Atiku, Why Again? By Alabidun Shuaib AbdulRahman

In Nigerian politics, ambition is not unusual. Neither is persistence. But when a politician has been on the presidential ballot for several years without success, it is fair to ask a simple question: what is the plan this time that was not there before?

That question has come up again after the recent television interview by Atiku Abubakar, where he made it clear that he intends to run for president in 2027. If he does, it will be his seventh attempt.

The interview, aired on ARISE TV on Wednesday, April 15th, was meant to position him as a leading figure in the opposition ahead of the next election. Instead, it has brought back old doubts about his long political journey, his repeated attempts, and whether anything has really changed.

Atiku did not present his ambition as something he was still considering. He spoke as someone already committed to the race. He also described the 2027 election as his “last outing,” suggesting that this would be his final attempt.

At the same time, he tried to balance two positions. He said he was open to working with others in a coalition under the African Democratic Congress (ADC). But he also made it clear that he would contest for the ticket and would not step aside for anyone, including Peter Obi, Kwankwaso and others.

That position is important. It shows that while he talks about unity, he is not ready to sacrifice his own ambition for it. This has been a consistent feature of his politics over the years.

Atiku has been in Nigerian politics for over three decades. He served as vice president under Olusegun Obasanjo from 1999 to 2007. That position gave him national visibility and influence. However, his main political identity today is built around his repeated attempts to become president. He first contested in the early 1990s. Since then, he has run in 2007, 2011, 2015, 2019, and 2023. He lost all.

This history matters. It is not just about numbers. It shapes how voters see him. Many Nigerians now associate him more with contesting elections than with holding office. So the issue is not just that he is running again. The real issue is why he believes this time will be different.

One major part of Atiku’s strategy over the years has been changing political platforms. He started with the Social Democratic Party (SDP) in the early 1990s, moved to the Peoples Democratic Party (PDP), later joined the Action Congress (AC), returned to the PDP, then moved to the All Progressives Congress (APC), and went back again to the PDP before aligning with the ADC for now.

This kind of movement is often explained as political strategy. Nigerian parties are not strongly ideological, so politicians move when they feel their chances are better elsewhere. But frequent defection also raises questions. It becomes difficult to clearly define what a politician stands for beyond personal ambition. In Atiku’s case, every move has been tied to his presidential ambition. When one platform does not work, he looks for another. That approach may be practical, but it also creates doubts about consistency.

The ADC is now being presented as a platform for a broad opposition coalition ahead of 2027. For Atiku, it is another opportunity to reposition himself and work with other opposition figures. The idea of a coalition is simple: bring together different political forces to challenge the ruling party, currently led by President Bola Ahmed Tinubu.

However, coalitions are not easy to manage. They involve people with different ambitions, different support bases, and different strategies. In this case, figures like Peter Obi, Rabiu Musa Kwankwaso, Rauf Aregbesola, David Mark, Rotimi Amaechi et al also have strong followings.

Atiku’s decision to insist on contesting may create crisis within the coalition. While his experience and national network are advantages, his ambition could also divide the group. So his presence in the ADC is both helpful and complicated.

Although Atiku said in the interview that 2027 would be his final attempt. By then, he will be close to 80 years old, so the claim is understandable. But Nigerian politics has seen similar claims before. Politicians often say an election will be their last, only to return again later. This is why many people are not fully convinced.

More importantly, the idea of a “last attempt” raises a bigger issue. Should leadership at this stage focus on long-term national direction or on completing a personal political journey? This is where age and generational change come into the conversation. Nigeria has a very young population. Many voters are looking for new faces and new ideas. Atiku represents experience, but he also represents an older political generation.

Atiku’s biggest strengths are clear. He has experience, name recognition, and a strong political network across the country. He understands the system and knows how to run national campaigns. But these strengths come with weaknesses. His long history also connects him to past political practices that many Nigerians now question. Some voters see him as part of the old system rather than a candidate for change.

In his interview, he spoke about reforms, including constitutional changes and power rotation. However, critics point out that his positions on some of these issues have changed over time, depending on political circumstances. This gap between what he says now and what he has done before is part of the trust problem he faces.

From a political standpoint, Atiku’s decision to run again is not without logic. He is likely counting on strong support from the northern region and hoping that dissatisfaction with the current administration will work in his favour.

Economic challenges and public frustration could create an opportunity for the opposition. Atiku is trying to position himself as the candidate who can benefit from that situation. However, the situation is not simple. The opposition is not united. There are other strong candidates. Voters are also becoming less predictable.

Winning an election now requires more than regional strength. It requires broad national appeal and the ability to connect with younger voters. This is where Atiku faces his biggest test.

At a broader level, Atiku’s repeated candidacies reflect a pattern in Nigerian politics. The same group of politicians continues to dominate the system, moving between parties and positions. This makes it harder for new leaders to emerge. It also creates a sense that elections are contests between familiar faces rather than opportunities for real change. Atiku is not the only example of this, but he is one of the most visible.

If Atiku wants to convince Nigerians this time, he needs to do more than declare his intention to run. He needs to explain clearly why he has not succeeded before and what will be different now.

He also needs to show that his campaign is not just another attempt, but a new approach. That includes how he plans to govern, how he will address current challenges, and how he will work with other political actors. Without this, his candidacy risks being seen as a repeat of previous efforts.

Atiku Abubakar has the right to contest for president. That is not in question. The real issue is whether his continued participation adds value to the political process or simply repeats what Nigerians have already seen.

His recent interview has reopened an important debate. It is not just about him. It is about the direction of Nigerian politics, the need for new leadership, and the balance between experience and change.

As 2027 approaches, voters will have to decide. Do they want to give Atiku another chance, or do they want something different?

Alabidun is a media practitioner and can be reached via alabidungoldenson@gmail.com

Where Lies the Integrity of INEC Chairman? By Boniface Ihiasota

From the vantage point of the diaspora, where institutions are often judged less by rhetoric and more by credibility, Nigeria’s electoral process continues to raise uneasy questions. At the centre of this scrutiny is the Independent National Electoral Commission, INEC and its current chairman, Professor Joash Amupitan, whose tenure, though relatively new, is already entangled in controversy that strikes at the very heart of electoral neutrality.

Amupitan assumed office in October 2025, following his nomination by President Bola Ahmed Tinubu and confirmation by the Senate on October 16, 2025. His appointment was framed as a technocratic choice—an academic, a Senior Advocate of Nigeria, and, in the words of the presidency, an “apolitical” figure expected to restore confidence in the electoral system. Yet, barely six months into his tenure, that expectation is being tested by a controversy rooted not in policy decisions, but in digital footprints.

The storm centres on a series of alleged past activities on the social media platform X (formerly Twitter), linked to an account bearing his name. The most cited instance dates back to March 18, 2023, during the Lagos State gubernatorial elections. On that day, Dayo Israel, a prominent figure in the ruling All Progressives Congress, posted about electoral success in a previously opposition-leaning area. A reply attributed to an account carrying Amupitan’s name reportedly read: “Victory is sure.”

That single phrase—brief, seemingly innocuous—has since taken on outsized significance. For critics, it is not just about the words themselves, but what they imply: a possible alignment, however subtle, with a political party that the electoral umpire is expected to regulate with strict neutrality. The African Democratic Congress (ADC), through its spokesperson Bolaji Abdullahi, has described the resurfaced interaction as a “grave affront” to the integrity of the electoral system and has gone as far as demanding Amupitan’s resignation.

The controversy deepened in April 2026 when conflicting narratives emerged. On one hand, some digital analyses and commentaries claimed that the account in question bore traces consistent with Amupitan’s online identity prior to his appointment. On the other, INEC issued a categorical denial. In a statement released on April 10, 2026, the commission insisted that the chairman “does not own or operate any personal account on X” and described the allegations as “entirely baseless” and a “fabrication.” The commission further alleged that cybercriminals had been impersonating the chairman and warned that those responsible would face prosecution under the Cybercrimes Act.

This duality—accusation and denial—captures the essence of the current dilemma. In the absence of definitive proof, the debate has shifted from fact to perception. And in matters of electoral integrity, perception is often as consequential as reality.

From a diaspora perspective, this is where the concern becomes most pronounced. Electoral bodies are not judged solely by their legal correctness, but by the confidence they inspire. In countries where institutions are deeply trusted, even minor controversies are addressed swiftly and transparently to prevent erosion of credibility. In Nigeria, however, where trust in electoral processes has historically been fragile, such controversies carry amplified consequences.

It is important to acknowledge that no conclusive evidence has established that Amupitan personally operated the controversial X account. The timeline itself complicates the narrative. The alleged posts date back to 2023, two years before his appointment as INEC chairman. At that time, he was a law professor, not a public electoral official. The question, therefore, is not simply whether the account existed, but whether past expressions—if indeed they were his—should disqualify him from holding an office that demands absolute neutrality.

Yet, public office has its own moral burden. The chairman of INEC is not just an administrator; he is the custodian of democratic legitimacy. His credibility must be beyond reproach, not only in action but in history. Even the perception of partisanship, however distant, becomes a liability.

INEC’s defence rests on a familiar but critical claim: impersonation. In an era where digital identity can be easily manipulated, the existence of fake accounts is not implausible. The commission has stated that several such accounts have been identified and reported to security agencies. But this explanation, while plausible, does not entirely settle public anxiety. It shifts the burden to verification, a process that is often slow and inconclusive in Nigeria’s digital and legal landscape.

Ultimately, the question remains unresolved: where lies the integrity of the INEC chairman? It lies, perhaps, not in the binary of guilt or innocence, but in the response to doubt. Integrity, in this context, is demonstrated through transparency, openness to scrutiny, and a willingness to subject oneself to independent verification.

For Amupitan, the challenge is immediate and defining. He must not only lead elections; he must lead trust. In a system already burdened by suspicion, he cannot afford the luxury of ambiguity. Every action, every clarification, every silence will be interpreted through the lens of credibility.

From the diaspora, the hope remains that Nigeria’s electoral institution can rise above these recurring cycles of doubt. But hope, as history has shown, is not enough. Integrity must not only exist—it must be seen, tested, and, above all, believed.

What Are Our Universities Producing? By Alabidun Shuaib AbdulRahman 

There was a time in Nigeria when education was not merely a pathway to employment but a cultural badge of intellectual distinction. The University of Ibadan in the 1960s did not simply produce graduates; it produced thinkers. Today, however, a quiet but consequential shift has occurred. The Nigerian educational system appears to be producing more certificates than competence, more graduates than thinkers, and more qualifications than knowledge. This raises a difficult but necessary question: what exactly are we learning?

To interrogate this question meaningfully, one must begin with the most honest indicator of national priorities which is budgetary allocation. Education funding is not just a fiscal decision; it is a philosophical statement about what a country values. In Nigeria, that statement has been consistently ambiguous. In the 2025 federal budget, education received roughly 7 percent of total allocation, a figure far below the 15–20 percent benchmark recommended by UNESCO. This is not an anomaly but a pattern. Historical data shows that between 1960 and 2023, Nigeria’s average allocation to education hovered around 5.94 percent, significantly below global standards.

Even more revealing is the comparative picture. Between 1999 and 2021, countries such as Ghana, Kenya, and Senegal consistently outperformed Nigeria in educational investment, with Ghana allocating over 24 percent on average, and Kenya exceeding 21 percent. These figures are not just statistical contrasts; they are explanatory variables. They help explain why Nigeria, despite being Africa’s most populous nation, struggles to produce globally competitive graduates at scale.

Paradoxically, Nigeria’s education budget has increased significantly in absolute terms. From ₦602 billion in 2019 to about ₦1.59 trillion in 2024, government spending on education has nearly tripled. Yet, outcomes have remained largely stagnant. Classrooms remain overcrowded, infrastructure is inadequate, and teacher quality is inconsistent. The problem, therefore, is not merely how much is spent, but how it is spent. A large portion of the budget is consumed by recurrent expenditure like salaries and administrative costs, leaving minimal investment in research, infrastructure, and innovation.

This funding structure has profound implications for universities, which are supposed to serve as engines of knowledge production and innovation. Nigeria currently has over 200 universities, spanning federal, state, and private ownership. On paper, this expansion suggests progress. In reality, it reflects a quantitative response to demand without a corresponding qualitative framework. The proliferation of universities has not translated into global competitiveness. Rankings consistently show Nigerian universities trailing behind their African counterparts, with limited presence in global top-tier listings.

The issue here is not merely about rankings, but about what rankings represent. Globally competitive universities are evaluated based on research output, citation impact, faculty quality, international collaboration, and graduate employability. Nigerian universities struggle in these areas, largely due to underfunding and systemic inefficiencies. Research funding, for instance, accounts for less than 1 percent of Nigeria’s GDP, a figure that severely constrains innovation.

What, then, is expected of universities in a global context? At their core, universities are not degree-awarding factories; they are knowledge ecosystems. Institutions like the University of Cape Town in South Africa or the University of Nairobi in Kenya have increasingly aligned their curricula with global standards, emphasizing research, critical thinking, and interdisciplinary learning. Nigeria’s universities, by contrast, often remain trapped in outdated curricular models that prioritize rote memorization over analytical reasoning.

This pedagogical gap is perhaps the most critical dimension of the certification-versus-education debate. In many Nigerian classrooms, success is measured by the ability to reproduce information rather than to interrogate it. Students are trained to pass examinations, not to solve problems. The result is a generation of graduates who possess certificates but lack the competencies required in a global knowledge economy.

To understand the gravity of this issue, one must consider the expectations placed on graduates in today’s world. The 21st-century workforce demands more than subject-specific knowledge. It requires critical thinking, digital literacy, adaptability, collaboration, and innovation. Employers are increasingly interested in what graduates can do, not just what they know. In this context, a certificate becomes merely an entry point, not a guarantee of competence.

Nigeria’s educational system, however, often operates on an outdated assumption—that possession of a degree equates to employability. This assumption is increasingly untenable. With a literacy rate estimated between 62 and 70 percent and significant disparities in educational quality, the system produces graduates who are often ill-equipped for global competition. The consequence is a widening gap between education and employment, a gap that manifests in high graduate unemployment and underemployment rates.

A comparative look at other African nations further underscores this point. Countries like Tunisia and South Africa allocate approximately 20 percent of their budgets to education and have invested heavily in curriculum reform and teacher training. Botswana and Namibia emphasize continuous teacher development and critical thinking skills, while Mauritius has integrated technology into its educational framework. These countries are not without challenges, but they demonstrate a deliberate alignment between educational policy and global standards.

Nigeria’s challenge is not simply that it lags behind; it is that it has not clearly defined what it aims to achieve with its educational system. Is the goal to produce graduates in large numbers, or to produce globally competitive individuals? The current trajectory suggests the former. The emphasis on expanding access to higher education, while commendable, has not been matched by a commitment to quality assurance.

This disparity between access and quality is at the heart of the certification dilemma. The more universities are established without adequate funding and oversight, the more diluted the value of the degree becomes. A certificate, in this context, risks becoming a symbol of attendance rather than achievement.

Yet, it would be overly simplistic to attribute all responsibility to government policy. The culture of learning itself must also be interrogated. In many instances, students approach education as a transactional process—attend lectures, pass exams, obtain a certificate. Intellectual curiosity, independent research, and critical inquiry are often secondary considerations. This cultural orientation is both a product of the system and a contributor to its perpetuation.

The role of educators is equally significant. Teacher quality remains a critical determinant of educational outcomes. In Nigeria, only a small percentage of teachers are considered highly trained, and the teacher-student ratio remains high, particularly in public institutions. Without substantial investment in teacher training and professional development, any attempt at systemic reform is likely to be superficial.

Infrastructure also plays a crucial role. A university without functional laboratories, libraries, and digital resources cannot effectively compete in a global knowledge economy. Yet, many Nigerian institutions operate with facilities that are decades behind contemporary standards. This infrastructural deficit is not merely a logistical issue; it is a constraint on intellectual development.

The global standard for universities today extends beyond teaching to include research and community impact. Universities are expected to generate knowledge that addresses societal challenges. In this regard, Nigeria’s universities face a dual challenge: limited funding and limited integration with industry. The absence of strong university-industry linkages means that research often remains theoretical, with little practical application.

This disconnect further reinforces the certification culture. When education is not linked to real-world outcomes, it becomes an abstract exercise. Students learn to pass exams, not to solve problems. Graduates enter the workforce with theoretical knowledge but limited practical skills, creating a mismatch between supply and demand.

To move beyond certification, Nigeria must undertake a fundamental rethinking of its educational philosophy. This requires not only increased funding but also strategic investment. Resources must be directed toward infrastructure, research, teacher training, and curriculum reform. Universities must be granted greater autonomy to innovate, while also being held accountable for outcomes.

Equally important is the need to redefine success within the educational system. Success should not be measured solely by graduation rates or the number of degrees awarded, but by the quality of graduates produced. Are they capable of critical thinking? Can they adapt to new challenges? Are they equipped to contribute meaningfully to society?

Until those questions are answered with honesty and urgency, the certificates will continue to accumulate, but the knowledge they are meant to represent will remain elusive.