When someone casually typed, “Finally, the much-talked-about Almighty Kano has fallen to the APC,” it felt like a curtain drop. Weeks of suspense, anxiety, partisan arguments, and relentless speculation suddenly found closure. The internet buzzed. Headlines raced each other. And then the confirmation landed: Governor Abba Kabir Yusuf had officially resigned from the New Nigeria People’s Party (NNPP).
Punch Newspaper captured the moment with clinical precision on January 23, 2026, at 5:20 p.m., reporting that the Kano governor left the NNPP alongside a formidable political convoy: 21 members of the State House of Assembly, eight members of the House of Representatives, and 44 local government chairmen. The announcement, issued by his spokesperson, Sunusi Tofa, revealed that Yusuf formally communicated his decision in a letter to the NNPP chairman of Diso-Chiranchi Ward in Gwale Local Government Area.
In that letter, Yusuf struck a tone of gratitude rather than rebellion. He thanked the party for providing him a platform since 2022 and acknowledged the support of its leadership and members across Kano State. Yet, he did not disguise the cracks beneath the surface. Leadership disputes, legal battles, and internal schisms, many already before the courts, had eroded cohesion and widened divisions. After what he described as careful reflection, Yusuf concluded that leaving the party was in the best interest of Kano State, a decision he insisted was taken without bitterness and with continued commitment to peace, unity, and progress.
Party officials who received the letter did not contest his assessment. The ward secretary, Kabiru Zubairu, openly admitted the lingering crisis within the NNPP and praised Yusuf’s performance in infrastructure, urban renewal, health, education, and economic empowerment. The political signal was unmistakable. This was not a quiet exit; it was a tectonic shift, amplified by the governor’s recent closed-door meeting with President Bola Ahmed Tinubu in Abuja, a visit that had already fueled intense speculation.
Still, despite the “much-awaited” nature of the news, its impact cut deep. Across the North and South, many who had invested emotion, hope, and even anti-government sentiment were stunned. There had been a lingering belief that things might turn out differently, especially with reports that Rabiu Musa Kwankwaso, Yusuf’s political benefactor, was opposed to the move and that the “godson” might not dare. That belief evaporated overnight.
Kano’s political weight makes the shock understandable. As the most populous state in the North and one of the largest in the country, Kano is more than a battleground; it is a prize. For those dreaming of a formidable coalition to challenge President Tinubu in 2027, or a possible Obi-Kwankwaso alignment reportedly blessed by former President Olusegun Obasanjo, Yusuf’s loyalty was central.
Kwankwaso’s bargaining power, electoral fortune, and relevance as a national deal-maker rested heavily on having Kano firmly in his corner.
It is against this backdrop that Kwankwaso’s recent declaration that he would accept a vice-presidential slot with any party, including alongside Peter Obi, takes on new meaning. A position once scorned suddenly became negotiable, largely because the ground beneath him had shifted. The news of Yusuf’s defection, with or without him, changed the calculus.
Earlier, I argued that Kwankwaso and Abba Yusuf were driven by similar values and instincts and should not be too quick to blame each other. Politics, after all, is often less about sentiment than survival. Each actor looks at the board from his own angle, weighing advantage and risk, often unable or unwilling to step fully into the other’s shoes.
This brings us to a larger and more troubling question: what is driving the unprecedented wave of defections into the ruling APC? Never before have so many governors, lawmakers, and political heavyweights crossed over at once, leaving opposition parties thin, fractured, and populated largely by those with limited prospects in the ruling camp. These defections are occurring amid widespread public discontent, resentment, and bitterness toward the ruling party. On the surface, this reality challenges the comforting assumption that power truly belongs to the people.
Fear appears to be a major driver. Fear of isolation. Fear of competition. Fear of resistance. In place of robust rivalry, there is a growing preference for uniformity and elite consensus, even when such consensus dilutes democratic choice. This fear is magnified by the sorry state of opposition parties, many trapped in endless internal crises and legal quagmires, unable to mount a credible challenge at the center or present a compelling alternative to voters.
The classical idea that power belongs to the people rests on familiar pillars. Citizens elect leaders. Elections reflect the popular will. Mass action, from protests to revolutions like the Arab Spring, can force change. A free press, rule of law, civil liberties, and independent courts provide mechanisms to hold governments accountable. Political theorists from John Locke to Jean-Jacques Rousseau built entire philosophies on this foundation, with Rousseau famously insisting that sovereignty ultimately resides in the general will of the people.
Yet, in practice, this vision often feels more idealistic than real. Consider reports that, days before Yusuf’s defection, security personnel surrounded the Kano Government House in anticipation of unrest. Politics may thrive on popularity, but coercion thrives on anxiety. If leaders were fully confident that their decisions aligned with popular desire, there would be little need for such force. The visible resentment, silence, and despair that greeted the news, emotions that should matter in a system where power truly belongs to the people, did not alter the outcome. The calculation had already been made.
From Taraba to Plateau, Rivers to Kano, the stories of gubernatorial defections have been less about celebration and more about mourning. Yet the collective grief, anger, or disapproval has changed almost nothing. This does not necessarily mean that the governors are villains. It points instead to a deeper truth: elites wield an invisible power that often outweighs popular sentiment.
The Rivers State saga offers a stark illustration. For over two years, the political duel between Nyesom Wike and Governor Siminalayi Fubara held the state hostage. Despite public frustration, one man’s influence proved decisive. When survival demanded it, defection became the escape route. Where, then, was the rescuing hand of “the people”?
Democratic conventions insist that power belongs to the electorate, yet reality keeps poking holes in this claim. Leaders are elected on one party’s platform and defect afterwards, carrying mandates that no longer reflect the voters’ original choice. Decisions are taken that openly contradict popular desire. Meanwhile, elite control operates through subtler but stronger channels: influence over legislatures, electoral bodies, security agencies, party structures, judicial processes, and strategic appointments. Political parties, not citizens, often determine which candidates even make it to the ballot.
Security agencies can disrupt impeachment processes. Legislatures act or stall depending on executive assent. Laws passed by representatives still require presidential approval, which can be withheld. Above all, poverty and survival politics have become powerful tools of control. Vote-buying thrives where economic desperation prevails, turning elections into transactions rather than expressions of free will. In such a marketplace, who truly holds power, the buyer or the seller? This reality helps explain why public bitterness and anti-government sentiment rarely translate into restraint or reversal.
Finally, regional solidarity and ambition shape much of the public outrage around defections. Questions fly: why defect when Atiku may challenge Tinubu? Why join the APC when Peter Obi is likely to contest with Kwankwaso in another platform? Much of this discontent is emotional, rooted in identity, sympathy, and regional calculation rather than performance alone. Politicians, however, understand a harsher truth. Power does not automatically deliver development; the North, which has held the presidency repeatedly, would by now be the most developed region in the country. Regional loyalty matters to politicians only when it serves their interests or shields them from disadvantage.
Abba Yusuf’s defection forces us to confront an uncomfortable question. If power truly belongs to the people, why does it so often move in directions they neither choose nor celebrate? Until that gap between democratic theory and political practice is honestly addressed, the slogan will remain persuasive, but the reality will continue to tell a far more complicated story.
Bagudu can be reached at bagudumohammed15197@gmail.com or on 0703 494 3575.
