On some Nigerian street corner, the unmistakable scent of expensive roasted yam fills the air—burnt, slightly sweet, but often tasteless without the right seasoning. This vivid image mirrors Nigeria’s form of governance: charred on the outside, hollow at its core, served piping hot without depth, and consumed not for its nourishment but out of sheer hunger. This isn’t just about street food; it’s about a nation trapped in a cycle of roasted yam politics—crude, scorching, and barely satisfying its citizens.
Democracy, the system for which we fought and prayed, has mutated into something entirely different. What was once a dream for a multi-party republic is now a one-man show, cleverly disguised as a family affair. Elections have become auctions; political appointments are rewards for loyalty, not merit. Voters, once proud of their power, are bribed with salt, Maggi, and rice, while their civic strength is traded for mere stomach infrastructure. It’s no wonder Nigeria has adopted a Mafian political system, rendering multi-party democracy impotent and irrelevant.
Politicians now act as cartels masquerading as political parties. These institutions, meant to represent ideologies, have degenerated into investment firms. Primaries are no longer earned—they’re purchased. Delegates, once seen as representatives of the people, are now mere traders. Whether at the state or federal level, the situation remains the same: governance is no longer about public service; it has become a private business.
Take Kogi State, for example. In 2016, Nigerians witnessed the spectacle of posthumous voting—a scenario where votes cast by the dead were counted to declare the living as winners. When the people raised their voices, they were told to “move on” as if democracy was merely a road accident. Since then, Kogi’s elections have become rituals—predictable, rehearsed, and scripted by powerful interests, offering a facade of participation but lacking the substance of true democracy.
In many states, governors have assumed the mantle of emperors. They decide budgets, manipulate party primaries, choose local government chairmen, and even handpick successors. The legislature, once intended to serve as a check, has become a chorus line, singing praises to the governor. Meanwhile, the judiciary—once the final hope for the common man—has been reduced to a tailor, stitching judgments to fit the needs of the powerful.
In some instances, sitting governors have been removed and replaced by sole administrators—not by popular vote, but by decree. No protests. No resistance. No explanation. It was as though democracy had taken a vacation. These aren’t mere aberrations; they signal a deeper rot within the system.
The situation is no different in Imo State, where a governor was declared the winner not through the ballots but through judicial arithmetic. The citizens watched in disbelief as the courts conjured figures and installed a leader they never voted for. In this drama, the judiciary became the magician, and the gavel, a wand.
This is the ugly face of roasted yam governance—where institutions are burnt but not properly cooked, presented as nourishing but devoid of substance. The people are left chewing on democracy like dry yam, choking on the absence of accountability, transparency, and justice. And when they complain, the government serves up a side of ketchup in the form of propaganda to mask the bitter truth.
As Nigerian political analyst Chido Onumah once remarked, “You can rig an election, but you cannot rig legitimacy.” Legitimacy is not something declared on television; it is earned on the streets. But those streets are eerily silent—not because people are satisfied, but because hunger has long overtaken hope.
The weakening of democratic institutions is not an accident; it is a deliberate strategy. Legislators are bribed into submission, judges pressured into compliance, and the civil service threatened into silence. Power no longer derives from the people; it is manufactured in backrooms and enforced by thugs wearing uniforms.
Antonio Gramsci, the Italian Marxist thinker, captured this perfectly when he wrote, “The crisis consists precisely in the fact that the old is dying and the new cannot be born; in this interregnum a great variety of morbid symptoms appear.” Nigeria is that interregnum—caught between the aspirations of a hopeful past and the reality of a feared future.
As the next election cycle looms, the question is: Do we want more roasted yam politics? Do we want more burnt governance, served on plates of ethnic division and religious manipulation? Or are we ready to demand more—not just from the politicians, but from ourselves?
For the pot of democracy to cook properly, the three arms of government must stand firm: the executive, the legislature, and the judiciary. Right now, those stones are wobbling. The fire is unbalanced. And the yam, as always, continues to burn.
– Inah Boniface Ocholi writes from Ayah – Igalamela/Odolu LGA, Kogi state.
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