“ Elections belong to the people. It’s their decision. If they decide to turn their back on the fire and burn their behinds, then they will just have to sit on their blisters.”
— Abraham Lincoln
By Peter B. Ogbobine,
Most Nigerian political parties have recently conducted primaries for legislative and executive positions ahead of the 2027 elections. This essay, however, focuses on the APC primaries featuring two separate candidates in two different states, contesting two distinct legislative seats.
As a slight divagation—but one relevant to this piece—those who sat for WAEC exams in the 1970s, 1980s, and possibly the 1990s will recall at least one “Compare and Contrast” question. That brings me to the recent political baptism of “Chief Priest of Cubana” (Chief Priest) and “Dezzy of Surulere, both of whom contested different legislative roles during the last APC primaries. This is an attempt to compare and contrast their respective failures.
At their party primaries, these two men—each a titan in his own peculiar firmament—marched forth to claim the mantle of political relevance. One, on paper, looked unstoppable. His public philosophy could be summarised in one immortal phrase: “Money na water.” He reportedly possessed financial muscle, celebrity influence, hospitality networks, and proximity to powerful political figures. The other, a veteran actor-turned-politician, Dezzy, had served twelve years in a legislative role in Lagos State. Yet, like the legendary Oliver Twist, he wanted more. But his quest for more was weighed down by the weary insubordination of a man who has seen too many scripts and believes he can act his way through a party hierarchy.
Consider first Chief Priest. He swept into the primaries held on 16 May 2026 for the House of Reps seat in his Imo State federal constituency, riding a chariot of perceived coolness. He scattered Instagram reels and celebrity endorsements like crumbs. What he failed to grasp is that political parties, for all their flaws, are not nightclubs. Yet Chief Priest moved as though the natural order demanded that every ward chairman and local chieftain bow before him without engaging the so-called grassroots—“ Money dey, money go talk.” He mocked his opponents on live social media, calling them “local champions with local pockets.” When party elders probably suggested he wait his turn and learn the ropes, he literally laughed: “Turn? I don’t do queues, I do entrances.” He feted his constituency with revelry just before the election; speaker after speaker spoke glowingly of him. Premonition: he had won.
Yet politics—real grassroots politics—refused to be impressed. When the votes were counted, he could muster only 14 votes against his opponent’s 2,845. The voters, it turned out, do not recognise Instagram followers. He lost. Whether there was any “azagabuyaya” or “juju” behind the scenes cannot be questioned, because it was an open ballot, and we all saw the footage: 14 votes. So, what happened?
I believe the answer lies in my own personal experience and in the famous words of the late former U.S. House Speaker Tip O’Neill: “All politics is local.” A politician’s success is primarily driven by addressing the immediate, everyday concerns of constituents—local jobs, infrastructure, schools—rather than national or international matters. Years ago, flush with enthusiasm, I decided I wanted to go into politics. A prominent cousin of mine, who was then in what was proudly called “the biggest party in Africa,” was preparing to contest for a Senate seat in Anambra State. Believing I could ride on his influence and prominence—even though I am from Delta State—I approached him for a political leg-up, hoping to start halfway up the ladder rather than from the swamp below.
To my utter shock and bruised ego, he referred me back to my local government, to the ward level, to begin from the grassroots like every other mortal. No special treatment. No fast-track ticket to relevance. I was offended. After all, I carried the classic Nigerian chip on my shoulder—the famous and incurable affliction known as the “Don’t You Remember Who I Am?” syndrome. Naturally, I abandoned my political ambition immediately. Why suffer under the sun attending ward meetings with men arguing over sachet water and rice allocations, when I could maintain my dignity in air-conditioned irrelevance?
That singular incident taught me one brutal truth about Nigerian politics: the system may look chaotic, but it has its own rigid feudal hierarchy. It may be crooked, but it is also territorial. Every political kingdom has its gatekeepers, local warlords, polling-unit experts, and ward-level gurus who can humble even the loudest moneybags. In Nigerian grassroots politics, perceived power means nothing if the ward chairman has never seen your face.
For Chief Priest, the old lesson my cousin tried to teach me is fundamental: money and fame are not the same as a ground game. Nigerian grassroots politics runs on relationships, endurance, familiarity, loyalty, and years of patient cultivation—not on social media. The grassroots take responsibility, and as Abraham Lincoln observed, “elections belong to the people. If they decide to turn their back on the fire and burn their behinds, they will simply have to sit on their blisters” .
Then there is Dezzy, whose failure proceeded from an entirely different flaw: insubordination. Where Chief Priest was loud, Dezzy was quiet. Where Chief Priest refused to learn the rules, Dezzy knew the rules perfectly well and simply chose to break them. Or perhaps he thought he could act the metaphorical role of the fall guy and acquire sympathy in typical Nollywood style. He had spent twelve years in the Lagos State House of Assembly, patiently building a reputation as a loyal party soldier. But familiarity breeds, if not contempt, then a peculiar strain of insubordination: the belief that one’s accumulated service places one above the very machinery that enabled that service.
Dezzy’s sin was a grinding, persistent refusal to follow orders. When the party leadership directed all aspirants for the Surulere constituency to step down for a consensus candidate, Dezzy Boy nodded sagely in public—and then let slip to journalists that “the people, not a handful of godfathers, should decide.” He also refused to apologise – issue a public statement to denounce – for his role in the botched impeachment saga of the Lagos House Speaker. It was the insubordination of a man who believes he has become too big to be disciplined, too famous to be sidelined. He was wrong.
The party responded not in passion but in harsh coldness and brutality. Dezzy learned that real politics does not forgive insubordination. His defeat was not a loss at the polls; it was a non-appearance. He had been erased as quietly as he had schemed, even before the day of the primaries. He was out.
In the end, both men suffered the same fate, though they arrived there by different roads. Chief Priest’s style dismissed the party’s grassroots, its elders, and its tedious but necessary machinery of consultation and consensus. Dezzy’s insubordination dismissed the party’s right to command his loyalty after years of enjoying its benefits. One believed he was too famous to need the party. The other believed he was too experienced to obey it. Both were devoured by the very structures they sought to ride.
Their parallel defeats offer a definitive lesson on the architecture of Nigerian politics. They demonstrate that internal party primaries are not popularity contests decided by public acclaim or sheer financial bravado. Instead, they are tightly controlled, mechanical exercises run by localised party machineries. Chief Priest learned that transactional politics without deep institutional roots yields nothing but expensive lessons and double-crossing. Dezzy discovered that old loyalty counts for little when the party consensus decides it is time for a replacement. Ultimately, both cases reaffirm a classic political truth: regardless of an individual’s fame on the screen or in the clubs, within the walls of an APC primary, all power belongs to the local structure. The big boy currently holding sway in the FCT has always emphasised on this, for political success in Nigeria especially in the State with many rivers
My cousin, I now realise, was not being cruel when he sent me back to the ward. He was being practical. Nigerian politics does not care who you think you are; it only cares whether the people at the grassroots recognise you as one of their own. Those of us who once carried that chip on our shoulder —“Don’t you know who I am? ”—will find a quiet lesson in Chief Priest’s 14 votes.
So, as the APC primaries fade into memory, every aspiring politician, whether a celebrity or a seasoned legislator: you may have the wealth of a nightclub mogul or the experience of twelve years as a lawmaker, but the party is not impressed. And when it decides you have become more trouble than you are worth, it simply moves on—c’est la vie.
That said, insubordination can be forgiven if the heart is contrite enough to truly apologize and pledge allegiance to the party. Perhaps an executive position could still be available—after all, there is a precedent: another successful actor once transitioned to a commissioner in another state. And a good actor is a good actor; Dezzy may become available again whilst the Chief Priest should follow the advice of my cousin if he wants to be a successful politician in Nigeria.
Sometimes the ladder is the only way up. Money may be water—but in politics, grassroots structure is concrete. Everything else is just OYO – “on your own” .
Modokpe
aka – Yesuo
*pbbine@gmail.com
Disclaimer: This essay is a work of political commentary and satire. The views expressed are solely those of the author and do not represent the official position of any political party, candidate, or institution. All names, events, and descriptions are used for illustrative and analytical purposes only.
