Opinion
Tinubu’s top-down, one-partyist reelection strategy, By Farooq Kperogi
Tinubu’s top-down, one-partyist reelection strategy, By Farooq Kperogi
What most Nigerians recognize as Nigeria’s creeping descent into stifling one-partyism, with what seems like the unstoppably expanding defections of major elected officials into the APC, is actually only President Bola Tinubu’s reelection strategy.
It is a strategy that may well unravel after the 2027 presidential election, but whose immediate effects are already distorting the country’s democratic ecosystem and hollowing out the meaning of political choice.
Tinubu’s consuming monomania for assembling all governors and legislators under the notional banner of the APC is structurally and substantively similar to previous presidents’ single-minded political expansionism under the PDP.
That earlier expansionism also provoked loud cries of one-partyist dictatorship from the commentariat and political opponents. History, it seems, is being cynically reenacted by people who had claimed to have learned from it.
If you go back in time and read stories, editorials, and analyses from or about the 1999 to 2014 PDP era, you will see sustained arguments that Nigeria was being nudged toward a de facto one-party system.
The fear then was that opposition parties were rendered functionally irrelevant through a venomous mix of incumbency power, institutional capture, induced defections and the systematic shrinking of political alternatives.
For instance, in an August 26, 2003, analysis in ThisDay titled “The Spectre of One-Party Rule,” Chukwudi Nwabuko relied on the late Pa Abraham Adesanya’s grim exhortation to frame the PDP’s 2003 electoral dominance (and the corresponding weakening of opposition parties) as indicative of a mordant slide toward one-party democratic autocracy. The anxiety was grounded in what Nigerians were witnessing in real time: an opposition that could barely breathe, let alone challenge power.
In a May 30, 2007, report after the presidential election that returned Umaru Musa Yar’adua as president, the International Crisis Group said the outcome marked a “further slide towards a one-party state.” It argued that PDP’s dominance was reinforced through captured institutions, selective anti-corruption pressure and especially rigged elections.
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This was not partisan rage. It was sober analysis by observers who had little interest in Nigerian party loyalties but a keen interest in democratic health.
In fact, in April 2008, then PDP chairman Vincent Ogbulafor bragged that the “PDP will rule for 60 years,” a statement that quickly became a trope of one-party symbolism. “I don’t care if Nigeria becomes a one-party state,” Ogbulafor said.
That boast is now memorialized as a defining rhetorical emblem of PDP-era political hubris, a moment when arrogance briefly dispensed with euphemism.
By September 19, 2010, a Reuters dispatch on a major resignation to challenge Goodluck Jonathan in PDP primaries casually included the assessment that Nigeria was “close to being a one-party state.” That line was telling. It showed how widely the one-partyist frame had spread beyond domestic commentary into international reportage. Nigeria’s democratic drift had become legible to outsiders.
It was against this background that Tinubu and his allies cast themselves as insurgents against PDP hegemony. They denounced the PDP’s one-partyist tendencies, mocked its hubris, and promised a more competitive political order. Now that Tinubu sits atop the same power structure, the irony is almost operatic. The script he once criticized is the same one he is now directing.
So why is Tinubu, who echoed the sentiments of the drift to one-partyism under the PDP and challenged it with all he had, playing the same game? There are two reasons I can divine for this, and neither flatters him nor augurs well for Nigeria’s democracy.
First, even the most hopelessly fanatical Tinubu supporter cannot deny that Tinubu’s domestic economic policies have been an unrelieved disaster for the vast majority of people.
With fuel subsidy gone, the naira aggressively devalued, petrol prices through the rooftops, an inflationary conflagration tearing everything apart, hunger on the rise, insecurity effectively democratized, hope on the run, and a looming taxation regime rooted in a legally questionable law, Tinubu has no positive record to run on.
There is nothing in the lived experience of most Nigerians that he can point to and say, “This is why you should renew my mandate.”
Economic pain can sometimes be sold as tough but necessary reform if people can see light at the end of the tunnel. In Tinubu’s case, the tunnel keeps getting darker, and the promised light keeps receding. In such circumstances, appealing directly to the electorate becomes politically suicidal.
Which brings me to the second reason. For the 2027 election, Tinubu will not directly appeal to everyday Nigerians to vote for him. Instead, he will take a circuitous route: he will ask governors to deliver votes for him in exchange for his support for their own reelections.
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It is a transactional politics stripped of pretense, a politics that treats voters as passive objects to be mobilized, coerced or managed by local power brokers.
So, like the PDP he once opposed, Tinubu is banking on governors, not the ordinary voters he governs, to reelect him for a second term. He is instrumentalizing the power of incumbency to bludgeon politicians into the APC, thereby transforming what should be a contest of ideas into a consolidation of power.
The mass defection of elected officials also achieves another crucial effect. It helps construct a notion of the inevitability of Tinubu’s reelection. If most of the governors of the federation are already in the APC and are actively campaigning for the president’s second term, what, many people will ask, is the point of opposing him?
This is a powerful rhetorical maneuver designed to demoralize the critical electorate and sap the energy of opposition forces. It encourages political apathy and fatalism. It nudges even those who dislike the government into thinking that resistance is futile, that the outcome is already predetermined.
That sense of inevitability is perhaps the most insidious weapon in the one-partyist arsenal. You do not need to ban opposition parties if you can convince people that opposing the ruling party is a waste of time. You do not need to rig every ballot if you can first rig expectations.
But history offers a cautionary tale that Tinubu and his strategists would do well to remember. The PDP once believed its dominance was permanent. It mistook elite defections for popular consent. It confused the silence of intimidation with the endorsement of legitimacy. When the reckoning came in 2015, it came swiftly and decisively.
One-partyist strategies can win elections, but they corrode the moral foundations of power. They produce brittle victories and hollow mandates. They also create pent-up frustrations that eventually find expression, often in unexpected and destabilizing ways.
Tinubu’s top-down reelection strategy may very well work in the short term. Governors may deliver. Legislators may comply. Opposition parties may fracture further.
But a democracy reduced to elite transactions is a democracy living on borrowed time. The deeper question is not whether Tinubu can secure a second term this way, but what kind of country will be left behind when the illusion of inevitability finally collapses.
Happy New Year to my readers!
Tinubu’s top-down, one-partyist reelection strategy, By Farooq Kperogi
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Opinion
AFCON 2025: Flipping Content Creation From Coverage to Strategy
AFCON 2025: Flipping Content Creation From Coverage to Strategy
By Toluwalope Shodunke
The beautiful and enchanting butterfly called the Africa Cup of Nations (AFCON) emerged from its chrysalis in Khartoum, Sudan, under the presidency of Abdelaziz Abdallah Salem, an Egyptian, with three countries—Egypt, Sudan, and Ethiopia—participating, and Egypt emerging as the eventual winner.
The reason for this limited participation is not far-fetched. At the time, only nine African countries were independent. The remaining 45 countries that now make up CAF’s 54 member nations were either pushing Queen Elizabeth’s dogsled made unique with the Union Jack, making supplications at the Eiffel Tower, or knocking at the doors of the Palácio de Belém, the Quirinal Palace, and the Royal Palace of Brussels—seeking the mercies of their colonial masters who, without regard for cultures, sub-cultures, or primordial affinities, divided Africa among the colonial gods.
From then until now, CAF has had seven presidents, including Patrice Motsepe, who was elected as the seventh president in 2021. With more countries gaining independence and under various CAF leaderships, AFCON has undergone several reforms—transforming from a “backyard event” involving only three nations into competitions featuring 8, 16, and now 24 teams. It has evolved into a global spectacle consumed by millions worldwide.
Looking back, I can trace my personal connection to AFCON to table soccer, which I played alone on concrete in our balcony at Olafimihan Street—between Mushin and Ilasamaja—adjacent to Alafia Oluwa Primary School, close to Alfa Nda and Akanro Street, all in Lagos State.
Zygmunt Bauman, the Polish-British sociologist who developed the concept of “liquid modernity,” argues that the world is in constant flux rather than static, among other themes in his revelatory works.
For the benefit of Millennials (Generation Y) and Generation Z—who are accustomed to high-tech pads, iPhones, AI technologies, and chat boxes—table soccer is a replica of football played with bottle corks (often from carbonated drinks or beer) as players, cassette hubs as the ball, and “Bic” biro covers for engagement. The game can be played by two people, each controlling eleven players.
I, however, enjoyed playing alone in a secluded area, running my own commentary like the great Ernest Okonkwo, Yinka Craig, and Fabio Lanipekun, who are all late. At the time, I knew next to nothing about the Africa Cup of Nations. Yet, I named my cork players after Nigerian legends such as Segun Odegbami, Godwin Odiye, Aloysius Atuegbu, Tunji Banjo, Muda Lawal, Felix Owolabi, and Adokiye Amiesimaka, among others, as I must have taken to heart their names from commentary and utterances of my uncles resulting from sporadic and wild celebrations of Nigeria winning the Cup of Nations on home soil for the first time.
While my connection to AFCON remained somewhat ephemeral until Libya 1982, my AFCON anecdotes became deeply rooted in Abidjan 1984, where Cameroon defeated Nigeria 3–1. The name Théophile Abéga was etched into my youthful memory.
Even as I write this, I remember the silence that enveloped our compound after the final whistle.
It felt similar to how Ukrainians experienced the Battle of Mariupol against Russia—where resolute resistance eventually succumbed to overwhelming force.
The Indomitable Lions were better and superior in every aspect. The lion not only caged the Eagles, they cooked pepper soup with the Green Eagles.
In Maroc ’88, I again tasted defeat with the Green Eagles (now Super Eagles), coached by the German Manfred Höner. Players like Henry Nwosu, Stephen Keshi, Sunday Eboigbe, Bright Omolara, Rashidi Yekini, Austin Eguavoen, Peter Rufai, Folorunsho Okenla, Ademola Adeshina, Yisa Sofoluwe, and others featured prominently. A beautiful goal by Henry Nwosu—then a diminutive ACB Lagos player—was controversially disallowed.
This sparked outrage among Nigerians, many of whom believed the referee acted under the influence of Issa Hayatou, the Cameroonian who served as CAF president from 1988 to 2017.
This stroll down memory lane illustrates that controversy and allegations of biased officiating have long been part of AFCON’s history.
The 2025 Africa Cup of Nations in Morocco, held from December 21, 2025, to January 18, 2026, will be discussed for a long time by football historians, raconteurs, and aficionados—for both positive and negative reasons.
These include Morocco’s world-class facilities, the ravenous hunger of ball boys and players (superstars included) for the towels of opposing goalkeepers—popularly dubbed TowelGate—allegations of biased officiating, strained relations among Arab African nations (Egypt, Algeria, Tunisia, and Morocco), CAF President Patrice Motsepe’s curt “keep quiet” response to veteran journalist Osasu Obayiuwana regarding the proposed four-year AFCON cycle post-2028, and the “Oga Patapata” incident, where Senegalese players walked off the pitch after a legitimate goal was chalked off and a penalty awarded against them by DR Congo referee Jean-Jacques Ndala.
While these narratives dominated global discourse, another critical issue—less prominent but equally important—emerged within Nigeria’s media and content-creation landscape.
Following Nigeria’s qualification from the group stage, the Super Eagles were scheduled to face Mozambique in the Round of 16. Between January 1 and January 3, Coach Eric Chelle instituted closed-door training sessions, denying journalists and content creators access, with media interaction limited to pre-match press conferences.
According to Chelle, the knockout stage demanded “maximum concentration,” and privacy was necessary to protect players from distractions.
This decision sparked mixed reactions on social media.
Twitter user @QualityQuadry wrote:
“What Eric Chelle is doing to journalists is bad.
Journalists were subjected to a media parley under cold weather in an open field for the first time in Super Eagles history.
Journalists were beaten by rain because Chelle doesn’t want journalists around the camp.
Locking down training sessions for three days is unprofessional.
I wish him well against Mozambique.”
Another user, @PoojaMedia, stated:
“Again, Eric Chelle has closed the Super Eagles’ training today.
That means journalists in Morocco won’t have access to the team for three straight days ahead of the Round of 16.
This is serious and sad for journalists who spent millions to get content around the team.
We move.”
Conversely, @sportsdokitor wrote:
“I’m not Eric Chelle’s biggest supporter, but on this issue, I support him 110%.
There’s a time to speak and a time to train.
Let the boys focus on why they’re in Morocco—they’re not here for your content creation.”
From these three tweets, one can see accessibility being clothed in beautiful garments. Two of the tweets suggest that there is only one way to get to the zenith of Mount Kilimanjaro, when indeed there are many routes—if we think within the box, not outside the box as we’ve not exhausted the content inside the box.
In the past, when the economy was buoyant, media organisations sponsored reporters to cover the World Cup, Olympics, Commonwealth Games, and other international competitions.
Today, with financial pressures mounting, many journalists and content creators seek collaborations and sponsorships from corporations and tech startups to cover sporting events, who in turn get awareness, brand visibility, and other intangibles.
As Gary Vaynerchuk famously said, “Every company is a media company.” Yet most creators covering AFCON 2025 followed the same playbook.
At AFCON 2025, most Nigerian journalists and content creators pitched similar offerings: on-the-ground coverage, press conferences, team updates, behind-the-scenes footage, analysis, cuisine, fan interactions, and Moroccan cultural experiences.
If they were not interviewing Victor Osimhen, they were showcasing the stand-up comedy talents of Samuel Chukwueze and other forms of entertainment.
What was missing was differentiation. No clear Unique Selling Proposition (USP). The result was generic, repetitive content with little strategic distinction. Everyone appeared to be deploying the same “Jab, Jab, Jab, Hook” formula—throwing multiple jabs of access-driven content in the hope that one hook would land.
The lesson is simple: when everyone is jabbing the same way, the hook becomes predictable and loses its power.
As J. P. Clark wrote in the poem “The Casualties”, “We are all casualties,” casualties of sameness—content without differentiation. The audience consumes shallow content, sponsors lose return on investment, and creators return home bearing the “weight of paper” from disappointed benefactors.
On November 23, 1963, a shining light was dimmed in America when President John F. Kennedy was assassinated.
As with AFCON today, media organisations sent their best hands to cover the funeral, as the who’s who of the planet—and if possible, the stratosphere—would attend. Unconfirmed reports suggested that over 220 VVIPs were expected.
While every newspaper, radio, and television station covered the spectacle and grandeur of the event, one man, Jimmy Breslin, swam against the tide. He chose instead to interview Clifton Pollard, the foreman of gravediggers at Arlington National Cemetery—the man who dug John F. Kennedy’s grave.
This act of upended thinking differentiated Jimmy Breslin from the odds and sods, and he went on to win the Pulitzer Prize in 1986.
Until journalists and content creators stop following the motley and begin swimming against the tide, access will continue to be treated as king—when in reality, differentiation, aided by strategy, is king.
When every journalist and content creator is using Gary Vaynerchuk’s “Jab, Jab, Jab, Hook” template while covering major sporting events, thinkers among them must learn to replace one jab with a counterpunch—and a bit of head movement—to stay ahead of the herd.
Toluwalope Shodunke can be reached via tolushodunke@yahoo.com
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