The Electoral Act and the Crisis of Electoral Confidence, by Alabidun Shuaib AbdulRahman

Nigeria’s electoral laws have always mirrored the country’s uneasy relationship with democracy itself: hopeful in intention, fragile in execution, and controversial in outcome.

From the annulled June 12, 1993 election to the disputed polls of 2003, 2007, 2019 and, more recently, 2023, electoral legislation has remained both a tool of reform and a battlefield of political interest. The Electoral Act 2022, currently at the centre of renewed controversy, was enacted to correct decades of systemic flaws, but its implementation and the subsequent attempts to amend it have reopened old wounds about trust, transparency and the true commitment of Nigeria’s political elite to credible elections.

The Electoral Act 2022 replaced the Electoral Act 2010 (as amended), which had governed Nigeria’s elections for over a decade. The 2010 Act was widely criticised for being outdated in the face of evolving electoral manipulation techniques, weak in enforcing penalties for offences, and largely silent on the use of modern technology.

Between 1999 and 2019, election tribunals nullified hundreds of election results across all levels of government, presenting how deeply flawed the process had become. According to data from the National Judicial Council, more than 40 per cent of governorship elections conducted between 1999 and 2015 ended up in court, with several overturned. This pattern exposed the limits of electoral administration under existing laws and created an urgent demand for reform.

Against this background, the Electoral Act 2022 was introduced as a reformist statute designed to restore confidence in Nigeria’s electoral process. It introduced innovations such as the legal backing for electronic accreditation of voters through the Bimodal Voter Accreditation System (BVAS), the possibility of electronic transmission of results, stricter timelines for party primaries, clearer campaign finance limits, and stiffer penalties for certain electoral offences. For the first time, Nigerian electoral law appeared to acknowledge that technology could serve as a bulwark against manipulation rather than a threat to sovereignty.

Yet, even at birth, the Act was controversial. Section 84, which barred political appointees from voting or being voted for at party primaries unless they resigned their appointments, generated intense legal and political resistance. While reform advocates argued that it would curb abuse of state power during primaries, opponents saw it as discriminatory. The provision was eventually nullified by the courts, making a recurring weakness in Nigeria’s electoral reform efforts: ambitious laws that collide with entrenched political interests and constitutional ambiguities.

The controversy surrounding the Act deepened after the 2023 general elections. Although BVAS significantly reduced incidents of over-voting, with INEC reporting that accreditation figures matched votes cast in most polling units, the failure to consistently upload polling-unit results to the INEC Result Viewing Portal in real time ignited nationwide outrage. INEC blamed technical glitches and connectivity challenges, but many Nigerians interpreted the delay as evidence that old habits had merely adapted to new tools. According to observer reports by the European Union Election Observation Mission, while BVAS improved transparency at the polling unit level, the collation process remained vulnerable to manipulation, particularly where results were moved physically without immediate electronic verification.

It is within this climate of suspicion that the National Assembly’s recent attempts to amend the Electoral Act have drawn fierce public scrutiny. Central to the controversy is the issue of electronic transmission of results. The Act currently empowers INEC to determine the manner in which results are transmitted, a provision that reformers argue is too discretionary. Civil society organisations, opposition parties and segments of the electorate insist that mandatory electronic transmission from polling units should be explicitly stated in the law to eliminate human interference during collation. Their argument is rooted in history: most electoral fraud in Nigeria has occurred not at the polling unit, where party agents and observers are present, but during result collation at ward, local government and state levels.

Supporters of legislative discretion counter this argument by pointing to Nigeria’s uneven infrastructure. They note that, according to the Nigerian Communications Commission, broadband penetration stood at 43.71% as at December 2023,, with significant disparities between urban and rural areas. From this perspective, making electronic transmission mandatory without addressing connectivity and power supply challenges could disenfranchise voters in remote communities. This disparity between ideal reform and practical constraints lies at the heart of the Electoral Act debate.

Beyond technology, the Act also touches on the persistent problem of electoral offences. Vote-buying, ballot snatching and voter intimidation have become entrenched features of Nigeria’s elections. During the 2023 elections, Yiaga Africa documented widespread vote trading across several states, with prices reportedly ranging from ₦2,000 to ₦10,000 per vote. The Electoral Act prescribes fines and prison terms for such offences, yet enforcement remains weak. Nigeria has recorded very few convictions for electoral crimes since 1999, a fact acknowledged by INEC itself.

The implications of these legal controversies for future elections, particularly the 2027 general elections, are profound. Electoral credibility is not built on election day alone; it depends on clarity and stability of the legal framework long before ballots are printed. INEC is required by law to release its election timetable at least 360 days before a general election. Persistent uncertainty about the final shape of the Electoral Act complicates planning, procurement and training. It also increases the likelihood of pre-election litigation, which has already become a defining feature of Nigerian politics.

In the 2023 election cycle, INEC recorded over 1,200 pre-election cases, many of which stemmed from ambiguities in party primaries and candidate selection rules.

Public trust is another casualty of the ongoing controversy. Voter turnout in Nigeria has been declining steadily, dropping from about 69 per cent in 2003 to roughly 27 per cent in 2023, according to INEC figures. This decline reflects growing voter apathy driven by the perception that votes do not count. When electoral laws appear malleable or subject to political bargaining, they reinforce cynicism and disengagement. For a country where over 60 per cent of the population is under 30, sustaining such distrust poses long-term risks to democratic stability.

Still, it would be unfair to dismiss the Electoral Act 2022 as a failure. The Act represents the most comprehensive attempt at electoral reform Nigeria has undertaken since 1999. The legal recognition of technology in voter accreditation marked a decisive break from the past, and the reduction in over-voting during the 2023 elections is a measurable achievement.

The clearer timelines for party primaries and candidate nominations have also improved internal party discipline, even if enforcement remains inconsistent. Compared to elections conducted under the 2010 Act, the 2022 framework has narrowed some avenues for manipulation, even as it exposed others.

The negative side, however, lies in what the Act leaves unresolved. Ambiguity in critical areas creates room for discretion, and discretion in Nigeria’s electoral history has rarely favoured transparency. The absence of decisive enforcement mechanisms for electoral offences undermines deterrence. The tendency to amend election laws close to election seasons fuels suspicion that reforms are driven by immediate political calculations rather than long-term democratic consolidation.

Nigeria’s electoral journey is ultimately a reflection of its broader governance challenges. Laws alone cannot guarantee credible elections, but weak laws almost certainly guarantee flawed ones. The controversy surrounding the Electoral Act is therefore less about technical clauses and more about political will. Countries such as Ghana and Kenya, which have faced similar challenges, have shown that sustained reform, backed by enforcement and civic education, can gradually rebuild trust. Ghana’s consistent improvement in election credibility since 2000, for instance, has been supported by clear electoral rules and visible consequences for violations.

As Nigeria looks ahead to future elections, the Electoral Act remains a pivotal instrument. Whether it becomes a foundation for democratic consolidation or another missed opportunity depends on how sincerely it is implemented, clarified and respected.

Electoral reform is not an event but a process, and Nigeria is still very much in the middle of that process. What is at stake is not just the outcome of the next election, but the credibility of the democratic project itself. In that sense, the controversy over the Electoral Act is not a distraction from Nigeria’s democratic journey; it is the journey, unfolding in real time, with all its contradictions, hopes and unresolved questions.

The Agony of a Columnist, by Alabidun Shuaib AbdulRahman 

There are pains that refuse to be edited out of memory. No matter how carefully one chooses words, some experiences bleed through the page, heavy and unyielding. I write this not merely as a columnist accustomed to weighing public issues, but as a father whose pen now trembles under the weight of a personal loss that should never have happened.

The death of my eight-month-old daughter, Alabidun Rahmah AbdulRahman, is not just a private tragedy; it is a mirror held up to a system that looks impressive on the surface but collapses at the moment it is most needed.

On Friday, 23rd January 2026, my daughter was taken to General Hospital Suleja because she was unable to suck breast properly. It did not appear, at first, to be a death sentence. Like many parents, I trusted the judgment of trained professionals. The hospital itself inspired confidence. It is well renovated, neatly structured, and visually reassuring. From the outside, it looks like what a modern government hospital should look like. That appearance, in truth, persuaded me to use it. I believed, as any reasonable citizen would, that a facility that looks ready must surely be ready.

That belief became my greatest regret.

Rahmah was admitted the same day on the claim that her condition required emergency attention. She was taken into the Emergency Pediatric Unit, a designation that suggests urgency, speed, and competence. But what followed was neither urgent nor competent. For over thirteen hours, my daughter lay there in visible discomfort, struggling, crying faintly, weakening by the minute.

During this entire period, no doctor came to see her. The only available doctor was contacted several times by a Nurse. Calls were made. Messages were sent. Appeals were raised. Yet she never showed up, never examined the child, never intervened until she passed away Saturday night.

It is difficult to explain what it feels like to watch a child suffer while help remains just out of reach. Hospitals are supposed to be sanctuaries of hope, places where time matters and minutes are counted with seriousness. But in that Emergency Pediatric Unit in Suleja General Hospital, time became an enemy. Thirteen hours passed like a slow execution.

At some point, sensing danger, I requested that my daughter be transferred to a private hospital. I was ready to bear any cost. That request was not granted. Instead, oxygen was administered, as though oxygen alone could replace diagnosis, treatment, and medical presence. Oxygen became a gesture, not a solution. Sadly, when Rahmah took her last breath, it was not because her condition was incurable. It was because care was absent.

This is where the agony deepens. This was not a dilapidated structure abandoned by government. This was a renovated hospital, one that fits neatly into budget speeches and commissioning photographs. Niger State, since 2023, has consistently announced significant allocations to the health sector. In the 2024 fiscal year, over forty billion naira was earmarked for health, with emphasis on improving facilities, upgrading hospitals, and strengthening service delivery.

In 2025 and into the proposed 2026 budget, health allocations rose even higher, approaching over seventy billion naira, according to official budget presentations. These figures are not rumours; they are public records. They are read aloud in legislative chambers and celebrated in press releases. Yet, standing beside my dying child, those billions meant nothing.

A hospital is not healed by paint, tiles, and glass alone. A renovated building without doctors is like a body without a pulse. General Hospital Suleja may look functional, but inside, it suffers from a shortage that is far more dangerous than cracked walls. The absence of medical personnel, especially during emergencies, is a silent killer. No amount of renovation compensates for a system where doctors can choose not to respond to repeated calls when the needs arise.

Also strangely to me, there is the issue of power. What kind of hospital functions with generator power for barely three hours a day, typically between 8pm and 11pm? In a medical environment, power is not a convenience; it is life itself. Equipment depends on it. Monitoring depends on it. Emergency response depends on it. When power becomes a luxury, care becomes compromised. It is disturbing that in 2026, parents still have to pray for electricity in a government hospital while budgets worth billions are announced yearly.

What hurts most is not just the loss, but the realization that this suffering was avoidable. It was not fate. It was negligence. It was indifference. It was a system that has mastered the art of looking prepared while remaining dangerously hollow.

As a columnist, I have written about governance failures, policy gaps, and institutional decay. I have used statistics and official statements to interrogate power. But nothing prepares you for the moment when those abstract failures become personal. When the child you named, carried, and loved becomes a casualty of the same system you once critiqued from a distance.

I cannot, in good conscience, advise even my enemy to use that hospital again, not because it looks bad, but because looks deceive. The pain of trusting a fine exterior only to encounter fatal emptiness inside is something I would not wish on anyone. Health facilities should not be deceptive showpieces. They should be living systems, staffed, powered, responsive, and humane.

This is not a call for sympathy. It is a demand for honesty. If governments will continue to announce impressive budgets, then citizens deserve impressive outcomes. If hospitals are renovated, they must also be manned. If emergency units exist, they must function as emergencies, not waiting rooms for death. Accountability must move beyond paperwork and reach the ward, the night shift, the unanswered phone call.

Alabidun Rahmah AbdulRahman was eight months old. She was my only daughter. She deserved more than silence, more than delay, more than oxygen without care. She deserved a doctor who would show up.

Some losses change a man forever. This one has changed my writing. The pen is no longer just a tool of commentary; it is now an instrument of mourning and witness. If this column unsettles those who read it, then perhaps it is doing what hospitals like General Hospital Suleja failed to do that day — respond with urgency.

For my daughter, and for every child whose life depends on more than painted walls and budget speeches, this agony must be written, remembered, and acted upon.

Why Always Rivers State? By Alabidun Shuaib AbdulRahman

Why is it always Rivers State? The question no longer sounds rhetorical. It has become a recurring reflection whenever Nigeria’s democracy appears strained, its institutions weakened, or its constitutional boundaries tested. Since the return to civil rule in 1999, Rivers State has repeatedly found itself at the centre of political crises that transcend ordinary electoral competition. What distinguishes Rivers is not merely the frequency of conflict, but the intensity, longevity and national implications of those crises. From succession battles to legislative breakdowns and federal intervention, the state has functioned as a pressure point where the contradictions of Nigerian democracy are most vividly exposed.

Rivers State’s peculiar trajectory cannot be understood without acknowledging its strategic importance within Nigeria’s political economy. As one of the core oil-producing states in the Niger Delta, Rivers hosts major petroleum assets that are critical to national revenue generation. Control of the state government therefore carries implications that extend far beyond its borders. Political office in Rivers confers access to enormous fiscal allocations, discretionary power over contracts and appointments, and leverage within national party structures. In a political system where state power is often personalised and monetised, such advantages raise the stakes of political competition to extraordinary levels.

From the onset of the Fourth Republic, these dynamics shaped the character of politics in Rivers. Peter Odili’s administration, which ran from 1999 to 2007, coincided with Nigeria’s democratic reawakening after prolonged military rule. His government helped stabilise civilian authority in the state and strengthened the Peoples Democratic Party’s dominance. Yet it also entrenched a culture of elite patronage that blurred the line between party loyalty and state ownership. Power became concentrated around the executive, while institutions that should have acted as counterweights remained weak. By the time Odili left office, Rivers politics had developed a reputation for fierce internal rivalry masked by outward party unity.

The crisis surrounding the 2007 governorship election revealed the fragility beneath that surface. Celestine Omehia’s short-lived tenure, terminated by a Supreme Court judgment that installed Chibuike Rotimi Amaechi on 25 October 2007, underscored how political outcomes in Rivers were increasingly determined by judicial intervention and party machinations rather than popular participation. While the court’s ruling was constitutionally grounded, it reinforced public perceptions that voters were peripheral actors in a system dominated by elite bargaining.

Amaechi’s eight years in office were among the most turbulent in the state’s history. Initially a key figure within the PDP, he later became a leading opposition voice against the party’s national leadership, particularly during the administration of President Goodluck Jonathan. His defection to the All Progressives Congress ahead of the 2015 elections transformed Rivers into a frontline state in Nigeria’s emerging two-party contest. Elections during this period were marked by violence, legal disputes and allegations of widespread irregularities. Rather than strengthening democratic norms, political competition in Rivers became increasingly militarised and litigious.

The ascension of Nyesom Wike to the governorship in 2015 represented both continuity and escalation. A former ally of Amaechi who became his fiercest rival, Wike governed with an assertive style that left little room for dissent. His administration pursued ambitious infrastructure projects and positioned Rivers as a visible development hub in the South-South. However, these achievements existed alongside an aggressive consolidation of political control. Party structures, legislative independence and local government autonomy were subordinated to the governor’s authority. Politics in Rivers became highly personalised, with loyalty to the executive serving as the principal currency of survival.

By the end of his second term in 2023, Wike had transcended state politics. His influence within the PDP and later his alignment with President Bola Tinubu elevated him into the national power equation. This context made the question of succession in Rivers unusually consequential. The emergence of Siminalayi Fubara as governor following the March 2023 election was widely interpreted as an extension of Wike’s political will. Fubara’s victory, secured with over 300,000 votes, appeared to confirm the durability of that arrangement.

Yet, Rivers’ history suggested that such successions are rarely seamless. Within months of assuming office, Fubara’s relationship with his predecessor deteriorated sharply. Disagreements over appointments, control of party structures and the autonomy of the executive quickly escalated. By October 2023, the conflict had spilled into the open, culminating in the burning of the Rivers State House of Assembly complex on 29 October. The symbolism of that event was unmistakable: the physical destruction of the legislature mirrored the collapse of constitutional order in the state.

What followed was an unprecedented institutional crisis. The Rivers State House of Assembly split into rival factions, each claiming legitimacy and producing contradictory resolutions. Impeachment proceedings were initiated and countered. Court orders multiplied, often conflicting, while governance ground to a halt. For months, Rivers effectively operated without a coherent legislative authority. This paralysis was not rooted in ideological disagreement or policy failure but in a struggle over political supremacy between a sitting governor and a former one determined to retain influence.

The depth of the crisis prompted federal intervention. On 18 March 2025, President Bola Tinubu declared a state of emergency in Rivers State, suspending the governor, his deputy and the entire House of Assembly for six months and appointing a sole administrator. The federal government cited political paralysis and threats to oil infrastructure, including incidents of pipeline vandalism, as justification. The National Assembly endorsed the proclamation, giving it legal force despite intense public debate.

This intervention marked a watershed moment in Nigeria’s post-1999 constitutional practice. Unlike previous emergency declarations, particularly the 2013 emergency in the northeast, the Rivers action involved the suspension of elected officials. Legal scholars and civil society organisations questioned its constitutional basis, noting that the 1999 Constitution outlines specific procedures for removing governors and legislators. The episode exposed unresolved ambiguities within Nigeria’s federal system and demonstrated how state-level political breakdowns can invite sweeping federal responses.

When the emergency rule was lifted in September 2025 and the suspended officials reinstated, Rivers returned to civilian governance, but the episode left enduring scars. Institutional credibility had been damaged, public confidence weakened and constitutional norms tested. The crisis projected the extent to which Rivers’ political instability had moved beyond internal party disputes to become a national concern.

The persistence of crisis in Rivers is not coincidental. It reflects structural weaknesses embedded within Nigeria’s democratic framework. The concentration of economic resources elevates political competition into a zero-sum contest. Godfatherism distorts succession, turning governance into a continuation of private power struggles. Political parties function less as democratic platforms and more as instruments of elite control. Legislatures and courts, rather than serving as independent arbiters, are drawn into factional battles. In such an environment, stability becomes fragile and crisis recurrent.

The consequences for governance are profound. Political paralysis disrupts budgetary processes, delays development projects and diverts attention from pressing social challenges. Despite its wealth, Rivers continues to struggle with unemployment, environmental degradation and infrastructural gaps. Citizens bear the cost of elite conflict through weakened service delivery and diminished trust in democratic institutions.

Why, then, does it always seem to be Rivers State? Because Rivers has become a concentrated expression of Nigeria’s unresolved democratic contradictions. It is a state where economic abundance coexists with institutional fragility, where political power is personalised, and where succession is treated as conquest rather than continuity. Until these underlying conditions change, Rivers will continue to oscillate between governance and crisis.

The lesson Rivers offers Nigeria is sobering. Democracy cannot be sustained by elections alone. Without strong institutions, internal party democracy and a political culture that respects constitutional boundaries, electoral victories become triggers for conflict rather than mandates for governance. Rivers State stands as a reminder that when politics is reduced to personal dominance, instability becomes inevitable. Until the structures that reward godfatherism and weaken institutions are dismantled, the question will persist, echoing across election cycles and administrations: why is it always Rivers State?