Although structural, political, and economic conditions appear to constrain any credibly concerted impediment to President Bola Ahmed Tinubu’s 2027 reelection chances, at least from my admittedly imperfect reading of the auguries, Tinubu still seems so insecure that he is borrowing a leaf from former Head of State Sani Abacha, his arch enemy, to annihilate the opposition and smooth his path to reelection.

There are at least three reasons why I think the odds are, at least for now, in Tinubu’s favor.

First, the opposition hasn’t coalesced around a single, powerful, unifying candidate, such as the APC did with Muhammadu Buhari in 2015, less than a year before the next presidential election. Meanwhile, Tinubu is already the undisputed candidate of his party and has effectively been in campaign mode, with all the advantages that incumbency confers.

Second, Tinubu’s economic policies have so pauperized a vast swath of the electorate that many voters are even more susceptible to financial inducement in exchange for their votes than at any time in recent memory. In a context where hunger and desperation shape electoral behavior, the moral calculus of voting changes.

Given that Tinubu commands a larger financial war chest than any individual opposition figure and perhaps more than all of them combined, he is better positioned to prevail in a contest defined by voter inducement. It often makes little difference to voters that the source of their hardship is also the source of the money offered to temporarily alleviate it.

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Third, the institutions of the state that determine electoral outcomes inspire little confidence in their independence. INEC, which showed flashes of autonomy during Professor Attahiru Jega’s tenure, particularly in overseeing the 2015 transition, no longer enjoys the same level of public trust.

The judiciary, which ought to serve as the final arbiter of electoral disputes, is widely perceived as susceptible to political manipulation. Whether this perception is entirely fair is beside the point; what matters is that it is widespread and shapes expectations about electoral outcomes.

Given these seemingly insurmountable advantages, one might expect Tinubu to sit comfortably and await what could amount to an electoral formality. Yet his actions suggest a deep, crippling anxiety about 2027. He appears determined not just to win an election but to eliminate the possibility of a meaningful contest.

He is stealthily but systematically weakening all the political parties that could provide viable platforms for his opponents in 2027.

The Labor Party, which rode the crest of the wave of Peter Obi’s popularity to emerge from near obscurity to national prominence in 2024, has been mired in irresolvably debilitating internal crises. These crises may have internal origins, but their persistence and intensity have effectively neutralized the party as a coherent opposition force.

The Peoples Democratic Party is also deeply fractured. Through the outsized influence of FCT Minister Nyesom Wike, who retains significant leverage within the party despite serving in an APC administration, the PDP has been thrown into a prolonged internal dissension that has eroded its capacity to function as a credible opposition platform.

It would be an exaggeration to say that only APC sympathizers remain in the PDP, but it is accurate to say that its internal divisions have weakened its ability to mount a coordinated challenge.

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The African Democratic Congress (ADC) had begun to present itself as a refuge for politicians displaced from the PDP, the Labour Party, and even factions within the APC. That possibility now appears imperiled by an emerging leadership crisis.

While David Mark is widely recognized as the party’s national chairman, Nafiu Bala Gombe, a former deputy national chairman, is contesting that leadership in court. Given how the courts have ruled in the past in respect of the PDP and LP, which many people suspect is induced from the Tinubu camp, it won’t come to me as a surprise if Gombe gets judicial imprimatur to displace Mark.

Allegations that Gombe is aligned with Tinubu or with interests sympathetic to him come primarily from partisan sources within the ADC and have not been independently substantiated. Still, given the pattern observable in other opposition parties, such suspicions are not entirely surprising. If the courts eventually validate Gombe’s claim, the ADC could become inhospitable to the very opposition figures who had begun to see it as a viable platform, as a safe political asylum.

The cumulative effect of these developments is that major opposition figures such as Atiku Abubakar, Peter Obi, and Rotimi Amaechi may find themselves without stable or credible party platforms on which to base presidential bids. Even if parties remain on paper, they risk becoming hollow shells, fielding “dummy” candidates who pose no real threat and merely sustain the illusion of competition. That’s banana-republic-level perversion of basic democratic norms.

This trajectory calls to mind the 1998 transition program under Sani Abacha. In that case, the regime licensed and controlled the only legal political parties, suppressed dissent, and orchestrated a process in which all five parties eventually adopted Abacha as their sole presidential candidate. It was a carefully managed political ritual dubiously designed to legitimize continued rule. Abacha didn’t get elected because he died before that could happen.

Nigeria is not under military rule, and the present circumstances are not, by any means, wholly identical. But the logic of narrowing the political field to the point where competition becomes illusory bears an uncomfortable resemblance.

There is no point in pretending to be a democracy if something as basic as the latitude to run for the office of president is strewn with avoidable cataracts and oxbow lakes, to paraphrase Nigeria’s most famous sesquipedalian Patrick Obahiagbon.

The danger for Tinubu is that such a strategy, even if it succeeds electorally, could strip his reelection of the faintest scintilla of credibility and render his administration vulnerable to an enervating crisis of legitimacy, including possible international scrutiny. Electoral victory is one thing; perceived legitimacy is another, and the latter is harder to manufacture.

It is true that incumbents often seek every available advantage. Olusegun Obasanjo’s 2003 reelection was marred by widely reported irregularities. He was so intent on extracting electoral insurance against Muhammadu Buhari in 2003(even though Buhari was actually unelectable at that time) that he got more votes in native Ogun State than there were registered voters. But at least he allowed Buhari to run against him on a prominent political platform.

Goodluck Jonathan also benefited from incumbency advantages. Like Obasanjo, he faced recognizable opposition candidates on functioning party platforms. Even in 2019, when Atiku Abubakar mounted a serious challenge to Muhammadu Buhari, the contest, despite its controversies, retained the basic structure of competitive politics.

Tinubu risks earning a dubious distinction as Nigeria’s only civilian president who appears unwilling to tolerate even the minimum conditions for credible electoral competition. That is a striking departure for a man whose political reputation was built, in part, on opposition to military authoritarianism.

He still has time to recalibrate. The more prudent path is to allow opposition parties to organize freely and to make his case for reelection on the basis of his record. That, more than any tactical maneuvering, is what confers durable political legitimacy.

The diminution of the Peoples Democratic Party (PDP) reached a symbolic pinnacle this week when a wave of defections swept through the National Assembly. Several PDP senators, including former Sokoto State governor Aminu Waziri Tambuwal, formally dumped the party for the African Democratic Congress (ADC), while multiple members of the House of Representatives also abandoned it for the ADC or the ruling APC.

Not every PDP legislator has left yet, but at this point it’s only a matter of time. With only two term-limited, lame-duck governors in Bauchi and Oyo states (whose continued membership in the PDP can’t even be guaranteed until 2027), I think it’s safe to say the PDP is officially dead.

For people of my generation who followed Nigerian politics closely in the early years of the Fourth Republic, the extinction of the PDP feels surreal. There was a time when the party seemed as permanent as the Nigerian state itself. It governed Nigeria for 16 uninterrupted years and so completely dominated the political landscape that opposition parties looked like pitiful ornamental appendages to the system.

At its height, the PDP controlled 31 of Nigeria’s 36 states, similar to today’s APC. Governors, senators, representatives, ministers, retired generals and career political jobbers all gravitated toward it. It was the ultimate receptacle of power and influence. In those days, joining the PDP was the closest thing Nigeria had to acquiring political insurance.

The arrogance that flowed from that dominance was legendary. In April 2008, the party’s then national chairman, Vincent Ogbulafor, boasted that the PDP would rule Nigeria for 60 years. He added, with startling candor, that he didn’t care if Nigeria became a one-party state. At the time, the statement sounded like the confident exaggeration of a man who believed he was speaking from the center of history.

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It turns out he was speaking from the edge of a cliff. Today, the PDP that proclaimed itself, with egotistical airs, to be Africa’s largest political party is a shell of its former self.

The previously expansive PDP umbrella now effectively shelters only two governors and a sprinkling of legislators (about seven senators and 17 representatives) who are plotting exit strategies from it.

That is a dramatic, never-before-seen political evaporation in Nigeria. But the PDP did not die suddenly. Its collapse has been a long, drawn-out process of self-sabotage punctuated by opportunistic defections, personal vendettas and spectacular displays of elite treachery.

The first decisive blow to the party came in 2015 when the party lost the presidency to the newly assembled All Progressives Congress (APC). For 16 years, the PDP had been the gravitational center of Nigerian politics because it controlled the federal government. Once that power vanished, the coalition that sustained it began to unravel.

Many Nigerian politicians do not join parties because of ideological affinity or programmatic conviction. They join because of proximity to power. When the PDP ceased to be the custodial party of federal authority, it also ceased to be the natural home of political opportunists.

The defections began almost immediately. Ogbulafor, who had said PDP would rule for 60 years, was one of the first PDP politicians to visit the APC secretariat in April 2015, a month before the inauguration of Muhammadu Buhari as president.

Politicians who had sworn eternal loyalty to the party discovered overnight that their political convictions had changed. Governors defected. Legislators defected. Party chieftains switched allegiances with a speed that would impress Jamaica’s Usain Bolt.

Nothing captures the PDP’s institutional collapse more vividly than the fate of its own former leaders. At least four former national chairmen of the party eventually ended up in the APC: Barnabas Gemade, Audu Ogbeh, Ali Modu Sheriff, and Adamu Mu’azu. In other words, men who led the PDP at the highest level later abandoned it for its main rival.

What remained after 2015 was a wounded party that still had a chance to recover if it had managed its internal conflicts with maturity and discipline. Instead, it chose fratricide. No individual embodies the party’s self-destructive impulses more distinctly than Nyesom Wike.

Wike’s quarrel with the PDP became especially bitter after he lost out in the struggle for the party’s presidential ticket. What followed was a prolonged campaign of internal destabilization that culminated in the notorious rebellion of the so-called G-5 governors, who are now at odds with each other.

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During the 2023 election cycle, these governors effectively turned their backs on their own party’s presidential candidate and openly fraternized with Bola Tinubu of the APC. It was one of the most extraordinary acts of partisan self-immolation in Nigeria’s democratic history.

A ruling party undermining itself from within is not unheard of. But a major opposition party actively assisting the ruling party to defeat itself is an entirely different category of political absurdity.

The strange part was that the PDP never summoned the courage to discipline the rebellion. Instead, it spent months pleading for reconciliation with politicians who had already crossed the psychological Rubicon separating loyalty from hostility.

The party leadership appeared incapable of recognizing that the rebellion was not a temporary disagreement but a permanent structural rupture.

In Nigerian politics, when a politician begins to work openly against his own party’s presidential candidate, reconciliation meetings are unlikely to restore trust.

The result was predictable. The PDP entered the 2023 elections deeply fractured and emerged from them even weaker.

Since then, the party has existed in a state of perpetual crisis. Leadership disputes, court cases and factional rivalries have turned the party into a theater of endless internal conflict. Instead of projecting the image of a credible national alternative to the APC, the PDP has appeared increasingly like a quarrelsome family fighting over inheritance while the house burns.

Nothing illustrates this political dysfunction more vividly than recent events in Abuja’s local government elections. A candidate who won a chairmanship seat on the PDP platform reportedly wasted no time switching allegiance to the APC. That act captured the party’s predicament more eloquently than any formal political analysis.

Winning an election under the PDP banner now appears to create immediate anxiety about political survival.

It also reflects the ambiguous political posture of figures like Nyesom Wike, who continues to claim PDP membership while acting in ways that frequently align with the interests of the ruling APC.

The cumulative effect of these developments has been the gradual hollowing out of the party. The PDP still exists as a legal entity. It still has offices and officials. But its actual institutional authority has vanished. What remains is largely the disguised extension of the APC.

There is an irony in all this. The PDP helped normalize the culture of defections that is now destroying it. For years, it enthusiastically welcomed defectors from rival parties, rewarding them with positions and privileges. Party loyalty was never a particularly prized virtue in its political culture.

The party’s strategy was simple: absorb everyone and expand the coalition of power. That strategy worked for as long as the PDP controlled the federal government. Once it lost that advantage, the logic of opportunism that benefited it began to operate against it.

Politicians who previously defected into the PDP now defect out of it. In other words, the PDP became a victim of the political habits it cultivated.

The party’s decline also illustrates a larger truth about Nigerian politics. Political dominance should never be confused with institutional strength. APC will do well to learn this elemental truth.

For 16 years, the PDP looked invincible. It won elections easily, controlled most state governments, and occupied the commanding heights of the federal state. But it never built a durable institutional structure capable of surviving the loss of power.

It was essentially a coalition of powerful individuals held together by access to the resources of the federal government. Once those resources disappeared, the coalition gradually disintegrated.

What we are witnessing today is the final stage of that disintegration. For a political organization that had proclaimed it would rule Nigeria for 60 years, this is a remarkably brief lifespan.

Kperogi is a renowned Nigerian columnist and United States-based Professor of Journalism.