By Seyi Gesinde
September 3, 2026
There is something remarkably consistent about Nigerian politics.
The politician has children.
The politician’s follower has children too.
Yet somehow, whenever trouble comes calling, only one set of children appears to have been born for it.
Not the politician’s.
The other man’s.
When there is a political rally, they arrive.
When there is a protest, they arrive.
When there is a confrontation, they arrive.
When somebody needs to shout, threaten, chase, attack or defend the indefensible, they arrive.
The politician’s children are mysteriously absent.
One might begin to suspect that some Nigerian politicians keep their children in a different country called Safety.
It must be a very prosperous country.
Its schools are excellent.
Its hospitals work.
Its streets are secure.
Its universities are abroad.
Its jobs are waiting.
Its passports are ready.
Its government appointments are apparently renewable.
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And its children rarely seem to be available for political dirty work.
How unfortunate.
Because the poor man’s son is apparently always available.
Send him.
He goes.
Fight.
He fights.
Shout.
He shouts.
Attack.
He attacks.
Get arrested.
He gets arrested.
Get injured.
He gets injured.
Get killed.
He gets killed.
And if the operation becomes politically inconvenient, something extraordinary happens.
The politician suddenly develops amnesia.
He does not know the boy.
He was never close to him.
He never sent him.
He cannot explain why the boy was there.
The young man who was useful yesterday becomes a stranger today.
This is perhaps one of the strangest arrangements in Nigerian politics.
The politician provides the instruction.
The poor man’s child provides the body.
The politician provides the ambition.
The poor man’s child provides the risk.
The politician provides the money.
The poor man’s child provides the future.
And sometimes the politician provides nothing at all when everything goes wrong.
Aristotle believed that politics should concern itself with the common good.
Nigeria appears to have invented another model.
The common man supplies the common sacrifice.
The powerful man keeps the private benefit.
That is not politics as public service.
It is politics as outsourcing.
The dangerous part is not merely that young people are being used.
It is that many willingly volunteer.
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They become fiercely loyal to men whose own children would probably never permit them to perform the same errands.
Imagine the scene.
A politician tells a young man to go and confront an opponent.
The young man obeys.
The politician’s own son is somewhere studying medicine in London.
Or engineering in Canada.
Or business in America.
Or law in Nigeria.
Perhaps he is already preparing for a future in the same political establishment.
The poor man’s son is preparing for prison.
Both are apparently serving the same fatherland.
Only one has insurance.
This is where loyalty should pause and ask a very simple question.
Why am I doing what his own child would not do?
If the errand is honourable, let his son come.
If the assignment is patriotic, let his daughter join.
If the confrontation is necessary, let the politician’s family stand beside you.
If the risk is worth taking, let the risk be equally distributed.
Let the children of the powerful stand beside the children of the powerless.
Let them breathe the same tear gas.
Let them face the same arrests.
Let them explain themselves in the same police station.
Let them sit in the same courtroom.
Let them discover together what political loyalty costs.
Perhaps then, Nigerian politics would suddenly become much more peaceful.
Because politicians are remarkably courageous when somebody else’s child is carrying the consequences.
There is another tragedy.
The poor man’s child may spend years defending a politician who may not even remember his name after Election Day.
He may be arrested for him.
He may lose a job for him.
He may acquire a criminal record for him.
He may sustain an injury for him.
He may even die for him.
And when the politician wins, the young man discovers that access has closed.
The gates are suddenly guarded.
The telephone no longer connects.
The convoy no longer stops.
The man who once knew his face now has security men who do not.
The poor man’s child has completed his assignment.
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He is no longer required.
Meanwhile, the politician’s child continues life as though nothing happened.
School.
Career.
Business.
Travel.
Appointment.
Comfort.
Opportunity.
The cycle continues.
Plato warned about the dangers of political life when power becomes detached from virtue.
Perhaps he should have visited Nigeria.
He might have discovered a more sophisticated problem.
The most dangerous political instrument is not always the politician.
Sometimes it is the young person who has surrendered his judgement to the politician.
Because once a young man stops asking questions, somebody else begins making decisions with his life.
The politician does not go to prison on his behalf.
The politician does not sit an examination on his behalf.
The politician does not rebuild his reputation on his behalf.
The politician simply moves on.
The young man remains with the consequences.
So perhaps the greatest political awakening Nigerian youths need is not another slogan.
It is a question.
If this is such a good idea, why is your child not doing it?
If the politician asks you to attack, ask where his child is.
If he asks you to block the road, ask where his child is.
If he asks you to confront the opposition, ask where his child is.
If he asks you to risk your life for his political ambition, ask him to bring his family along.
Not because anybody should be violent.
Quite the opposite.
Because the question itself may prevent violence.
A politician who knows that his own child must stand in the same line may suddenly become more interested in peace.
A politician who knows that his own son could be arrested may suddenly discover the beauty of dialogue.
A politician who knows that his own daughter could lose her future may suddenly become passionate about law and order.
Funny how concern for public safety becomes more urgent when the public includes one’s own family.
So, young man, before you become somebody’s political weapon, ask yourself what you are actually defending.
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A man?
A party?
An ambition?
A promise?
Or your own future?
Because the politician already knows the answer.
His children are too valuable to waste.
Why should yours be less valuable?
He has protected his children’s future.
You should protect yours.
He has sent his children to school.
You should protect the education you are trying to complete.
He has secured healthcare for his family.
You should protect the life you are still building.
He has connections waiting for his children.
You should not hand your future to a man who may deny knowing you tomorrow.
The politician’s child does not need your courage.
The politician needs your obedience.
There is a difference.
And perhaps the day Nigerian youths understand that difference will be the day political manipulation begins to lose its cheapest weapon.
The politician may still have money.
He may still have influence.
He may still have power.
But he will have discovered that other people’s children are no longer available for hire.
So let us propose a new rule for Nigerian politics.
Before any politician sends young people into danger, he should first send his own children.
Before he asks somebody else’s son to fight, let his son lead the way.
Before he asks somebody else’s daughter to risk her future, let his daughter demonstrate the value of the assignment.
And if he cannot send them?
Perhaps the errand was never worth sending anybody.
Perhaps that is the question the poor man’s child should have asked from the beginning.
If your child cannot do it, why should I?
