Inherited throne: When even death can’t break Nigeria’s political dynasties

By The Conscience Chronicler

I have written before about the architecture of exclusion, where the godfather networks, the violence, and the monetization that together form a fortress designed to keep decent Nigerians out of politics. But there is a deeper, more insulting perversion of the democratic idea.

It is the perversion that occurs when God or providence finally terminates a wicked godfather. The response of his political machine is not to mourn, not to reflect, not to open the space to fresh talent, but to reach immediately for his son, his daughter, his ward, and place them on the ballot as if the people had no say in the matter.

It is the audacity of a monarchy in a republic. It is the insult of inheritance in a democracy. And the most frustrating part is not the audacity of the godfathers; it is the gullibility of the electorate that obliges them.

Let us name this phenomenon for what it is. When a godfather dies, the natural expectation in a functioning democracy would be a contest, a real contest for his political space. His structure might remain, but his grip would loosen.

Yet in Nigeria, the opposite occurs. The structure does not dissolve; it consolidates around the offspring. The party machinery, purchased with the godfather’s billions, transfers its allegiance to the son.

The thugs, paid from the godfather’s coffers, now take orders from the heir. The delegates, accustomed to receiving the godfather’s benevolence, see no reason to disobey his final wishes. And the electorate, weary and beaten, watches as the same surname appears on the ballot, year after year, generation after generation.

The result is a political class that resembles a hereditary aristocracy more than a representative democracy. Consider the evidence from the three geopolitical zones.

In the South-West, the most striking example is not a dead godfather but a living one who mapped out succession: Seyi Tinubu, son of President Bola Ahmed Tinubu, was being positioned for the Lagos State governorship in 2027. The Peoples Democratic Party (PDP) in Lagos had to declare that citizens would resist any attempt to impose him, asking pointedly whether “governorship should become an inheritance”. But the dynasty extends beyond Tinubu. Kayode Akiolu, son of the Oba of Lagos, Rilwan Akiolu, currently serves as a member of the House of Representatives, representing the Lagos Island II constituency. His path to the National Assembly was smoothed not by any demonstrated legislative acumen but by a surname that commands deference in Lagos.

When asked what influenced his emergence, he cited the “Not Too Young to Run” Act, conveniently ignoring the fact that thousands of other young Nigerians with equally valid ambitions lacked a royal father and a political machine.

In the South-East, the pattern is equally entrenched. In Abia State, former Governor Theodore Orji served from 2007 to 2015 and now serves his second term as senator representing Abia Central. While he occupied the Senate, his son, Chinedum Enyinnaya Orji, was elected Speaker of the Abia State House of Assembly. Father in the Senate, son presiding over the state legislature, a family affair disguised as democratic representation.

In Imo State, former Governor Rochas Okorocha did not even wait for death to try to hand over power. He openly anointed his son-in-law, Uche Nwosu, as his successor, appointing him chief of staff and then pushing him as the Action Alliance’s governorship candidate after failing to secure the APC ticket. The people of Imo, to their credit, rejected this dynastic imposition in 2019, but the audacity of the attempt remains a stain on the state’s political history.

In the North, the examples multiply. In Kaduna State, Bello El-Rufai, son of former Governor Nasir El-Rufai, currently serves as a member of the House of Representatives, representing the Kaduna North federal constituency. His father served as governor for eight years and previously served as FCT minister. The younger El-Rufai’s path to the National Assembly was lined with both expectation and skepticism; constituents who trusted the El-Rufai name or owed political loyalty to the father easily transferred that allegiance to the son. In Niger State, Abubakar Sani Bello, son of Colonel Sani Bello (rtd), who served as military governor of Kano between 1975 and 1978, now represents Niger North as a senator. The father’s military governorship, decades distant, still confers enough political capital to launch a son into the Senate.

The catalogue is endless. In the current House of Representatives alone, there are no fewer than ten offspring of former governors who have either contested and won or lost at various stages. The list includes Erhiatake Ibori-Suenu (daughter of former Delta State Governor James Ibori), Olamiju Akala (son of former Oyo State Governor Alao Akala), Olumide Osoba (son of former Ogun State Governor Segun Osoba), and Blessing Onyeche Onuh (daughter of former Senate President David Mark). These are not isolated anomalies. They are a system.

The defence is always the same: no law prohibits the children of politicians from running for office. And this is true. The Nigerian Constitution does not bar a son from succeeding his father. But the absence of a legal prohibition is not a moral justification.

The question is not whether they can run; the question is whether they would win if their surnames were different. The question is whether the playing field is level. The question is whether a brilliant young lawyer from a low-income family in Kaduna North has the same chance of securing a party ticket as Bello El-Rufai. The answer, as every Nigerian knows, is no.

The analysts who study this phenomenon warn that the entrenchment of political dynasties will inevitably lead to the permanent exclusion of ordinary citizens.

When political succession becomes a family affair, it discourages capable individuals from stepping forward because the odds are stacked against them. The political space becomes a closed shop, a private club, a hereditary estate. And the people, having internalized their own powerlessness, accept it.

They vote for the son because the father told them to. They accept the daughter because they have never known an alternative. They permit the insult because they have forgotten that they have the power to refuse.

This is the deepest tragedy. Not the audacity of the godfathers, that is expected. Not even the compliance of the political machines, that is predictable. But the resignation of the electorate. The quiet acceptance that the son of a governor will become a governor, that the daughter of a senator will become a senator, that politics is a family business, and ordinary Nigerians are merely customers. When a political dynasty is imposed from above, those who imposed it bear responsibility for its failure. But when the people’s votes sustain it, the responsibility shifts. The people who mark the ballot for the son of the godfather are not victims; they are accomplices.

The Conscience Chronicler, therefore, issues a charge not to the godfathers, who are beyond redemption, but to the Nigerian electorate. You have the power to end this. Not with protests, not with petitions, not with tweets, but with your ballot. When you see a surname that has held power for two decades, ask yourself: what has changed? When you see a son running on his father’s record, ask yourself: what has he done on his own? When you see a daughter inheriting a political structure like a landed property, ask yourself: Is this democracy or is this monarchy?

The resistance must begin at the polling unit. It must be stubborn, patient, and relentless. Vote against every dynastic candidate, not because they are all incompetent- some may be capable, but because the principle of inheritance is incompatible with the principle of democracy. A political office is not a birthright. It is a trust. And a trust cannot be inherited. It can only be earned.

Nigeria’s political dynasties will not fall on their own. They will fall only when the people refuse to sustain them. The question is whether the people have finally had enough.

The Conscience Chronicler waits for the answer, but not with patience. With urgency. With the knowledge that every election that passes without a reckoning is another election lost to the dynasties. Another generation condemned to the same surnames. Another insult absorbed without resistance.

The ballot is in your hand. Use it like a weapon.

The Conscience Chronicler.