With Emameh Gabriel
With the next general election less than two years away, Nigeria’s political arena is already shifting in its shadow. Alliances are being sketched and battle lines drawn in what amounts to an early, critical game of chess. Yet in this preliminary chess board, one of the most consequential figures from the last election finds himself in a precarious and isolated position.
Peter Obi, whose surprising 2023 campaign galvanised a generation of young voters and upended traditional calculations, now appears caught in a cycle of indecision. As rivals and former allies begin to map their strategies for 2027, Obi seems to be circling a political roundabout, unable to choose an exit. The potent momentum he harnessed, a once-in-a-generation surge of youthful energy and discontent—risks ebbing away without a clear path forward.
The pressing question for his movement is no longer just about voter enthusiasm or past turnout figures. It has hardened into a political reality: Can a force built largely on passionate mobilisation be transformed into the organised machinery required to seize federal power in Nigeria’s complex and entrenched political system?
No serious-minded politician would envy Peter Obi’s current position. He is a man straddling three political worlds: one foot planted in Julius Abure’s Labour Party, the other in the ADC, where Atiku Abubakar holds the reins, and yet his weight rests precariously on a self-made faction of the Labour Party, headed by Senator Nenadi Usman and lacking INEC’s recognition.
Obi’s present predicaments are the result of a fundamental misjudgment. The spectacular “Obidient” surge was mistaken for a permanent revolution. It was a political firework, dazzling, loud, and momentarily lighting up the sky. But fireworks fade, leaving darkness. Politics, in its relentless grind, is about what remains after the applause: organisation, structure, and cold, hard leverage.
His greatest failure since the last election has been one of political stewardship. He inherited, if not outright owned, the vehicle of the Labour Party. Yet, as it fractured and decayed under internal strife, notably with Julius Abure at the helm, Obi offered equivocation where decisive leadership was needed. He hovered like a spectator, allowing the party’s machinery to rust. This was more than a tactical error; it was an abdication. A leader does not inherit a car with a full tank only to watch its tyres go flat.
The passionate online armies and the moral fervour of his support base are powerful assets, but they are not a political structure. A real “third force” is not a personality cult; it is an institution. It is built on a foundation of lieutenants whose fortunes are inextricably tied to the boss. It requires financiers, ward captains in forgotten local governments, and a chain of loyalty strong enough to hold fast at 3 a.m. in a tense collation centre. One must ask: how many politicians owe their seat, their influence, their very political survival to Peter Obi?
Most who rode the Labour Party ticket to victory in 2023 were passengers on a speeding train. They enjoyed the ride but felt no ownership over the tracks. Now that the engine has stalled, they have disembarked. They were buoyed by a wave, not embedded in a machine. When the tide of emotion recedes, you are left standing on bare sand, exposed. The tide is going out, and too many in Obi’s camp are refusing to look down.
This brings us to the current, stark predicament. The position of the African Democratic Congress (ADC), the party Obi had run to for refuge, has said it is not in a rescue mission for a favoured son. Meaning, Obi must make his position clear, join the party with your followers or wait for his zoning conditions to be met in the next election cycle. Their spokesman, Bolaji Abdullahi, has laid the terms bare: the critical issue of zoning the presidency, a non-negotiable pillar for much of Obi’s support—is “not on the table.” The message is clear: join now and help build, or forfeit your claim. It is a take-it-or-leave-it deal. And hovering in the wings is Atiku Abubakar, a veteran of coalition politics, watching and waiting to reshuffle the deck should this bid fail.
If this ADC avenue closes, Obi’s options narrow into unenviable territory. Aligning with another minor party risks reducing him to a mere figurehead, a king without a kingdom. Refusing a potential vice-presidential slot in a broader coalition might satisfy pride but consigns him to the political periphery. Attempting to go it alone would likely fragment the opposition vote, rendering him a spoiler rather than a contender. Hesitation itself carries a cost, slowly transforming a contender into a commentator.
Here, the divergence in political culture becomes painfully apparent. While political success elsewhere is built on disciplined organization, relentless pragmatism, and cold calculation, a core part of Peter Obi’s support base operates on a different logic. They are driven by a potent sense of hope, moral alignment, and a belief in his personal integrity. But hope is not a strategy. You cannot bring optimism alone into the knife fight of realpolitik. It doesn’t guard ballot boxes or secure the difficult alliances forged behind closed doors. If 2023 was about the powerful sermon, then 2027 will be decided in the grubby, transactional meeting that follows.
The years since the last election were a precious window to dig trenches, secure loyal political office holders, and plant flags in every local government. Instead, vital energy was spent in a perpetual online victory lap, trading social media clapbacks and internal disputes over purity. All the while, the entrenched political class studied the playbook, adapted, and began systematically blocking the very avenues that worked before. The element of surprise is spent.
The unvarnished truth is this: if Peter Obi cannot secure this ADC arrangement or one substantially like it, he is functionally back to square one, but with diminished returns. The novelty has worn off. He would be forced to start from scratch, lacking a controlled regional base, a reliable machine, or institutional leverage. The passion in people’s hearts is real, but you cannot manifest a winning political structure from sentiment alone. The establishment knows this. That is why they are not running scared; they are watching, patiently, knowing that time is not on his side.
2023 presented Peter Obi with a phenomenal gift: a path carved from sheer public will. But 2027 demands that he builds something durable upon it. It requires a brutal, pragmatic shift from inspirational figure to institutional architect, from a man who channels a storm to one who builds a dam to harness its power. The fuse is burning down. He must now decide whether he will be remembered as the spark that ignited a fleeting flame, or the founder who laid the groundwork for a lasting political edifice. The moment for romance is over; the season of hard graft has begun.
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