By Taibat Ummi Yakubu

There is a familiar season in Nigeria when politicians suddenly become exceptionally interested in ordinary people.

It is the season when the forgotten village suddenly appears on the political map. When roads that have been crying for attention for years begin to receive graders. When market women are invited to colourful empowerment ceremonies. When young people are promised jobs, entrepreneurs are promised loans, farmers are promised fertiliser, students are promised scholarships and communities are promised development.

It is also the season when politicians remember how important the people are.

They visit.

They shake hands.

They embrace elderly women.

They carry babies.

They eat local food.

They attend weddings and funerals.

They donate bags of rice.

They distribute cash.

They commission projects.

They launch empowerment programmes.

And, above all, they make promises.

Lots of promises.

The timing is hardly accidental.

As Nigeria moves towards the 2027 presidential election, the familiar political machinery is already warming up. President Bola Ahmed Tinubu is seeking re-election, while opposition figures, including former Vice President Atiku Abubakar and former Anambra State Governor Peter Obi, are positioning themselves as alternatives to the incumbent. The campaign environment is increasingly centred on the issues that matter most to Nigerians: the economy, insecurity, jobs, food prices, electricity, education and the general cost of survival.

The candidates have their different messages.

But beneath the differences is one striking similarity.

Everybody wants to convince Nigerians that their life will become better if they are given power.

And Nigerians have heard that story before.

The election-season miracle

For many communities, elections can feel like a miracle with a deadline.

A road that has been abandoned for years suddenly becomes a government priority.

A school that has lacked basic facilities suddenly receives attention.

A health centre that residents have complained about for years suddenly attracts officials.

Young people who have repeatedly asked for employment opportunities are suddenly invited to empowerment programmes.

Women who have spent years asking for financial support suddenly find themselves receiving grants or equipment.

Farmers who have complained about insecurity, fertiliser prices and poor access to markets suddenly become central characters in political speeches.

The politician arrives with cameras.

The beneficiaries smile.

The speeches begin.

The photographs are taken.

And somewhere in the background, an election date is getting closer.

There is nothing inherently wrong with government delivering projects or helping vulnerable citizens during an election period. Citizens need roads regardless of the electoral calendar. Farmers need support regardless of who is contesting an election. Young people need jobs whether there is a campaign or not.

The problem is what happens when governance becomes most energetic precisely when politicians need votes most.

That is where the suspicion begins.

Why now?

Why this community now?

Why this particular project?

Why this sudden generosity?

And perhaps the most uncomfortable question:

Would the same thing have happened if there were no election to win?

From “renewed hope” to “renewed promises”

Nigeria's political vocabulary is full of beautiful phrases.

Change.

Transformation.

Renewal.

Hope.

Reform.

Prosperity.

New Nigeria.

Production.

Empowerment.

Reconstruction.

Development.

The words change from one election to another, but the aspirations remain remarkably similar.

In 2023, Nigerians were presented with competing visions of what the country could become. The 2027 election is now producing another collection of promises, with the economy and security again occupying the centre of the political conversation.

For President Tinubu, the argument is increasingly about defending the direction of his administration and convincing Nigerians that the difficult reforms introduced since 2023 are laying the foundation for a stronger economy.

His government has repeatedly defended the removal of petrol subsidy and foreign-exchange reforms as painful but necessary measures intended to improve public finances, attract investment and create a more sustainable economic system.

For his opponents, however, the question is much simpler:

Can Nigerians eat the reforms?

That question captures the enormous gap between macroeconomic arguments and household realities.

A government may point to increased revenue, investment or economic indicators.

But the average family may be looking at the price of food.

A government may talk about fiscal reforms.

A trader may be wondering why fewer customers can afford to buy.

A government may discuss investment.

A young graduate may be asking where the job is.

This is the battlefield on which 2027 will ultimately be fought.

Atiku's alternative

Atiku Abubakar is approaching another presidential contest with a message centred on the need for a different approach to governance and economic management.

His political argument has repeatedly emphasised economic expansion, private-sector participation, restructuring, institutional reform and improved security.

But the challenge facing him is familiar.

Nigerians have heard alternative economic blueprints before.

They have heard candidates promise to create millions of jobs.

They have heard promises of electricity.

They have heard promises of industrialisation.

They have heard promises of agricultural transformation.

The difficult part is not writing these promises into a manifesto.

The difficult part is explaining how they will be funded, implemented and protected from the weaknesses that have repeatedly undermined government programmes.

In 2027, voters will not simply need another politician telling them Nigeria can work.

They will want to know how.

Peter Obi and the politics of production

Peter Obi's political message has also placed considerable emphasis on production, investment, human capital development, reducing waste and transforming the economy.

His 2023 campaign demonstrated that a presidential candidate outside the traditional two-party dominance could mobilise significant enthusiasm, particularly among young Nigerians.

The political landscape has since changed.

But the questions surrounding his candidacy remain significant.

Can his emphasis on production and human capital development convince Nigerians that the country can escape its cycle of borrowing, importing and consuming?

Can the political movement surrounding him translate enthusiasm into an electoral structure capable of delivering victory?

And if he eventually gets the opportunity to govern, how quickly can the economic transformation promised during campaigns become visible in people's daily lives?

Again, the election will eventually move beyond speeches.

It will come down to credibility.

The problem with political promises

The problem is not that politicians make promises.

They should.

A democracy without competing visions is hardly a meaningful democracy.

Citizens should have the opportunity to compare different plans and decide who deserves their votes.

The problem begins when political promises are deliberately designed to appeal to emotions without providing realistic answers.

A politician promises millions of jobs.

The voter should ask:

Where will the jobs come from?

A politician promises cheap electricity.

Who will finance the infrastructure?

A politician promises free education.

How will schools be funded?

A politician promises food security.

How will farmers be protected, financed and connected to markets?

A politician promises to defeat insecurity.

What exactly will be different from previous security strategies?

A politician promises to transform the naira.

What economic policies will support the promise?

These questions may not produce the loudest applause at a rally.

But they are the questions that determine whether a campaign promise survives contact with reality.

When empowerment becomes political theatre

Empowerment programmes deserve particular attention.

Across Nigeria, politicians frequently distribute sewing machines, motorcycles, tricycles, farming equipment, cash grants, food items and other materials to selected beneficiaries.

For the recipient, the benefit may be real.

A sewing machine can become a source of income.

A motorcycle can provide transportation.

A farming input can increase production.

A cash grant can help a struggling trader.

There is therefore a danger in dismissing every empowerment programme as political manipulation.

But there is an equally serious danger in accepting every programme as genuine development.

The difference lies in sustainability.

What happens after the cameras leave?

Does the beneficiary receive training?

Is there access to finance?

Is there a market for the goods being produced?

Is the programme transparent?

Who qualifies?

How many people benefit?

What happens to the programme after the election?

If the answer to those questions is unclear, then empowerment can easily become political theatre.

A politician can distribute 100 sewing machines in front of thousands of people.

But sustainable empowerment would ask a more difficult question:

How many of those 100 beneficiaries are still running successful businesses two years later?

That is the statistic that rarely makes the campaign poster.

The politics of the road

Road projects tell a similar story.

There are few things more politically attractive than a freshly constructed road.

It is visible.

It is physical.

It photographs beautifully.

A politician can stand beside it and say:

“Look what we have done.”

And the people can see it.

But infrastructure should not be judged by the ceremony that accompanies it.

It should be judged by whether it is completed, durable and useful.

A road that connects farmers to markets can transform an entire community.

A properly equipped hospital can save lives.

A functional school can change generations.

These are not campaign gifts.

They are government responsibilities.

The danger begins when ordinary responsibilities are presented as extraordinary favours.

Citizens should not have to feel indebted to a politician simply because the government constructed a road.

The government belongs to them.

The money belongs to the public.

The project should therefore be understood as a responsibility—not a personal gift.

The politics of gifts

Then there is the most controversial part of Nigerian election culture: direct gifts.

Rice.

Money.

Clothes.

Food.

Transport money.

Campaign materials.

Small business support.

Sometimes the gifts are presented as humanitarian assistance.

Sometimes they are openly connected to political mobilisation.

Either way, they reveal something important about the relationship between poverty and democracy.

A hungry person cannot eat a manifesto.

A family struggling to survive may value ₦20,000 today more than a promise of a better economy five years from now.

That does not necessarily mean the voter is corrupt.

It means poverty changes political calculations.

This is why political gift-giving becomes particularly powerful in poor communities.

The politician is thinking about the election.

The voter may be thinking about dinner.

That is a very unequal transaction.

The voter is not always fooled

There is, however, another side to this story.

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Politicians sometimes assume that distributing gifts automatically buys loyalty.

It does not.

Nigerians can accept a politician's rice and still vote for somebody else.

A trader can collect campaign money and remain unconvinced.

A community can welcome a politician and still reject him at the ballot box.

This is because voters are not simply political beneficiaries.

They are also political observers.

They remember.

They compare.

They talk.

They watch.

They may not announce their intentions publicly, but they know who visited them and when.

They remember who disappeared after winning.

They remember the road that was promised.

They remember the hospital that was commissioned.

They remember the jobs that never came.

And they remember the politician who returned only when another election approached.

The danger of short political memory

Yet Nigeria's political system also suffers from weak institutional memory.

A politician can make a promise today and make another promise tomorrow without being forced to explain the first.

Campaign speeches disappear.

Manifestos are forgotten.

Budget announcements are buried under new announcements.

Government websites may contain plans that few citizens ever read.

The result is that every election can begin to look like a completely new conversation.

It should not.

Imagine if every presidential campaign began with a large scoreboard:

Promises made.

Promises completed.

Promises partially completed.

Promises abandoned.

Money spent.

People reached.

Results achieved.

Suddenly, political speeches would become much more difficult.

A candidate could no longer simply say:

“We will create jobs.”

The audience could ask:

“How many jobs did you create when you were previously in office?”

A candidate could no longer simply say:

“We will fight corruption.”

The public could ask:

“What did you do when you had the opportunity before?”

A candidate could no longer simply say:

“We will secure Nigeria.”

The question would be:

“What is different about your plan this time?”

That is the kind of political accountability Nigeria needs.

The forgotten period: after the election

Perhaps the most revealing part of Nigerian politics is not the campaign.

It is what happens immediately afterwards.

The crowds disappear.

The music stops.

The posters fade.

The campaign vehicles return to their owners.

The politicians return to government offices.

The beneficiaries return to their businesses.

The voters return to their daily struggles.

And the promises enter a new phase.

Waiting.

This is when citizens discover whether the politician who called them “my people” actually meant it.

Because leadership is not tested at a rally.

It is tested in the quiet months when there are no cameras.

It is tested when a community complains about a broken bridge.

When a farmer needs security.

When a student needs a functional school.

When a hospital lacks medicine.

When a graduate needs employment.

When a small business needs electricity.

When food prices rise.

That is when political love is truly tested.

Why politicians remember the people before elections

The answer is not complicated.

Elections create incentives.

Politicians need votes.

Votes require visibility.

Visibility requires contact with voters.

And contact creates opportunities to remind voters that the politician exists.

But there is a deeper reason.

Politicians understand that Nigerians often judge government through things they can see.

A road is visible.

A bag of rice is visible.

A cash transfer is visible.

A newly painted school is visible.

A political rally is visible.

Institutional reform is harder to see.

Improved procurement systems are not exciting campaign material.

Better data systems do not attract enormous crowds.

A stronger civil service may not produce viral photographs.

Long-term economic planning is difficult to explain in a two-minute campaign speech.

So politicians are naturally tempted towards projects that produce immediate visibility.

The result is a political culture where visibility can sometimes compete with value.

What should Nigerians demand in 2027?

Perhaps Nigerians need to change the question.

Instead of asking politicians:

“What will you give us?”

They should ask:

“What will you build?”

Instead of:

“How much will you share?”

Ask:

“What system will ensure that people no longer need handouts?”

Instead of:

“How many bags of rice will you distribute?”

Ask:

“How will you make food affordable?”

Instead of:

“How many youths will receive empowerment equipment?”

Ask:

“What economic environment will allow millions of young people to create sustainable businesses?”

Instead of:

“How many roads will you construct?”

Ask:

“How will you maintain them?”

Those questions take politics away from temporary excitement and towards governance.

The real presidential campaign

For Tinubu, Atiku, Obi and every other politician seeking the presidency, the challenge should not simply be to convince Nigerians that they can make Nigeria great.

That sentence has been used too many times.

The real challenge is to explain how.

How will insecurity be reduced?

How will food become affordable?

How will young Nigerians find productive work?

How will electricity improve?

How will healthcare become accessible?

How will education improve?

How will government waste be reduced?

How will public money be protected?

How will promises be measured?

And perhaps the most important question:

How will Nigerians know when you have failed?

A serious political programme should have measurable targets.

It should have timelines.

It should have funding arrangements.

It should have accountability mechanisms.

And voters should be able to return four years later and say:

“You promised this. Did you deliver?”

The people should not become important only every four years

There is a painful irony in Nigeria's political culture.

Politicians often describe ordinary citizens as the owners of democracy.

They call them their employers.

They promise to serve them.

But too often, that relationship appears strongest during campaigns.

Then the election ends.

The employer becomes the spectator.

The politician becomes the powerful office holder.

And the distance between the two grows.

That relationship must change.

Citizens should not have to wait for election season to be heard.

A government should not need an election approaching before it notices a bad road.

It should not need a campaign rally before it remembers unemployed graduates.

It should not need opposition pressure before it thinks about struggling families.

It should not need votes before it remembers rural communities.

The people are not an election-season audience. They are the country.

2027 and the politics of memory

The 2027 election will ultimately test more than political machinery.

It will test political memory.

The incumbent will have to defend his record.

The opposition will have to explain why its alternative is better.

And the voters will have to decide whether promises deserve another chance.

That is why the most powerful weapon ordinary Nigerians possess may not be money, political connections or party membership.

It is memory.

Remember what was promised.

Remember what was delivered.

Remember what was abandoned.

Remember who visited before the election.

Remember who disappeared after it.

Remember who spoke about the poor.

Remember who actually improved their lives.

Because when politicians arrive with another truckload of promises, Nigerians should be prepared to welcome them—but not surrender their memories.

They can accept the rice.

They can listen to the speech.

They can shake the politician's hand.

They can even take the campaign T-shirt.

But when election day arrives, they should ask the only question that truly matters:

“After all the promises, who has actually earned my vote?”

And perhaps that is the uncomfortable truth behind Nigeria's recurring political miracle:

The closer the election gets, the more politicians remember the people.

The real test is whether they will still remember them when the ballot boxes are gone.