In Nasarawa, what is unfolding is not a contest of ambitions, but a testing of whether rules still matter, argues MUHAMMADU USMAN
In every political system that aspires to democratic credibility, there comes a moment when the conduct of individuals ceases to be merely personal and becomes profoundly institutional. Nasarawa State now finds itself at such a moment. What may, at first glance, seem like a routine disagreement within the state’s political hierarchy reveals, upon closer reflection, something far more consequential, a deeper question about how power is exercised, and whether the structures meant to guide it still hold firm. It is a test of whether political power in the All Progressives Congress is exercised within the bounds of structure, consensus, and fairness, or bent to the will of individuals who mistake authority for ownership.
The signals emerging from Nasarawa are, by any fair reading, troubling. The suggestion that a sitting governor would seek to anoint a successor of his choosing is not new in Nigerian politics. What is new, or at least more starkly visible in this instance, is the apparent willingness to subordinate party processes to that ambition. Consensus, which in its purest form reflects negotiation and accommodation, risks being reduced to a convenient label for pre-arranged outcomes. When that happens, the language of democracy is preserved, but its substance quietly drained.
Yet the greater concern lies not only with the governor’s intentions, but with the institutional response, or lack of it. A political party, particularly one that governs at the centre, is expected to serve as both platform and referee. It must balance competing interests while preserving the integrity of its own rules. Where it fails to do so, it ceases to be an institution and becomes instead a vehicle for expediency.
It is here that the role of the APC National Chairman, Nentawe Yilwatda, demands careful scrutiny. His emergence as chairman was not the product of prolonged factional struggle, but of elite consensus, a technocratic figure elevated in part because he was presumed to embody balance, restraint, and institutional steadiness. That pedigree carries with it a quiet but weighty obligation. He is not merely a political actor, he is, in effect, the custodian of the party’s internal democracy.
And yet, the unfolding situation in Nasarawa raises uncomfortable questions. If it is true that access to nomination processes has been slowed or constrained, if it is true that signals from the party hierarchy have tilted towards one camp, then the chairman’s posture can no longer be interpreted as benign neutrality. Silence, in such circumstances, is not an absence of position. It is, rather, a position in itself.
Therein lies the contradiction. A chairman whose legitimacy rests on consensus must be seen to protect it. A leader entrusted with institutional balance must be visibly committed to it. If, instead, the perception takes root that he is either acquiescing to, or quietly enabling, the preferences of a sitting governor, then the very basis of his authority begins to erode. He ceases to be an arbiter and becomes, whether by design or default, an accessory to imbalance.
This is not a trivial matter of internal party manoeuvring. It speaks to a deeper malaise within the political culture, one in which the boundaries between personal ambition and institutional process are increasingly blurred. When governors assume the prerogative to determine succession, and party leadership appears reluctant to assert procedural fairness, the message transmitted is unmistakable. Power resides not in rules, but in proximity to authority.
Such a message carries consequences. It discourages genuine aspirants, who come to see participation not as a contest of ideas but as an exercise in futility. It weakens party cohesion, as aggrieved factions retreat into quiet resentment or open defiance. Most dangerously, it erodes public confidence, reinforcing the perception that democratic structures are merely ceremonial, their outcomes predetermined by unseen arrangements.
It would be a mistake, however, to cast this entirely as the failing of one governor or one chairman. What is unfolding in Nasarawa is emblematic of a broader institutional fragility. Political parties in Nigeria have long struggled to reconcile the tension between central authority and internal democracy. Too often, the former overwhelms the latter, justified in the name of expediency, stability, or electoral advantage. Yet each such compromise leaves a residue, a gradual weakening of norms that, over time, becomes difficult to reverse.
Governor Sule, for his part, would do well to reflect on the distinction between influence and imposition. The office he holds confers significant political weight, but it does not confer ownership of the party or the state. To attempt to shape succession is understandable, to attempt to dictate it is another matter entirely. Leadership, in its truest sense, lies not in the ability to control outcomes, but in the willingness to submit to fair processes, even when those processes yield inconvenient results.
For the All Progressives Party Chairman Nentawe Goshwe Yilwatda, the challenge is more delicate, but no less urgent. He stands at a crossroads between perception and principle. To act decisively in defence of transparent processes may invite friction with powerful actors within the party. To refrain, however, risks something more enduring, the gradual diminishment of the office he occupies. Authority, once seen as partial, is difficult to restore to impartiality.
The question, then, is not whether he can manage competing interests, but whether he is prepared to define the limits of power within the party he leads. Is he a mediator, committed to ensuring that all sides are heard and that rules are respected? Is he a partisan actor, aligned, whether overtly or subtly, with a particular camp? Or is he an institutional gatekeeper, one who understands that the long-term health of the party depends not on who wins a primary, but on how that primary is conducted?
These are not abstract distinctions. They go to the heart of political legitimacy. A party that cannot guarantee fairness within its own ranks will struggle to persuade the electorate of its commitment to fairness in governance. A leadership that appears selective in its adherence to rules invites a culture in which rules are treated as optional.
There is, still, an opportunity to recalibrate. The controversy in Nasarawa has not yet hardened into irreversible fracture. Clear signals from the party leadership, affirming open access to nomination processes, reaffirming the autonomy of party structures, and resisting undue influence from Governor Sule, would go some way towards restoring confidence. Such actions would not resolve every tension, but they would establish a principle, that process matters, and that no individual stands above it.
In the final analysis, the unfolding drama is less about personalities than about precedent. What is permitted today becomes expectation tomorrow. If the impression is allowed to stand that succession can be managed from above, that party mechanisms can be quietly adjusted to suit preferred outcomes, then the implications will extend far beyond Nasarawa. They will shape behaviour across states, across cycles, and across generations of political actors.
It is often said that democracy is not only about elections, but about the processes that lead to them. In Nasarawa, those processes are now under scrutiny. The response of those in positions of authority will determine whether that scrutiny results in renewal or in further erosion.
For Governor Sule and All Progressives Party Chairman, Nentawe Goshwe Yilwatda, the moment calls for restraint, clarity, and a reaffirmation of principle. Anything less will not merely settle a dispute. It will deepen a pattern. And patterns, once established, have a way of outlasting the individuals who create them.
At moments such as this, when the tremors within a party begin to echo beyond its immediate confines, wise leadership does not look away. It listens, it weighs, and, when necessary, it steadies the hand that holds the scale. The All-Progressives Congress has, over time, cultivated the image of a party capable of managing its internal contradictions without descending into chaos. That reputation, carefully built, is not indestructible. It depends, in no small measure, on the vigilance of those at the very top, whose silence can either reassure or unsettle.
For the National Chairman, the stakes are no longer confined to Nasarawa. Perception is hardening, and in politics, perception has a way of becoming reality. A party that begins to appear selective in its fairness risks awakening tendencies it may later struggle to contain. Factions rarely announce themselves at birth; they emerge quietly, nourished by grievances left unattended and processes left ambiguous. By the time they become visible, they are already entrenched.
It is precisely to forestall such outcomes that moments like this demand clarity. Not the loud, performative kind, but the quiet, unmistakable assertion of order from where it matters most. The kind that reminds every actor, no matter how highly placed, that the strength of the party lies not in individual preferences, but in the credibility of its processes.
There are, within the system, those whose voice carries sufficient weight to restore that balance without spectacle. When such voices are heard, institutions tend to remember themselves. When they are not, others begin to redefine them.
And so, the question is not whether the party can weather this moment. It is whether it chooses to. For as the proverb warns, “A blind man does not know that you see him until you touch him.” Silence, hesitation, and calculated indifference may appear harmless for a while, but unresolved tensions eventually force themselves into the open. The APC must therefore decide whether to confront the gathering storm with honesty and statesmanship, or allow avoidable fractures to deepen into lasting wounds. In politics, as in life, problems ignored rarely disappear; they only return louder, stronger, and far more costly.
Usman writes from Keffi, Nasarawa
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