Politics of ideas: Recovering a lost Nigerian asset – Part 1

By The Conscience Chronicler

There was a time, not so very long ago, when a Nigerian seeking the highest offices of the land could not quite get away with merely telling the people that he was their man and brandishing an alias. He had to tell them what he intended to do in some refined detail. And, more importantly, he had to tell them why.

There was a time when a political campaign could become a national conversation about education, healthcare, agriculture, industrialization, employment, rural development, the role of the state, the place of private enterprise, social welfare and the future shape of the Nigerian economy.

There were rallies, certainly to declare tangible plans, and not just to wave leaves, or brooms, or cutlasses, or some other objects. The rallies were not just to dance and shout slogans or sing partisan choruses; they were for articulating ideas. Yes, there were drums, there were slogans, there were enormous personalities, and there were ethnic and regional calculations in play.

Indeed, there was political patronage, ambition, sometimes naked ambition. Nigeria has never possessed a spotless political past. But there was also something that seems increasingly endangered today: the politics of ideas. The manifesto mattered. Political parties articulated programs. Citizens could identify meaningful differences between competing visions. Candidates could be challenged on those differences.

In those days, a politician asking for power was, at least to a significant degree, expected to demonstrate that he had thought about what he would do with it. This is worth remembering, not because the Second Republic was some lost Nigerian paradise.

It certainly was not. The political system had serious weaknesses, deep regional and ethnic cleavages, patronage networks and institutional problems, and it collapsed under military intervention in December 1983. But something about that political culture deserves rescue. Not its nostalgia. Its seriousness. Because somewhere between then and now, Nigeria appears to have misplaced one of democracy’s most important questions. Not: “Who is your candidate?” But: “What does your candidate intend to do?” And behind that: “Does he or she even understand the problem?” That question is no longer merely academic. It is a nation-building question. Those were the days when politics had something meaningful and relevant to say.

Nigeria’s return to civilian government in 1979 was a remarkable political moment. Military rule had interrupted the country’s democratic experiment for years.

The new constitutional order was presidential rather than parliamentary, and five principal parties contested the federal election: the National Party of Nigeria (NPN), Unity Party of Nigeria (UPN), Nigerian People’s Party (NPP), People’s Redemption Party (PRP) and Great Nigerian People’s Party (GNPP). These parties were not identical political machines wearing different colors.

Their manifestos expressed different ideas about the economy and society. That distinction matters enormously. Then, political parties retained significant economic differentiation. The NPN advocated private initiative and enterprise while accepting a continuing state role in the “commanding heights” of the economy.

The NPP and GNPP were more liberal in their approach to private and foreign capital. The PRP articulated a more populist-socialist orientation. The UPN occupied a distinctive welfare-oriented position.

The UPN’s program is particularly memorable. Its political platform was built around four major programs: free education at all levels, integrated rural development, free healthcare and full employment. It was arguably the party with the clearest and most coherent program of the period. Whether one agreed with those proposals is beside the immediate point.

A citizen could disagree. And to disagree intelligently, there had to be something to disagree with. That is the crucial distinction. A democracy does not require everybody to believe the same thing. It requires competing ideas to become sufficiently visible that citizens can choose between them. Not just people who could not be trusted on their own words alone. The election becomes meaningful when the voter can say: “I understand what Party A proposes.” “I understand what Party B proposes.” “I disagree with A on education.” “I prefer B’s economic approach.” “I think C’s programme is too expensive.” “I don’t believe D has explained how the policy will be financed.”

That is some fair politics, not necessarily politics without corruption, but politics in which ideas are contestable. This is not romanticizing history simply because the present disappoints us.

The Second Republic was definitely not a golden age. Regional constituencies and personalities also shaped political parties. Political competition was fierce. Patronage existed. Political anxieties were real. It was equally characterized by cleavage, conflict and anxiety, rather than democratic perfection. And then came the coup. So, the lesson is not “Take Nigeria back to 1979.” No.

The lesson is much more intelligent: Recover the democratic habits that were valuable, discard the destructive weaknesses, and build something better for today’s Nigeria. That distinction matters. We do not need to resurrect the Second Republic. We need to resurrect the idea that those who seek public power should first demonstrate that they have thought seriously about public problems. It should not be for charlatans.

A manifesto is not a decorative publication. It is not campaign wallpaper. It is not something to launch with microphones, photographers and party flags and then abandon immediately after the inauguration. INEC itself describes a party manifesto as a document setting out what the party stands for, how it intends to govern and how it proposes to improve citizens’ welfare. INEC also maintains a public repository of party constitutions and manifestos. That definition contains the essential architecture of responsible politics. What do you stand for?

How will you govern? What will you do for the people? A serious manifesto should go further. It should tell citizens: What problem have you identified? What is causing it? What exactly will you change? What evidence supports your proposed solution? What will it cost? Where will the money come from?

Which institution will implement it? What legislation is required? What should citizens expect after one year? What should they expect after four? And perhaps the most revealing question: What could make your policy fail? These are questions that should be on the lips of our journalists. A politician who can answer those questions is not necessarily good. But at least the citizen has something to examine. And really, you don’t have to be a good politician to administer Nigeria, a state, or a local government.

Somewhere along the line, the conversation changed. The question gradually became less: “What will you do?” and more: “Whose turn is it?” Less: “What is your economic strategy?” More: “Who is your godfather?” Less: “How will you fix healthcare?” More: “How many people came to your rally – even if rented?” Less: “What is your agricultural policy?” More: “Who endorsed you?” Less: “What is your plan for education?” More: “How powerful is your political structure?” And once political competition becomes primarily about personalities, identities, patronage, mobilization, and spectacle, a dangerous possibility emerges.

A candidate can become highly successful at winning political power without demonstrating equivalent mastery of governing problems. Those are different skills.

A brilliant mobilizer may be a poor administrator. An extraordinarily popular politician may have no serious healthcare-financing strategy. A gifted campaigner may not understand electricity markets. A charismatic speaker may not understand public procurement. A wealthy businessman may not understand public finance. A highly connected political operator may have no workable plan for improving learning outcomes. And democracy does not automatically prevent these mismatches. Citizens must interrogate them.

Even in 2023, INEC saw the problem. This is not merely an old man’s complaint about “the good old days.” INEC’s official report on the 2023 general election provides a remarkable contemporary snapshot. It describes nationwide rallies, media advertising, billboards and unprecedented social-media activity.

It also records the propagation of fake news and hate speech, an increased use of religion and ethnicity, and widespread calumny and character attacks against leading candidates.

And then comes the sentence that should make us pause. INEC Chairman admonished political parties and candidates to focus their campaigns on party manifestos rather than candidate personalities. Why would the electoral management body need to say that? Because the distinction had become important enough to state publicly.

The problem is not that personality exists in politics, leadership is inevitably personal, but the problem begins when personality becomes a substitute for programme.
Nigeria now possesses an extraordinary communications ecosystem. We now have television, Radio, Newspapers, Podcasts, YouTube, Facebook, Instagram, TikTok, X, WhatsApp, Digital newspapers, Blogs, Livestreams, and Artificial intelligence. So, a serious policy paper can travel from Lagos to Maiduguri in seconds.

A budget document can be downloaded by millions. A candidate can address the entire country without leaving his bedroom. And yet, technology has not necessarily produced deeper political reasoning. Sometimes it has simply made shallowness faster. We can distribute a 100-page development strategy instantly. Instead, we forward a rumor. We can broadcast a policy debate to millions. Instead, we circulate a video of somebody insulting somebody else. We can compare economic programs. Instead, we argue over photographs. Technology did not create this problem. It merely amplifies whatever the political culture rewards. If society rewards knowledge, technology democratises knowledge. If society rewards spectacle, technology industrializes spectacle.

This argument can become cruel if handled carelessly. A voter who is hungry is not stupid because he responds to immediate assistance. A family unable to pay hospital bills may reasonably care about the politician who offers immediate help. An unemployed graduate may be more emotionally moved by a promise of employment than by a 40-page macroeconomic policy document. The trader whose business is collapsing is not necessarily going to sit down after a twelve-hour workday and study fiscal-policy assumptions. We must understand the economics of political desperation.

The cash is immediate, the manifesto is abstract. The food is visible, but the five-year development program is theoretical. So, the politician who says “I am your son” may feel emotionally closer than the economist explaining structural reform, sadly. Therefore, civic renewal cannot simply consist of shouting at citizens: “Vote wisely!” Wisdom requires information. Information requires institutions. Institutions require effort. And responsible citizenship requires more than moral lectures. We must make good information accessible, understandable and politically useful.

Here is where Nigeria must rediscover something profound: the electorate is not the audience at the political rally. The electorate is the principal. The politician is the temporary agent—the public grants authority, which the office-holder exercises for a limited period.

Then the public examines what happened. Somehow, we have frequently reversed this relationship. Politicians behave as though citizens should be grateful for their attention. Citizens sometimes behave as though a politician is doing them a favor by contesting. No, public office is an entrusted authority; it is not personal property. The politician is not doing Nigerians a favor by governing.

Nigerians are entrusting the politician with a piece of the republic, and that should change the tone of the entire encounter.

So, what do we do? This is where lamentation must end. Because if all we do is complain that Nigerian politics has become shallow, we have produced another piece of political noise. The question is: How do we make seriousness valuable again? The answer begins with something almost embarrassingly simple. We must make politicians explain themselves.

Every serious candidate should be required by political culture, if not always by law, to answer five basic questions. WHAT? What exactly are you promising? WHY? What evidence shows that this is the problem? How? How will you solve it? How much? What will it cost, and who pays?

When will we know? What measurable result should Nigerians expect, and by when? That is it—five questions, but five questions capable of changing the political conversation.

This is the missing link: a manifesto should not end at inauguration; it should follow the politician into active government. Suppose a governor promises to build twenty primary healthcare centers, fine.

The question after the inauguration becomes: Where is the program in the budget? If it is in the budget: How much was appropriated? Then: How much was released? Then: How much was actually spent? Then: How many centers were completed? Then: How many are functional? Then: How many people are using them? Then: What happened to health outcomes? Suddenly, the manifesto has become a living accountability document.

This is where, sadly, the members of the fourth estate of the realm, the journalists, have consistently failed Nigerians. Nigeria needs to institutionalize the chain: Manifesto → budget → release → expenditure → implementation → service → outcome.

Because a promise without implementation is rhetoric. And implementation without measurement is difficult to distinguish from propaganda.

To be continued