By Usman Shehu
It seems to me that there is some kind of realignment, knowingly or unknowingly, against Atiku Abubakar, the ADC presidential candidate and one of the leading opposition contenders. But, as they say, there is no smoke without fire.
I have followed with awe and listened carefully to politicians, activists, and experts on different platforms explaining, with conviction, why Atiku should not contest the presidency on the grounds of power rotation. Their main argument is that since former President Muhammadu Buhari, who is from the northern part of the country, spent eight years in office, it is only fair to allow the South to complete its own eight years before power returns to the North. Initially, this was not worrisome. But the argument has gathered momentum and continued to unfold in unanticipated ways.
I was struck by the extent to which the debate over regional rotation has come to dominate the political conversation, with several parties fielding southern candidates and influential voices insisting that the South should retain the presidency until 2031. Some argue that this arrangement could strategically benefit Atiku by making him the only strong candidate from the North. Others believe that it could make his ambition considerably more difficult.
Whatever the calculations, the question remains: Are these political actors genuinely motivated by fairness and national cohesion, or are some of them only pursuing their personal interests?
Even among northerners who have traditionally spoken about integrity, fairness, and democratic choice, there appears to be considerable support for the argument that the South should complete its turn. Everyone seems to be talking about power rotation, while relatively little attention is being paid to the competence, capacity, character, and policy choices of the candidates.
In their effort to counter this argument, Atiku’s supporters have pointed out that, since the beginning of the Fourth Republic in 1999, the distribution of presidential power between the North and the South has not been as straightforward as some advocates of rotation suggest. This is a legitimate point.
Olusegun Obasanjo governed from 1999 to 2007, Umaru Musa Yar’Adua from 2007 to 2010, Goodluck Jonathan from 2010 to 2015, and Muhammadu Buhari from 2015 to 2023. Bola Tinubu assumed office in 2023. The death of Yar’Adua and the subsequent completion of his term by Jonathan make any simple calculation of regional entitlement more complicated.
Should we, therefore, count the entire period since 1999, or should we treat Buhari’s eight years as the beginning of a new political cycle that the South must now complete? And who determines the rules by which this rotation should be measured?
There is a Hausa saying that goes, “In ka san na faɗa, ba ka san na mayar wa ba,” which roughly means, “You may know what to say, but you cannot predict the response.” This proverb captures the difficulty of the present debate. Every argument invites a counterargument, and every political arrangement creates expectations that others may interpret differently.
But perhaps we are spending too much time debating which region should produce the next president and too little time asking what the next president should actually do for the country. Power rotation has its merits. In a country as diverse as Nigeria, it can help build trust, encourage inclusion, and reassure different parts of the country that they will not be permanently excluded from the highest office. Those are legitimate concerns that should not be dismissed.
However, power rotation is an informal political convention, not a constitutional requirement that bars a qualified Nigerian from contesting the presidency because of where he comes from. More importantly, a convention intended to promote fairness should not become an end in itself, divorced from the quality of leadership it produces. A southern candidate is not automatically competent because the South is entitled to its turn. Neither is a northern candidate automatically disqualified from offering a better alternative because it is not his region’s turn. The question should be whether regional rotation is a guiding principle to be balanced with other considerations or a rule that overrides every other consideration, including the will of the electorate.
The more important question is whether the arguments being advanced can withstand scrutiny independently of the interests of those making them. Would the same people defend the principle of rotation if it worked against their preferred candidate or political allies? Would they insist on it even if voters overwhelmingly preferred a candidate from another region? These are legitimate questions in a political environment where principle and ambition can sometimes be difficult to separate.
Yet the debate should not be reduced to an accusation that everyone advocating rotation has a hidden agenda. Some people sincerely believe that respecting the South’s claim to eight years in office is necessary for national cohesion. Others may believe that opening the contest to candidates from every region offers a better chance of producing competent leadership. Both positions deserve to be examined on their merits. The real issue arises when a principle meant to promote inclusion becomes a means of narrowing democratic choice without a corresponding commitment to good governance.
If democracy is to function as it should, the preferences of political elites must not be allowed to substitute for the will of the people. Parties may establish conventions, negotiate alliances, and consider regional sensitivities, but the ultimate purpose of an election is to allow citizens to choose their leaders. That choice, however, is not made in a political vacuum.
Political elites control party structures, raise campaign funds, negotiate alliances, influence public debate, and often determine which candidates have a realistic chance of competing. They can shape the choices available to voters long before election day. Religious leaders, traditional institutions, business interests, and local political networks can also influence how people understand their interests and exercise their votes.
This is why the debate over 2027 cannot be understood simply as a contest between the masses and the elite. The two are interconnected. Voters may support a candidate backed by powerful politicians because they genuinely believe in that candidate, because they expect material benefits, because of regional or religious loyalties, or because they see no credible alternative.
The challenge is to determine when popular support reflects an independent assessment of a candidate and when it is being shaped by patronage, inducements, misinformation, or the absence of meaningful alternatives.
The Economist recently published an article whose headline captured an important contradiction in Nigerian politics: Nigerians may dislike their president and still re-elect him. That possibility should make us cautious about assuming that widespread dissatisfaction will automatically translate into electoral defeat for the incumbent.
A government can become unpopular without its opponents becoming more credible. Citizens can be frustrated with economic hardship and insecurity while remaining divided over which alternative to support. They can want a change of government but disagree profoundly about the person or party best suited to replace it. This is one of the most important questions facing the opposition in 2027.
For Atiku Abubakar, the challenge is therefore twofold. He must answer those who argue that a northern presidency would violate the spirit of regional rotation, but he must also persuade Nigerians that he offers a credible alternative to the incumbent government. It is not enough to argue that the Constitution permits him to contest or that the historical distribution of power does not justify excluding him. Those arguments establish his right to compete; they do not, by themselves, establish why Nigerians should elect him.
Atiku has criticised the economic consequences of petrol subsidy removal and proposed a different approach that would support domestic refining and make petroleum products more affordable. The proposal raises an important question about how government can reduce the cost of living while encouraging domestic production. But voters are entitled to ask how much such a policy would cost, how it would be funded, how eligibility would be determined, and what safeguards would prevent a return to the opacity and waste associated with the previous subsidy regime.
The same scrutiny should apply to his wider economic programme. What specific measures would he adopt to create jobs, expand electricity supply, improve education and healthcare, and strengthen the purchasing power of ordinary Nigerians? How would he finance these commitments without creating unsustainable fiscal pressures? What would he do differently from the current administration, and how would Nigerians measure the results?
His experience as a former vice-president may count in his favour, as may his familiarity with government and national politics. But experience alone does not guarantee good leadership. His record, proposals, political alliances, and capacity to build a government that serves the public interest should all be open to examination. The same standards must apply to Bola Tinubu and every other presidential contender. Incumbency, regional identity, political experience, and campaign promises should not exempt any candidate from questions about competence, integrity, feasibility, and accountability.
The opposition also faces a practical problem. Even when many Nigerians are dissatisfied with the government, their votes may be divided among several candidates. If opposition parties cannot build effective cooperation, agree on a credible programme, and mobilise voters across regional boundaries, the incumbent may benefit from their fragmentation.
A successful electoral challenge requires more than public anger. It requires an alternative that voters can understand and trust, an organisation capable of reaching them, and a strategy that converts dissatisfaction into votes. It also requires credible commitments on electoral integrity and a willingness by political actors to respect the outcome of a legitimate contest.
This is where the role of the political elite becomes especially important. Their networks and resources can either help create a credible alternative or prevent one from emerging. They can mobilise citizens around public policy, or they can mobilise them around ethnic loyalties, regional grievances, personal ambition, and the distribution of political favours. The question is not whether elites will influence the election. They inevitably will. The question is whether their influence will strengthen democratic competition or undermine it.
Nigeria is not terminally ill, and the defeat of an incumbent president is not without precedent. The country has demonstrated that political power can change hands through elections. Yet the political terrain in 2027 presents its own difficulties. Economic hardship and public dissatisfaction may create an opportunity for the opposition, but opportunity is not the same as victory. A divided opposition, an incumbent with extensive political networks, and a campaign dominated by arguments over regional entitlement could all prevent voters from focusing on the substantive issues that matter most to their lives.
Meanwhile, ordinary Nigerians continue to grapple with the cost of food. As Sule Lamido wrote in his book Being True to Myself: “On the economy, whatever the government may say, to the ordinary man, the health of the economy is the measure of ingredients in his cooking pot.” For many families, this and other concerns are more immediate than whether the next president comes from the North or the South.
That does not mean questions of regional fairness are irrelevant. It means they should be considered alongside the practical demands of governing a country in which millions of people are asking for security, opportunity, affordable living, and a government that responds to their needs. Ultimately, the legitimacy of a president cannot rest on regional entitlement alone. It must also rest on the quality of leadership, the credibility of the mandate, and the ability to deliver results.
As the 2027 election approaches, the political elite will come bearing their alliances, influence, inducements, and promises. Some will appeal to fairness and national unity; others will invoke experience, competence, or the need for change. Some will mobilise voters through established political networks, while others will seek to build new coalitions around public dissatisfaction.
The question is whether Nigerians will have credible alternatives and sufficient freedom to judge these competing claims on their merits. Will they be able to distinguish promises from realistic programmes, political patronage from public service, and regional entitlement from genuine capacity to govern? Will they vote according to their assessment of the country’s needs, or will the choices available to them once again be shaped primarily by the preferences and interests of the political elite?
Perhaps the more fundamental question is this: when Nigerians go to the polls in 2027, will they possess the information, credible alternatives, political organisation, and freedom necessary to translate their preferences into an electoral outcome that reflects their collective interests?
That is the real test of Nigeria’s democracy. Not simply whether power rotates between the North and the South, or whether a particular candidate succeeds in his presidential ambition, but whether the people can meaningfully influence who governs them and hold that person accountable for what follows.
Usman M. Shehu writes from Kano State, Nigeria, and can be reached via usmanmujtabashehu@gmail.com.
