bust. Miss the window and your “permanent” card becomes as useful as a 2015 ATM receipt.
Cynical question number two: If the card is truly permanent, why does it need revalidation faster than a student cramming for WAEC after ignoring the syllabus for three years? Is INEC suggesting that millions of Nigerians who followed every rule suddenly became ghosts, duplicates, or aliens overnight? Or is this the most sophisticated game of “catch me if you can” ever played with voter turnout? Rural grandmother in Kano with no smartphone? Urban youth in Lagos juggling three jobs and epileptic Wi-Fi? Elderly man in Enugu who still thinks NIN is a new Nollywood villain? Tough luck, aunty and uncle. INEC says sanitize or sit 2027 out. Meanwhile, the ruling party’s own register remains suspiciously untouched. How convenient.
But here is the real punchline, my dear therapy patients: INEC keeps insisting it is only obeying court orders and cleaning house for credibility. Credibility, they say, with the straightest face since the last fuel subsidy removal promise. We see the strategy, INEC. We see it crystal clear, like the handwriting on the wall that somehow only opposition parties can read. Delete potential coalition leaders. Paralyze the ADC platform that was threatening to become the biggest headache for the ruling party in 2027. Then compress voter revalidation into a timeline so tight it could make a Lagos danfo driver sweat. And do it all while wearing the sacred cloak of “we are impartial.” Brilliant. Oscar-worthy. The kind of political gymnastics that would make Olympic judges give a perfect 10 for artistic manipulation.
Yet, and this is where the laughter turns defiant, Nigerians will not be intimidated in 2027. Not by creative interpretations of Latin phrases. Not by seven-week miracles demanded of 93.5 million people. Not by a commission that treats opposition parties like naughty schoolchildren who need disciplining by the APC prefects. We have seen worse. We queued for PVCs in 2011, 2015, 2019, and 2023 under rain, sun, and military-era bureaucracy. We have survived fuel scarcity, naira redesign, and “technical glitches” that somehow always favour one side. We laugh today so we do not smile tomorrow when the real results are announced.
To David Mark, Rauf Aregbesola, and every opposition voice currently being “preserved” into oblivion: your struggle is noted. The streets are watching. The courts may twist, INEC may delete, but memory does not. To the millions who must now revalidate their “permanent” rights in a sprint: may your NIN sync faster than INEC’s excuses. And to the ruling party enjoying this sudden silence from the opposition benches: enjoy the peace while it lasts. Because 2027 is not a court order. It is a date with destiny. And Nigerians — stubborn, sarcastic, and surprisingly resilient — have already RSVP’d with one clear message: we see the strategy, but we will not be intimidated.
So laugh with me, my people. Laugh until your belly hurts. Laugh at status quo uncle Bello, at permanent cards that need temporary salvation, and at umpires who moonlight as party whips. Laugh because the alternative is to cry, and crying never won an election. But voting — real, un-intimidated voting — just might.
Until next Sarcastic Sunday, when we shall dissect whatever fresh masterpiece our electoral alchemists cook up, keep your PVC close, your laughter closer, and your 2027 resolve unbreakable.
We laugh so we don’t smile.
Mohammed Bello Doka
(Still choking on sarcasm, never on fear)
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