By Peter Omonua
Nigeria is not yet in campaign season, but the argument about the 2027 presidential election has already begun. It is not about candidates, slogans, or manifestos. It is about something more fundamental, whether the election will still matter.
Across the country and in the diaspora, a quiet but persistent skepticism is taking root. Many Nigerians are asking whether the coming election will be a genuine contest or a ritual whose outcome feels increasingly predictable. At the center of this doubt lies a deep erosion of trust in the institutions meant to anchor democracy.
Critics of the current political order point to what they describe as an extraordinary concentration of power around the presidency of Bola Ahmed Tinubu. Constitutionally, the president appoints the heads of Nigeria’s most influential democratic, security, and legal institutions. In theory, this is standard practice. In reality, it becomes problematic when the same president is also a principal contender in the election those institutions will oversee, secure, or adjudicate.
The Independent National Electoral Commission (INEC), responsible for conducting elections, is led by a chairman appointed by the president. The Chief Justice of the Federation, who presides over election disputes that reach the Supreme Court, is also a presidential appointee. So are the Attorney-General and Minister of Justice, the Inspector General of Police, the Director General of the Department of State Services, and the Chief of Army Staff.
The issue raised by critics is not legality. It is perception.
Can institutions structured this way inspire public confidence when the stakes involve the political survival of the authority that appointed their leadership?
Beyond institutional design, there is a broader sense of political exhaustion. Opposition parties appear weakened and fragmented. Ethnic and partisan loyalties are frequently mobilized to divide rather than persuade. Many citizens feel locked out of meaningful political agency, watching power consolidate rather than rotate.
Concerns extend to what happens after votes are cast. If results are disputed, the legal pathway leads back to courts headed by presidential appointees. Public protest, another democratic outlet, would confront security agencies ultimately answerable to the executive. Even the digital space, once seen as a refuge for dissent, is increasingly perceived as monitored. Whether these fears are justified or exaggerated matters less than the fact that they exist.
This erosion of confidence forms the core of the argument that the 2027 election risks becoming, in the eyes of many Nigerians, an “exercise in futility.” When people believe outcomes are predetermined, participation declines, cynicism deepens, and democratic legitimacy suffers.
The satirical suggestion that election funds might be better spent alleviating hardship rather than financing a process many distrust is not a serious proposal. But satire, in politics, often signals despair.
Democracy does not survive on constitutional clauses alone. It rests on public trust. If Nigerians are to approach 2027 with hope rather than resignation, institutions must do more than insist on legality. They must demonstrate independence, restraint, and transparency in ways citizens can feel, not just read about.
Otherwise, the most decisive verdict on the next election may be delivered long before the first ballot is cast.
