Why Do We Keep Begging Failed Leaders To Run For Second Terms? -By Isaac Asabor

Every four years in Nigeria, a familiar political drama unfolds with almost theatrical predictability. An incumbent governor, senator, or president approaches the end of a disappointing first term marked by broken promises, decaying infrastructure, unpaid salaries, rising insecurity, and deepening poverty. Yet instead of public outrage translating into electoral rejection, a different spectacle emerges. Billboards suddenly flood the highways. Convoys snake through towns and villages. Political supporters chant in rehearsed unison: “Four more years!” Given the foregoing retrogressive electoral algorithm, one cannot help but ask: why?

Why do citizens repeatedly campaign for the re-election of leaders whose records clearly show failure? Why does a political culture that suffers so deeply from poor governance continue to reward mediocrity with renewed mandates?

This is not a trivial question. It sits at the heart of Nigeria’s democratic crisis. Our refusal to confront it honestly has cost the country decades of meaningful development.

There is a popular Nigerian saying that roughly translates to: “Better the devil you know than the angel you do not.” In ordinary life, the proverb may carry practical wisdom. In politics, however, it has become a dangerous excuse for national stagnation.

Many voters convince themselves that replacing an underperforming incumbent with a new and untested candidate is simply too risky. What if the next leader turns out to be worse? It is an argument that gains traction because Nigerians have, on several occasions, replaced disappointing leaders with even more disastrous alternatives. Weak political parties rarely produce a steady pipeline of competent and credible candidates, so voters often feel trapped between bad and worse.

But fear is the incumbent’s greatest political weapon. It allows incompetence to disguise itself as experience and enables mediocrity to parade as stability.

The consequence is a troubling political balance: leaders perform just poorly enough to damage society, yet not poorly enough to lose power. And so, they remain.

Nigeria’s deep ethnic and religious divisions further complicate matters. In a nation of over 250 ethnic groups and multiple religious identities, voting patterns are often shaped less by competence and more by communal loyalty.

When a governor from a particular ethnic group performs badly, many supporters do not first ask whether he delivered on his promises. Instead, they ask whether power might shift to another ethnic group if he loses. Once politics becomes framed as a struggle for representation rather than a contest of ideas and performance, re-election ceases to be about governance. It becomes about protecting “our own.”

This phenomenon is not exclusive to Nigeria. Identity politics exists everywhere. But in Nigeria, where political exclusion often translates into economic marginalization, the fear feels existential. Federal appointments, revenue allocation, and access to opportunities are heavily politicized. As a result, many voters see ethnic solidarity as a form of self-preservation.

The tragedy is that this mindset creates leaders who understand they can govern badly as long as they govern tribally. Attend the right cultural events, speak the local dialect during campaigns, commission symbolic projects, and political loyalty remains largely intact. Given the foregoing political trend, performance becomes secondary. Identity becomes everything.

Money politics also plays a decisive role in sustaining failed incumbents. Nigerian officeholders rarely campaign with personal resources alone; they often deploy state resources to secure re-election.

Public funds are routinely transformed into political capital. Contracts are awarded to loyal associates who are expected to finance campaign operations in return. Security votes, notorious for lacking transparency, are diverted into political mobilization. Just before elections, civil servants suddenly receive salary payments, communities receive food items, and youth groups receive so-called “mobilization allowances.”

This system has become so normalized that Nigerians even created a phrase for it: “stomach infrastructure.”

In a country where millions struggle daily with hunger and unemployment, condemning poor voters for accepting ₦5,000 during elections ignores the harsh realities they face. For many citizens, election season is the only moment government resources appear to reach them directly. Supporting the incumbent, therefore, becomes less about ideology and more about survival.

The real scandal is not the voter collecting the money. It is the political system that makes such transactions appear rational.

Another enduring myth used to justify the return of failing leaders is the belief in the “better second term.” According to this argument, leaders spend their first term learning governance, navigating political obstacles, and building alliances. Only in a second term, free from re-election pressure, can they truly perform.

It sounds reasonable. Unfortunately, Nigerian political history offers little evidence to support it.

How many leaders have genuinely transformed governance after securing re-election? How many used second terms to dismantle corruption networks, strengthen institutions, or pursue difficult but necessary reforms? In reality, second terms often produce leaders who feel less accountable, not more responsible.

Freed from electoral pressure, many incumbents become more reckless. Corruption deepens. Impunity expands. Accountability weakens. What was cautiously concealed during the first term becomes brazen in the second.

Yes, there have been exceptions, leaders who used second terms to build enduring legacies. But they remain exceptions rather than the rule. The myth survives largely because it offers citizens psychological comfort when supporting leaders, they already know have underperformed.

It would also be dishonest to discuss incumbency in Nigeria without acknowledging electoral manipulation. In many cases, second-term victories are not entirely products of popular support but of institutional advantage.

Security agencies are frequently deployed in ways that favor those in power. Electoral officials face pressure. Results sometimes travel mysteriously between collation centres. Court battles become contests of financial stamina rather than justice. State institutions that should remain neutral are too often weaponized to protect incumbents.

This raises an uncomfortable but necessary question: how many Nigerians genuinely vote for failed leaders, and how many election outcomes are manufactured through the abuse of power? The answer implicates not only politicians but also institutions meant to defend democracy.

The long-term consequences of this culture are devastating. Societies that consistently reward poor leadership inevitably normalize poor governance. When politicians realize that ethnic loyalty, financial inducement, and institutional manipulation are enough to secure victory, the incentive to govern effectively weakens considerably.

Given the foregoing backdrop, they beging to ask themselves, “Why build functional hospitals if ceremonial ribbon-cutting delivers the same political reward?” “Why do we repair roads when distributing rice before elections achieve cheaper electoral results?” “Why invest seriously in education or security when propaganda and patronage are sufficient for political survival?”

Nigeria’s infrastructure decay, persistent poverty, insecurity, unemployment, and brain drain are not accidental. They are partly the outcome of an electoral culture that repeatedly demands too little from those in power.

We have lowered the standards for leadership, and our leaders have adjusted accordingly.

None of this suggests that every incumbent deserves rejection or that change should be pursued blindly for its own sake. Some Nigerian leaders have delivered measurable progress and earned renewed mandates through genuine performance.

But the deeper issue is whether Nigeria has created the conditions for voters to make electoral decisions freely and honestly, free from fear, ethnic pressure, monetary inducement, and institutional manipulation.

Achieving that requires far more than periodic elections. It demands a press’ willingness to scrutinize power beyond partisan loyalties. It requires civil society organizations that engage citizens consistently, not only during campaign seasons. It requires an electoral commission that is genuinely independent. Most importantly, it requires citizens willing to expect more from leadership, even when doing so is uncomfortable.

As at the time of writing this piece, the billboards have returned. The convoys have been rolled out again. The chants of “Four more years!” have started echoing across the country once more.

The real issue has never been why politicians seek second terms. Power, especially in Nigeria, comes with enormous privilege and influence. Seeking to retain it is entirely predictable.

The more important question is this: why do we so willingly hand power back to leaders who have done so little to deserve it?

Until Nigerians confront that question honestly, the country will continue receiving the leadership it tolerates instead of the leadership it truly deserves. In fact, Why do we keep begging failed leaders to run for second terms?