By
Nze David N. Ugwu
A Song That Refuses to Die
When Fela Anikulapo Kuti of blessed memory released Zombie in 1976, his target was unmistakable: a military culture that prized obedience over conscience. Soldiers, he sang, moved only when commanded – “attention, quick march, slow march.” They did not think. They did not question. They simply obeyed.
Nearly five decades later, the uniforms are gone, the jackboots retired, and elections are now held with regularity. Yet the zombie condition Fela warned against has not disappeared. It has merely migrated—from the barracks to the ballot box.
In today’s Nigeria, particularly at the subnational level, democracy functions less as a system of popular sovereignty and more as a ritualized transfer of agency. The people vote. The governor emerges. And from that moment on, the people recede into political silence.
The governor becomes the thinking brain of the state.
The people become the limbs—moving wherever he directs.
This is the paradox of Nigerian democracy: the people choose their leaders, then surrender the right to disagree with them.
The Illusion of Popular Power
On paper, Nigeria is a constitutional democracy. Sovereignty, according to the constitution, belongs to the people. Leaders are meant to derive legitimacy from popular consent, exercised continuously through representation, participation, and accountability.
In practice, however, popular sovereignty in Nigeria is episodic. It appears briefly on election day and disappears immediately after.
Elections are treated not as the beginning of civic engagement but as its conclusion. Once ballots are cast and winners declared, citizens are expected to withdraw, applaud from a distance, and wait patiently for the next cycle.
What emerges is not participatory democracy but electoral abdication.
Governors do not routinely consult citizens on major political decisions. They do not seek popular mandates for radical shifts in ideology, alliances, or party platforms. And perhaps most tellingly, they do not feel compelled to explain themselves—because experience has taught them that explanations are unnecessary.
The people will follow. As they have always followed. And as they will continue to follow.
When Governors Defect, States Follow
Nothing illustrates this phenomenon more starkly than the culture of political defection in Nigeria.
A governor contests and wins an election under Party A. Millions of citizens vote—some out of ideology, others out of loyalty, protest, or hope. Then, mid-term or nearing re-election, the governor defects to Party B. The justification is often vague: “national interest,” “irreconcilable differences,” or “alignment with the center.”
What is never sought is the consent of the governed.
There is no referendum. No statewide consultation. No serious attempt to ask voters whether the platform on which their mandate was obtained still represents their will.
And yet, what follows is almost ritualistic. Party structures collapse overnight. Legislators, local government chairmen, councillors, and political appointees defect en masse. Supporters chant new slogans. Flags change. Songs are rewritten.
The state’s political identity is altered by executive fiat.
Akwa Ibom, Delta, Enugu, Plateau, Bayelsa—across Nigeria’s geopolitical zones, the story repeats itself. The governor defects, and the people defect with him, not because they have reconsidered their beliefs, but because belief has never been the organizing principle of Nigerian politics.
The Governor as the State
Why does this happen so effortlessly?
Because in Nigeria’s political culture, the governor is not merely head of government. He is the embodiment of the state.
He controls party structures, security architecture, patronage networks, traditional institutions, and often the legislature. Civil servants defer to him. Political actors orbit around him. Even opposition figures frequently negotiate privately with him rather than mobilize citizens openly.
In such an environment, loyalty is vertical, not horizontal. It flows upward to power, not outward to shared values or collective interests.
Citizens understand this intuitively. To oppose the governor is to risk exclusion. To follow him is to remain relevant. Survival, not conviction, becomes the dominant political logic.
Thus, when the governor moves, the people move—not because they agree, but because they cannot afford not to.
Democracy Without Citizens
This arrangement produces a troubling outcome: a democracy without democrats.
Citizens participate in elections but not in governance. They vote but do not deliberate. They cheer but do not challenge. Politics becomes something done to them, not by them.
Town halls are rare and performative. Policy debates are confined to elite circles. Civil society voices are often dismissed as “troublemakers” or “sponsored opposition.” Media scrutiny is tolerated only when it does not threaten the governor’s authority.
Over time, citizens internalize the message: your role is to endorse, not to engage.
This is why many Nigerians feel powerless even under civilian rule. The structures of democracy exist, but the spirit of citizenship has been hollowed out.
How We Got Here
This zombie democracy did not emerge overnight. It is the product of history.
Decades of military rule conditioned Nigerians to equate authority with command and obedience with survival. When civilian governance returned, the habits of deference remained. Governors inherited not just offices but authoritarian reflexes, now clothed in democratic legitimacy.
Political parties, instead of serving as vehicles for ideology and citizen aggregation, became platforms for elite negotiation. Manifestos mattered less than godfathers. Structures mattered less than incumbency.
Meanwhile, poverty and precarity weakened the capacity for civic resistance. When livelihoods depend on political patronage, dissent becomes expensive. Silence becomes rational.
The result is a political culture where governors do not fear citizens—and citizens do not expect to be heard.
The Cost of Zombie Democracy
The consequences are profound.
First, accountability collapses. If citizens do not insist on explanation, governors do not feel compelled to deliver results.
Second, policy inconsistency becomes normal. Political direction changes with executive preference, not popular mandate.
Third, institutions weaken. Legislatures become appendages. Parties lose identity. Governance becomes personalized.
Finally, citizenship itself erodes. People begin to see politics as theatre—something noisy, corrupt, and distant from their daily lives.
Democracy survives procedurally but dies substantively.
Reclaiming the Stolen Voice
The tragedy of Nigeria’s democracy is not that governors wield too much power. It is that citizens have relinquished theirs too easily.
Democracy does not end at the polling unit. It begins there.
A mature polity insists on consultation, transparency, and justification—especially when leaders seek to alter the political contract under which they were elected. Party defection without voter consent should be scandalous, not routine. Silence should be seen as failure, not loyalty.
Until Nigerians redefine citizenship as continuous engagement, not episodic voting, the zombie condition will persist.
Fela’s Final Warning
Fela’s Zombie was satire, but it was also prophecy.
A people who stop thinking politically, who outsource conscience to authority, and who mistake obedience for unity will always be vulnerable—whether under soldiers or civilians.
Nigeria today stands at that crossroads.
The question is no longer whether governors think for the people. They clearly do.
The real question is whether the people are ready to think for themselves again.
Nze David N. Ugwu is the Managing Consultant of Knowledge Research Consult. He could be reached at [email protected] or +2348037269333
