Is This The Democracy Nigeria Yearned For In The Days Of The Military? Tufiakwa! -By Isaac Asabor

When Nigeria’s military handed over power to a civilian government on May 29, 1999, the euphoria that swept across the country was not only palpable but deeply emotional. It was as though a heavy burden had been lifted off the shoulders of a long-suffering people. Nigerians were jubilant, chanting songs of hope and patriotic fervor. Democracy, it was believed, would finally bring about transparency, good governance, human rights, freedom of expression, credible elections, and economic development. But more thantwo decades down the line, with the country now knee-deep in worsening poverty, endemic corruption, insecurity, and institutional decay, the question now is brutally inescapable: Is this the democracy Nigerians yearned for during the suffocating days of military rule? Tufiakwa!

In fact, one of the essential hallmarks of a functioning democracy is an independent legislature. The National Assembly (NASS), made up of the Senate and the House of Representatives, was envisaged to be the bastion of people’s representation, a bulwark against executive tyranny, and a vigilant watchdog over the public treasury. Sadly, what we have today is a legislature so pliant and submissive that it has earned itself the derogatory label of being a “rubberstamp” assembly.

Year after year, lawmakers approve excessive borrowing requests from the executive without thorough scrutiny. Budgets are passed with questionable speed, padded at will, and oversight functions are reduced to televised drama sessions that produce no tangible results. Committees that should wield their constitutional powers to unearth corruption are more interested in “settlements” than serving the public interest. How can we talk of democracy when the arm of government meant to act as a check is instead an errand boy to the very power it was meant to regulate?

The judiciary, often regarded as the last hope of the common man, has lost its moral spine. Its image has been battered, its credibility eroded, and its independence severely compromised. A system where conflicting judgments are dished out like akara balls at motor parks; where court orders are disobeyed at will by powerful politicians; where judgments appear to favor the politically connected, even against the tide of logic and evidence, such a judiciary is a danger to any democratic society.

From electoral tribunals to Supreme Court verdicts, suspicions of judicial compromise now haunt the very process that should guarantee justice. Judges now rule more with their pens dipped in political ink than in constitutional principles. The perception, whether true or not, that justice can be bought in Nigeria has damaged public confidence in the courts beyond measure. In this democratic experiment, the judiciary has become not a temple of justice, but a casino of fortune, where influence, not facts, often determines the outcome.

In what ought to be a democracy guided by institutions, Nigeria has become a state captured by vested interests. Political godfathers operate like feudal lords, installing governors, senators, and even local council chairmen like personal staff. Institutions meant to serve the public good, EFCC, INEC, DSS, CBN, NNPC, and others, are routinely manipulated to serve political ends. Regulatory bodies are often neutered or co-opted into the machinery of corruption and elite protection.

State resources are deployed to settle political scores, reward loyalty, and entrench a culture of impunity. Public policies are crafted not based on data or need, but on who stands to benefit politically or financially. This is not democracy. This is a kleptocratic manipulation of democratic structures, democracy in form, and dictatorship in function.

Another troubling feature of Nigeria’s democratic experiment is the overt commercialization of politics. Positions are no longer won through merit or popular mandate, but through financial muscle. Political godfathers “invest” in candidates with the expectation of returns. Electoral processes have become auctions. Primaries are no longer contests of ideas, but of dollar bids.

From the ward level to the national stage, delegates are bought like yams in a village market. The cost of securing a party ticket is so prohibitive that only the rich or those backed by the rich can contest. The consequence? Office holders see governance as a business, a means to recoup their political investments and “settle” their sponsors. That is why basic amenities are neglected, salaries unpaid, and corruption is normalized. The political class is not there to serve, but to harvest. And we dare call this democracy?

Ironically, many Nigerians now look back to the military era with nostalgia, not because the soldiers were saints, but because today’s civilian government has managed to replicate and, in some cases, exceed the failures of the khaki men. Under the military, there was no pretense about dictatorship. Today, we have a democratic façade covering the same rot: press intimidation, electoral violence, abuse of power, and suppression of dissent.

While under military rule people hoped for a better tomorrow, today’s democracy has extinguished that hope. Fuel prices have skyrocketed. Electricity remains epileptic. Healthcare is comatose. Youth unemployment is at an all-time high. Graduates roam the streets with files under their arms while children of politicians study abroad. Insecurity now rivals the horrors of war, farmers cannot go to their farms, highways are death traps, and urban centers are breeding grounds for crimes. If this is democracy, then what exactly did we suffer to achieve in 1999?

The word “Tufiakwa” is an Igbo expression of spiritual and moral rejection. It means “God forbid!” a sharp and final denouncement of something abominable. And that is what many Nigerians feel toward the state of the nation. We reject this brand of democracy that has done nothing but multiply the suffering of the people. We reject a government where lawmakers become millionaires while their constituents drink dirty water from streams. We reject a system where elections are rigged in broad daylight, where justice is delayed, denied, or monetized. We reject leaders who remember the masses only during elections, only to disappear afterward.

Despite the decay, Nigeria can still chart a new course. But first, there must be a deliberate awakening, a mass consciousness that enough is enough. Citizens must rise above tribal and religious sentiments and begin to demand accountability. Electoral reforms must be urgently implemented. INEC must be truly independent. The judiciary must be cleansed and fortified to stand as a pillar of justice.

Our youth must stop being used as political thugs and start owning the political process. The media must remain fearless. Civil society must keep the fire of advocacy burning. Corrupt politicians must be named, shamed, and prosecuted. Political education must be part of our school curriculum to breed a new generation of civic-minded Nigerians.

Above all, we must stop romanticizing political rogues. We must stop praising looters because they throw peanuts at the poor. It is time for a political revolution, not by guns, but by votes, voices, vigilance, and values.

We must ask ourselves: What kind of democracy allows its citizens to suffer in the midst of plenty? What democracy keeps the majority in darkness while a few enjoy obscene luxury? What democracy tolerates a legislature that is afraid of the executive and a judiciary that bows to power? If this is what we call democracy, then our forefathers, who hoped for a just and equitable Nigeria, must be weeping in their graves.

This is not the democracy we yearned for. It is a cruel distortion of it. And to that, I say loudly and clearly: Tufiakwa!