Unfinished Federation (1): How constitution turned Abuja into Nigeria’s greatest prize

Every election in Nigeria now resembles a referendum on survival.

Political parties do not merely seek victory; they fight as though defeat would amount to political extinction. Regions scrutinise every appointment for signs of inclusion or exclusion. Every administration is accused, sooner or later, of favouritism. Every transition of power revives old fears of domination, marginalisation and injustice.

The familiar explanation is that Nigeria is divided by ethnicity, religion and geography.

There is truth in that.

But it is not the whole truth.

For more than six decades, we have argued endlessly over who has dominated Nigeria while paying far less attention to what makes domination appear so consequential.

Perhaps we have been asking the wrong question.

The more profound question is this:

Why has Nigeria’s constitutional arrangement made the control of Abuja appear more important than the development of the federating units themselves?

That question deserves careful reflection because it shifts our attention from personalities to institutions, from ethnic arithmetic to constitutional architecture.

Across the country, competing historical narratives continue to shape political opinion. The South-West remembers the imprisonment of Chief Obafemi Awolowo and the collapse of the First Republic.

The South-East recalls the Civil War and decades of perceived exclusion. The South-South questions a fiscal order that centralises resource revenues while local communities struggle with environmental degradation.

The Middle Belt laments insecurity and repeated attacks on rural communities. Northern Nigeria, despite producing many national leaders, continues to grapple with poverty, educational deficits and insecurity on a scale that defies easy explanation.

Each narrative contains legitimate grievances.

None, however, fully explains why every election now carries the emotional weight of a struggle for national survival.

The answer may lie less in our diversity than in the constitutional incentives we have created.

Nigeria calls itself a federation. Yet much of its constitutional practice reflects an extraordinary concentration of authority at the centre.

The Federal Government controls security, policing, major mineral resources, substantial taxation, aviation, railways and an extensive Exclusive Legislative List that leaves comparatively little room for genuine constitutional autonomy by the states.

Whether this arrangement evolved by deliberate design or historical circumstance is a debate for another day.

Its consequences, however, are no longer in doubt.

When so much constitutional authority resides in one government, every election inevitably becomes a contest over access to power, resources and influence. Losing the Presidency is therefore perceived not merely as an electoral defeat but as exclusion from the commanding heights of national life.

That perception has profoundly shaped Nigerian politics.

It explains the intensity of zoning debates.

It explains why coalition-building often eclipses ideological competition.

It explains why political defections occur with astonishing frequency.

It explains why appointments are examined through regional and religious lenses before competence is even discussed.

Above all, it explains why every region eventually develops its own vocabulary of grievance.

The South speaks of marginalisation.

The North speaks of demographic rights.

The Middle Belt speaks of neglect.

The South-East speaks of exclusion.

The South-South speaks of resource justice.

Different languages.

A common constitutional anxiety.

Ironically, Nigeria once embraced a different philosophy.

The constitutional arrangements that culminated in the Republican Constitution of 1963 assigned considerably greater responsibilities to the regions.

Agriculture, education, health and economic development largely reflected regional priorities. Competition among the regions encouraged innovation, while the centre performed functions more consistent with classical federalism.

The federation was far from perfect. Political crises, minority fears and electoral controversies persisted.

But constitutional incentives rewarded productivity more than dependency.

Military intervention altered that trajectory.

Over successive years, powers accumulated at the centre. Revenue became increasingly centralised. States multiplied, but constitutional authority narrowed.

The military eventually departed, yet much of its constitutional architecture survived the return to civil rule.

That inheritance continues to define the politics of the Fourth Republic.

This is why the debate over restructuring refuses to disappear.

Chief Obafemi Awolowo warned repeatedly against excessive centralisation in a plural society. Decades later, Chief Afe Babalola, Chief Emeka Anyaoku and Professor Ben Nwabueze, despite approaching the issue from different perspectives, each questioned whether Nigeria’s constitutional balance adequately reflects the principles of a healthy federation.

Their common concern was not sectional advantage.

It was an institutional equilibrium.

Unfortunately, our national conversation often reduces restructuring to an ethnic contest rather than a constitutional one.

That is a mistake.

A federation should never compel its constituent units to depend perpetually upon the centre for initiative, innovation and survival.

Nor should one government exercise such overwhelming constitutional authority that every presidential election becomes a battle for the political soul of the nation.

This is not an argument for weakening Nigeria.

It is an argument for strengthening the federation by restoring confidence in its constituent units.

For as long as Abuja remains the principal repository of political power, fiscal authority and institutional influence, every election will continue to generate fear disproportionate to democratic competition.

The question before Nigeria, therefore, is not simply who should govern from Abuja.

It is whether Abuja should continue to possess so much constitutional power that every region regards its control as indispensable to its own future.

Until we answer that question honestly, accusations of domination will continue to outlive the politicians against whom they are directed.

Because the deeper problem may not be the occupants of power.

It may well be the architecture of power itself.

Ogundipe, Public Affairs Analyst, former President of Nigeria and African Union of Journalists writes from Abuja.