calculus of political participation. The message is clear: internal party legitimacy is no longer a mere technicality—it is the foundation upon which candidacy stands or falls.
A politician can emerge from a primary, campaign nationwide, even win an election, and still be unseated if the courts later determine that the process that produced them was flawed.
In a party like the ADC, already entangled in factional disputes, this creates a precarious situation. Which faction has the authority to conduct primaries? Is it that led by Nafiu Gombe or that associated with David Mark? Which leadership will the courts recognise? Which candidate will ultimately be deemed legitimate?
For aspirants of Obi and Kwankwaso’s stature, these are not academic questions—they are existential risks.
Seen in this light, their resignations appear less like isolated decisions and more like parallel responses to the same structural threat. Remaining within the ADC would have meant stepping into a legal minefield: parallel primaries, conflicting candidates, and the ever-present risk of judicial nullification.
In such a scenario, political ambition becomes hostage to legal ambiguity.
Their exit, therefore, can be read as an act of self-preservation—a strategic withdrawal from a party that no longer guarantees a clear path to the ballot, let alone to victory. But this raises a troubling question: if major contenders cannot trust a political party to carry their ambitions through the electoral process, what does that say about the system itself?
The situation becomes even more complex when viewed alongside recent developments involving the federal government. In a move that surprised many, the Attorney-General of the Federation and Minister of Justice, Lateef Fagbemi, approached a Federal High Court in Abuja seeking the dissolution of the ADC.
For critics and opposition voices, this reinforces a long-held suspicion—that legal processes are increasingly being deployed as strategic tools in political competition. If the courts can be activated in ways that reshape party structures, then legal maneuvering becomes not just defensive, but offensive.
Within this framework, crises in opposition parties like the ADC begin to appear less like isolated incidents and more like part of a broader pattern—one in which internal weaknesses are amplified and, ultimately, weaponised.
Admittedly, direct evidence of coordinated interference is difficult to establish. Nigerian parties have long struggled with internal divisions, and many crises are self-inflicted. Yet the convergence of legal action, political timing, and party instability creates a perception that is difficult to dismiss. And in politics, perception matters.
What is emerging is a fragile dynamic: the transformation of internal party disputes into instruments of political elimination. In a healthy democracy, parties resolve disagreements through negotiation, consensus, and transparent internal processes. Courts serve as a last resort—not the primary battleground.
But when legal recognition determines legitimacy, and court rulings carry decisive electoral consequences, party crises cease to be internal matters. They become vulnerabilities—points of entry for legal and political intervention.
The ADC’s current predicament illustrates this vividly. What might once have been a manageable disagreement has escalated into a crisis that threatens the party’s very ability to field candidates.
For Obi and Kwankwaso, the calculation is straightforward: why risk everything on a platform that may collapse under legal scrutiny?
Nigeria’s multiparty system is often celebrated as evidence of democratic vibrancy. But the events surrounding the ADC challenge that narrative. A true multiparty democracy is not defined by the number of parties, but by their strength, coherence, and stability.
When parties are fragile—prone to factional collapse and legal disputes—they cannot effectively perform their democratic function.
The exit of two major figures from the ADC underscores this weakness. It signals to other aspirants that some platforms may be too risky to trust. The likely consequence is a consolidation of political activity within a smaller number of “safe” parties—those with the institutional strength to withstand legal challenges. And when competition narrows, democracy suffers.
Lost in this high-level maneuvering are ordinary voters. The twin exits reinforce a troubling perception: that even the most prominent political actors must constantly adapt to shifting rules, and that no platform is truly secure.
When voters begin to doubt that their choices will determine outcomes, participation declines. Trust erodes. Democracy risks becoming not just procedural—but performative.
As Nigeria approaches the 2027 elections, the implications of this moment will become clearer. Obi and Kwankwaso have sought new platform, the Nigeria Democratic Congress (NDC), that they believe offer not just political opportunity, but legal certainty. The duo’s latest decision will shape alliances, voter expectations, and the broader opposition landscape.
But the deeper questions remain unresolved: Can Nigeria build a party system stable enough to sustain genuine competition? Can the judiciary maintain its role as a neutral arbiter in politically charged disputes? Can voters regain confidence in a system that often appears to operate beyond their control?
Nigeria’s democracy, without doubt, stands at a crossroads.
Credit: This Day