The godfather problem in Nigerian politics

The image of Desmond Elliot on his knees before Femi Gbajabiamila will probably outlive the immediate political quarrel that produced it. It is an arresting picture, partly because of the stature of the two men and partly because of what the gesture says about Nigerian politics.

Elliot, an actor who crossed into elective politics and has represented Surulere Constituency in the Lagos State House of Assembly since 2015, was once regarded as a political protégé of Gbajabiamila, the former Speaker of the House of Representatives and current Chief of Staff to President Bola Tinubu. Their relationship has now travelled from political mentorship to public disagreement, electoral defeat and, finally, an extraordinary display of contrition.

On Monday, Elliot apologised again to Gbajabiamila at a meeting with party chieftains, kneeling and prostrating before him while asking for forgiveness. He said he had no excuse for his actions and pleaded with his former political mentor not to be angry. Gbajabiamila subsequently asked him to rise.

There is, of course, nothing inherently objectionable about apologising. Nigerian culture attaches considerable significance to respect for elders, reconciliation and the restoration of broken relationships. A public figure accepting responsibility for an error can also be a sign of maturity.

The difficulty arises when a private political disagreement becomes so dependent on personal hierarchy that reconciliation appears to require an almost feudal ritual.

This episode deserves attention precisely because it exposes something deeper about the way political power operates in Nigeria.

The dispute became public after the crisis surrounding the Lagos State House of Assembly speakership. In May, Gbajabiamila said Elliot’s alleged role in the manoeuvring around the attempt to remove Speaker Mudashiru Obasa had almost cost him his position. According to Gbajabiamila, President Tinubu confronted him over intelligence reports linking Elliot to the crisis. Elliot subsequently denied masterminding Obasa’s impeachment.

Whatever the competing accounts of that episode, the political consequences were severe. When the APC conducted its primary for the Surulere Constituency I seat in May, Elliot withdrew from the exercise, alleging intimidation and political pressure against his supporters. He later rejected the outcome and indicated that he would pursue his grievances through the party’s internal mechanisms.

The eventual figures told their own story. Barakat Odunuga-Bakare won the APC ticket with 11,385 votes, while Elliot recorded 270. The scale of that defeat was remarkable for a sitting legislator who had previously secured the party’s nomination with considerably less difficulty.

That result should force Nigerians to ask an uncomfortable question: how much of a politician’s political survival depends on personal networks, and how much depends on an independent relationship with party members and constituents?

The answer matters because political parties are supposed to be institutions. They should have rules, procedures and mechanisms through which disagreements can be settled. A politician should be able to challenge a decision without having to grovel before an individual regarded as powerful within the political structure.

The same principle applies to political godfatherism. Nigeria has lived with the phenomenon for decades. Powerful politicians build networks of protégés, help candidates secure nominations and elections, and subsequently expect loyalty. Sometimes such relationships produce effective political organisation. At their worst, however, they turn public office into an extension of private patronage. That is where the Elliot-Gbajabiamila episode becomes more than an entertaining political spectacle.

The question is not whether Elliot should respect Gbajabiamila. He should, if that is the relationship between them. Nor should Nigerians mock a culturally meaningful act of apology simply because it looks dramatic on camera. The more consequential question is why political relationships in Nigeria so often appear to place individual patrons above institutions.

A democracy cannot be healthy when political careers are perceived to depend primarily on remaining in the good books of powerful individuals.

The Surulere episode also carries another lesson. Political loyalty can be valuable, but politicians who confuse loyalty to a patron with loyalty to a political institution eventually discover the difference when circumstances change. The patron’s influence can determine who gets a ticket, who loses one, who receives support and who suddenly finds the political ground beneath his feet shifting.

Elliot’s predicament is therefore not unique to him. Across Nigeria, politicians have entered politics through the sponsorship of more established figures, only to discover that political patronage creates obligations that can become difficult to escape. The arrangement can be mutually beneficial for years until interests diverge. At that point, the language of family and loyalty can become political currency.

There is also a lesson for the APC. If the party wants to present itself as a serious democratic institution ahead of the 2027 elections, it must demonstrate that internal disputes can be resolved through transparent rules rather than through the personal intervention of powerful individuals.

The party cannot simultaneously demand democratic legitimacy from Nigerians and tolerate an internal culture in which political influence is concentrated around a handful of personalities.

The primary itself should therefore receive more scrutiny than the spectacle surrounding the apology. Were the rules clear? Were all aspirants treated fairly? Were allegations of intimidation properly investigated? Did the appeal mechanism function credibly? And were the eventual results accepted because members genuinely preferred the winning candidate or because political structures had already determined where the contest was heading?

These are institutional questions. They matter far more to Nigerian democracy than whether one politician knelt before another.

There is a temptation to turn the entire episode into a morality play about Elliot being humbled. That would be too easy. Politics is rarely that simple. A man can make a political mistake and still be entitled to fair treatment. A political patron can feel betrayed and still be expected to respect institutional processes. An apology can be sincere while the circumstances that produced it remain troubling.

Indeed, the most constructive interpretation of Monday’s encounter would be that two politicians have decided to end a damaging quarrel. If that is what happened, the reconciliation should be welcomed. But reconciliation should restore relationships without reinforcing political subservience.

Elliot’s words that he hopes to be “cultured” in the future are revealing. The language suggests that the episode has been understood by both sides as a breach of a relationship requiring personal restitution. Yet elected representatives ultimately owe their primary political responsibility to the electorate and the constitution, alongside the institutions under which they operate. That distinction must remain clear.

Nigeria needs politicians who can respect elders without becoming beholden to them, maintain political alliances without surrendering independent judgement, and disagree with party leaders without turning disagreement into warfare.

The image from Lagos should therefore provoke something more serious than amusement or outrage. It should prompt a conversation about what Nigerian politics has become.

If political reconciliation requires kneeling before an individual, Nigerians should ask whether the real institution being restored is the political party or the patronage network behind it. Democracy is strongest when politicians can stand before institutions. It becomes fragile when they must kneel before men.