As Nigerians move towards elections that mark the first time one elected civilian government has handed over to another, Chippa Vandu provides an historical overview of military and civilian rule in Nigeria and assess the probable outcome of the April elections.

As a nation, Nigeria has come a long way. 1999 was meant to be its year of hope—the return to democratic rule after a decade and a half of military dictatorships. Of all military rulers in Nigeria’s history, only one voluntarily gave up power to a democratically elected government. His name was Olusegun Obasanjo and the year was 1979. General Obasanjo became a military ruler by chance in 1976, having inherited the seat of power when the then Head of State, General Murtala Muhammed, was assassinated in Nigeria’s second bloody coup. Obasanjo handed power over to the democratically elected Shehu Shagari, who was toppled in a bloodless coup by Major General Muhammadu Buhari in 1983. Then began the decade and a half of military dictatorships that saw General Ibrahim Babangida (1985-1993), General Sani Abacha (1993-1998) and General Abdulsalami Abubakar (1998-1999) rule Nigeria..

Olusegun Obasanjo once again ascended to the highest office in Nigeria in 1999 filled with expectations. The exceedingly corrupt government of one of his predecessors—the late Sani Abacha—had all but destroyed the semblance of civil society in Nigeria. Together with his deputy, Atiku Abubakar, Obasanjo set out to work, promising to take Nigeria where military dictatorships had always prevented it from reaching. Four years went by and the government was re-elected for a second term. All this while, there were reforms in the banking and financial sectors of the economy, with the country literally settling its huge debt problem. The government, it appeared, had also solved the perennial problem of fuel shortages, which were common during Sani Abacha’s era. A mini telecommunications revolution also took place in Nigeria, with the birth of GSM telephone networks.

Technocrats were brought into government, some of who excelled at what they did. But to most Nigerians, events were far from rosy. Corruption remained endemic and special agencies were created to deal with it. Even then, it remained a part of daily life. From those who sat at the apex of power, to the janitors in government ministries, everyone expected to be settled—Nigeriaspeak for bribed—for simply doing his or her job. And, while the Nigerian government spoke of impressive economic growth, a concurrent increase in population (and corruption, of course) made for an almost unperceivable improvement in the life of the average man or woman on the street. And there lay the paradox—the desire by Nigerians for change, a government that was promising change, but change that was simply too slow to be perceivable.

Democracy, it appeared, had come to stay—or so Nigerians thought. Sometime in late 2005, the Nigerian presidency silently began pushing for the nation’s constitution to be amended to allow Olusegun Obasanjo run for a third term in office. Opposition to this amendment grew like wildfire, with Obasanjo’s deputy being one of the most vocal opponents. Good enough, the amendment failed as it was thrown out by the Nigerian legislature in May 2006. Without a doubt, this came as a surprise to Obasanjo, who accused his country’s media houses of being vile and insensitive for the manner in which they went about reporting about the third term agenda. And one person in particular whom Obasanjo never forgave was his deputy—Atiku Abubakar. In months to come, Abubakar (who by the way happened to be very much interested in contesting the presidency) was to be frustrated to the point of political suicide.

Abubakar was expelled from the ruling People’s Democratic Party (PDP) at the behest of Obasanjo. At the PDP national convention in December 2006, Obasanjo picked an obscure governor—Umaru Musa Yar’Adua—as his likely successor. Yar’Adua’s health became the subject of media speculation in Nigeria. When he had to be abruptly flown to Germany for treatment during one of his presidential campaigns, it became clear that all was not well. The media, it appeared, was right in stating that Yar’Adua’s frail state of health was a cause for concern. Yar’Adua remains the presidential candidate for the ruling PDP.

Atiku Abubakar’s expulsion from the ruling PDP did not in anyway weaken his desire to contest the presidency. In late 2006, he became instrumental in the formation of a new political party called the Action Congress (AC), which eventually nominated him as its presidential candidate. But Olusegun Obasanjo, not wanting to have any of that, began what may be termed a calculated campaign to ensure that Abubakar was not allowed to contest the presidency. The Economic and Financial Crimes Commission (EFCC) published a list of corrupt politicians in February 2006. Top on the list was Abubakar, along with other politicians who, though corrupt, also happened not to be friends of the president.

Though he won a couple of court cases over corruption allegations brought forward by Nigeria’s corruption watchdog, Abubakar was eventually given the final blow when the Nigerian electoral commission omitted his name from the list of those eligible to run for the office of the presidency. Furthermore, in the third week of March 2007, the Nigerian Senate indicted both Abubakar and Obasanjo for mishandling petroleum technology development funds. The Senate further recommended that they both be referred to a disciplinary committee (i.e. the Code of Conduct Bureau) for further action. Calculated as it seemed, this was to partly to ensure that Mr. Obasanjo erased all hopes of extending his tenure beyond May 29, 2007—the stipulated handover date. The Senate indictment literally put a full stop to Abubakar’s political ambition—at least, for the time being.

Two things appear certain when Nigerians begin voting in a couple of week’s time: it has become close to impossible for Mr. Obasanjo to extend his stay in office as he had once hoped. However, by selecting Umaru Yar’Adua as his successor, Obasanjo believes he has found a wall of refuge that would eventually protect his interests after he ceases being Nigeria’s first citizen. Secondly, Abubakar will most likely not run for the presidency, even though the slimmest of chance still exists that the courts might rule in his favour.

With Abubakar out, Yar’Adua’s main challenger becomes Muhammadu Buhari—one time military dictator and presidential candidate of the All Nigeria’s People Party (ANPP). While it is most certain that the ruling PDP will do all in its power to rig the elections in favour of Yar’Adua, an easy victory cannot be guaranteed. Unfortunately, some of the brightest candidates—like Pat Utomi of the African Democratic Congress (ADC) party—have weak political bases. Thus, at the end of the day, most Nigerians will practically be compelled to choose between mediocrity and mediocrity. Such is the life of the game called politics.

It would take nothing short of a miracle from the heavens to stop the ruling PDP from producing the next president of Nigeria. In other words, Nigeria’s next president would most likely be the very man chosen by the incumbent president. Despite being labeled honest, Yar’Adua’s frail health should be a cause for concern. If the man who intends on becoming the next president of Nigeria has to keep running to Germany to be resuscitated each time his health starts to fail, one could only be left wondering what sort of message that sends to the very people he intends to govern. But then, all through Nigeria’s delicate history, there have always been two sets of rules—one for the upper class and another for others. Shattering this barrier could be but a first step towards creating the sort of society that would treat people for what they are—human beings. In this regard, the next government of Nigeria is already failing.

* Chippla Vandu is a Nigerian research engineer with an interest in governance, history and philosophy. He currently resides in Amsterdam, The Netherlands and blogs at

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