By Publisher
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Once upon a ballot paper, in a land where democracy was imported like used clothes and expired drugs, the people rejoiced. It was 1999. The generals returned to the barracks with their fat stomachs and fatter pensions, and the civilians emerged blinking into the sunlight like overcooked beans.
“Power to the people!” they shouted.
The people looked around.
“Which people?”
Back then, optimism was high. Even mosquitoes were humming the national anthem. The new civilian leaders promised roads, jobs, water, electricity, and the revival of the economy. For a brief moment, it seemed as though Nigeria was finally shedding its skin of military rule.
But democracy, like a new car bought on hire purchase, quickly began to cough. First came the constitutional gymnastics, then the billion-naira furniture for lawmakers, and before long, corruption had changed outfits and rebranded as “governance.”
By 2003, Nigerians realized democracy didn’t come with a return policy. You couldn’t swap it for a better one. And customer service? Forget it. Try calling your local government chairman’s number; it only rings on Election Day.
Every four years, Nigeria throws a grand festival called “elections.” It’s a time of miracles. Suddenly, roads are patched, boreholes appear like mushrooms, and politicians remember the taste of groundnut soup in the village.
Campaigns begin with slogans like “Hope this year or that,” “Change Again,” or “Renewed Suffering.” Billboards sprout across the country, featuring smiling faces with teeth so white they can power a small town. They promise everything from free education to jetpacks for market women.
The crowd gathers, wearing branded wrappers and T-shirts, chanting as if their lives depended on it. Which, unfortunately, they do. Rice, salt, and Maggi cubes are distributed like Holy Communion. Some receive petty cash gifts “to cover transport.” Others are promised jobs once “our man enters.”
Election Day itself is an Olympic sport. Voters arrive early to beat the sun. Then they wait. And wait. And wait. INEC officials arrive late, the card readers refuse to read, and thugs show up to conduct their voter education with sticks and machetes.
When results are finally announced—often days later, often disputed—Nigerians breathe a collective sigh. Not of relief, but of exhaustion. The cycle is complete. Time to return to normal programming: no light, no fuel, no security.
Fast forward to 2025. Twenty-six years later, democracy has grown teeth, claws, and a generator the size of a container ship. Because NEPA never brings light. The only thing that has remained constant is the darkness of both electricity and leadership.
Every four years, Nigerians gather like relatives at a will-reading, except the deceased is the economy, and everyone suspects the politician in agbada did it.
Election season in Nigeria is like Christmas: Colourful, loud, and full of promises that will never be delivered. Candidates distribute rice, wrappers, and envelopes that mysteriously gain weight just before polling day. “Vote for me,” they say, “and I will build bridges where there is no water.”
Voters queue under the sun for hours, only for results to be announced by INEC with the enthusiasm of a tired teacher, marking WAEC scripts. And when the numbers don’t add up?
“Technical glitch,” they say.
Translation: “We typed ‘2’ and it became ‘2 million’ by accident.”
In a democracy, politicians are expected to lie. Nigerian ones just take it as performance art.
“We will fix power,” they declare with the confidence of a pastor, promising rain in the Sahara. Meanwhile, the only stable power in the country is the one that powers the politicians’ air conditioners, thanks to imported diesel and broken dreams.
They promise free education, free healthcare, free roads, free everything. What they don’t mention is that the only thing truly free is Wi-Fi at the airport lounge, where they’re always flying out.
If democracy is a play, then the National Assembly is the theater. Senators and House members, dressed in agbadas so wide they require traffic control, debate national issues with the urgency of snails in a yoga class.
The cost of maintaining the legislature is higher than the budget of some small countries. But what do they do? Well, apart from renaming airports and observing minutes of silence for deceased colleagues, they occasionally pass bills, after lengthy debates about party zoning, tribal honor, and whether or not to ban TikTok.
Nigerians have stopped expecting laws that improve lives. Instead, they now expect drama. One lawmaker slapped a colleague during a heated debate. Another could not mask his libido while relating with his beautiful female colleague and began to masturbate in plenary. Yet another allegedly smuggled rice into the country in his convoy. All in the name of legislative oversight.
Indeed, the National Assembly is the best comedy show on TV, except it runs 24/7 and costs billions. Our lawmakers, affectionately called Distinguished and Honourable, are so hardworking that they earn more than U.S. senators but pass fewer bills than a broke student in December.
They once debated whether goats should wear face masks during COVID. Democracy in action.
The reality for the people is Sufferhead Republic.
The average Nigerian is busy calculating:
- One bag of rice = more than the minimum wage.
- Transport fare = hope and prayer.
- Fuel price = spiritual warfare.
- Electricity bill = candle budget + mosquito bite surcharge.
Yet, every Democracy Day, a fresh batch of speeches emerges like mushrooms after rain.
“We are on the right path!” says the president.
Unfortunately, it’s a roundabout.
Today is June 12, Democracy Day.
But is it democracy or ‘demoncrazy’? Is it democracy when:
- The police escort politicians, not protect citizens?
- Judges deliver verdicts from inside litigants’ bedrooms like DJs taking requests?
- The youth are told they’re the leaders of tomorrow… since 1970? More like Obi is a boy; many wonder if Obi’s perpetual boyhood would ever end.
No, dear reader. What Nigeria practices is not democracy. It’s Demoncrazy, a shape-shifting monster that feeds on hope, votes, and jollof at campaign rallies.
But like a toxic ex, Nigerians keep coming back. Because hope, like suya, is spicy and addictive.
For us, it is hope and wahala unlimited
And so, we trudge on.
With PVCs in hand, memes on our phones, and God on speed dial, Nigerians prepare for the next elections. Maybe this time, the promises will come true; just maybe.
Or maybe NEPA will bring light.
Or maybe pigs will fly over the National Assembly and finally drop something useful.
Until then, we count our losses. And laugh.
Because if we don’t laugh, we’ll cry.
And tears are not yet subsidised.
So, is it democracy or demoncrazy? It’s hard to say.
On paper, Nigeria ticks all the democratic boxes: Elections, parliament, courts, free press. But in practice, it ticks differently. Leadership often feels like a reality show, where the prize is national resources and the punishment is accountability.
And yet, the dance continues. The music may be offbeat, the dancers clumsy, the audience weary. But the show must go on.
Because this is Nigeria.
Where the government is for the few, by the few, and of the few.
But the laughter is by the people.
And sometimes, that’s enough to survive another four years.
Or, at least, until the next bag of rice.
Happy ‘Demoncrazy’ Day!
