Voting, Nigeria’s Great Illusion
SOMEONE once told me some people are born without feeling — “spies of humanity,” they called them — those who live off others with smiles that hide greed. Think of the faces who run pension treasuries, who siphon what should keep the old and infirm secure. If such people are the ones vying to lead you, why bother registering? Why give your voice to a system that seems to reward the heartless?
That question has haunted generations. We were told to fight, to claw, to stage our rights around the ballot box. Yet the memory of rigged elections, snatched ballots, broken machines and ballot-box brigands is fresh. Parents pass their distrust on to children. A civic ritual meant to empower becomes a family lesson in futility.
The daily hunger of ordinary Nigerians — economic strain, collapsing services, empty promises — deepens distrust. Religion and prayer are turned into tools for comfort and, sometimes, political control. Not every leader is corrupt; some genuinely seek the public good. But the chronic erosion of trust has made registering and voting feel like an elaborate illusion: theatre that changes nothing.
Look at the practical nightmares: long queues under sun and rain because machines “failed”; voters harassed by thugs; the constant rumor of ballot boxes spirited away. Anyone who has stood in those lines knows the peculiar mixture of hope and dread — hope that democracy might work, dread that someone else’s greed will spoil the day. Machines and laws are not enough if human actors can manipulate them.
This isn’t merely sentimental despair. It’s structural. When public offices — pensions, procurement, local government coffers — become feeding troughs, civic participation is punished rather than rewarded. Citizens learn that voting often transfers choice from the many to a corrupt few. Why then should a mother drag her child to register when the likely outcome is the enrichment of people who treat public treasuries as private accounts?
Still, calling registration and voting an illusion should not lead to surrender. Illusions are exposed, dismantled and replaced. We need action that goes beyond condemnation.
First: transparency and swift accountability. Public servants and private enablers caught stealing pensions or public funds must face prosecution and asset recovery. Silence or delay compounds cynicism.
Second: secure, well-tested electoral technology and robust contingency plans. A voting machine is no substitute for clear, enforced procedures and impartial security. Electoral staffs must be trained, protected and answerable.
Third: civic education that treats adults like citizens, not children. Young people must understand the mechanics of governance, how to demand audits, how to use the law to check power. Civil society and media must be supported to do this work.
Fourth: strengthen institutions. Independent judiciaries, active anti-corruption bodies, empowered audit offices and whistleblower protections can turn perceptions of inevitability into opportunities for redress.
Finally, local action matters. Communities should create participatory budgets, public expenditure monitoring groups, and local tribunals for rapid redress of petty corruption. When citizens see public funds spent properly in their own towns — better roads, functioning clinics, paid pensions — faith in the system can be rebuilt.
Jazz musicians have a song called “Just an Illusion.” The phrase rings true if politics is reduced to spectacle. But illusions are not eternal. They are fragile when met with collective will, legal pressure and persistent civic action.
So let us no longer worship despair. Let us expose the illusionists — not by violence or sloganeering, but by demanding transparency, punishing theft, strengthening institutions, and insisting that registering and voting translate into real, measurable change. That is how we turn an illusion into a promise kept.
— Emmanuella Nduonofit, Asaba
