Echoes of 2015: Is Nigeria Sleepwalking into 2027?

Dakuku Peterside Beneath the Surface

Humans are wired to look for patterns. It is how we tame uncertainty: by joining dots, comparing seasons, and reading omens in what has gone before. In Nigeria today, many politically attentive citizens are doing precisely that. As 2027 slowly comes into view, they look back at 2014–2015 and feel an unnerving sense of déjà vu. Rising insecurity. A shattered economy. Opposition forces groping towards a coalition. Northern politicians are complaining of marginalisation. A wary, sometimes hostile, posture from Washington. Are these just isolated coincidences, or are we watching an old script being dusted off for a new performance?

The 2015 elections were not ordinary. They marked the first time an incumbent president lost at the federal level, the first time power passed peacefully to an opposition coalition, and the moment when a mood of “anything but this” swept across much of the country. Beneath that historic outcome sat five powerful currents: the escalation of insurgency and insecurity; a fraying relationship with the United States; a stumbling economy; a coalesced opposition under a single banner; and a deep sense of political alienation in parts of the North. Those same currents, in slightly altered form, are again visible in the run-up to 2027. That alone should give us pause.

Start with insecurity. In 2015, Boko Haram dominated the headlines and the national imagination. Entire local governments in the North-East were effectively under insurgent control. The Chibok abductions became a stain on the conscience of the state. Scenes of internally displaced persons lining up for rations, students taking exams in camps, and soldiers complaining of poor equipment defined a campaign in which “securing the country” was not just a talking point but a desperate plea.

Today, Boko Haram and its offshoots have been joined by other actors: heavily armed bandits, kidnap-for-ransom gangs, and hybrid jihadist-criminal groups operating across large swathes of the North and Middle Belt. What were once isolated horror stories have turned into a steady drumbeat of attacks and abductions. In too many communities, schools have become soft targets rather than safe spaces, forcing repeated closures or “holiday without date.” When government announcements celebrate the “rescue” of abducted children, yet citizens cannot name a single high-profile mastermind tried and convicted in open court, people draw their own conclusions: either the state is overwhelmed, or someone, somewhere, is playing politics with their pain.

Layered on top of this is the economy. The 2015 vote took place after a sudden collapse in global oil prices exposed the fragility of Nigeria’s mono-product dependence. Salaries were delayed; reserves thinned, and talk of “belt-tightening” grew louder. It was painful, but for many, it still felt like a storm that might pass.

The current moment feels different. For millions of Nigerians, the phrase “economic hardship” barely captures the reality. Hunger is not a theoretical threat; it is in the pot that is now half-empty, in school fees that cannot be paid, in the quiet sale of family land or jewellery to meet basic needs. On paper, technocrats argue about reforms, exchange rates, and fiscal adjustments. On the streets, people see something simpler: a government that cannot balance its books without borrowing heavily; a currency that buys less every month; a cost-of-living crisis without a visible safety net.

Elections in such a climate are primarily about survival. In 2015, the promise of “change” rode on this economic anxiety as much as on any ideological difference. Voters did not need sophisticated policy analysis to know that the status quo was hurting them. The same is true today. The danger for incumbents is obvious; the threat to democracy is more subtle. When hardship persists across administrations and party labels, people stop believing that any election can change their material reality. Cynicism, not hope, becomes the default.

Then there is the choreography of opposition politics. The 2015 story cannot be told without the formation of the All Progressives Congress, a merger of previously splintered opposition parties that gave discontent a single, credible vehicle. That coalition was far from ideologically coherent, but it was organisationally effective. Crucially, it rallied around one figure whose name, face, and reputation were already etched into the national consciousness: Muhammadu Buhari. For better or worse, he became the embodiment of the anti-incumbent mood.

Today, we are again hearing of opposition forces exploring a common front, with platforms such as the African Democratic Congress attracting interest as possible umbrellas for a grand alliance. Some of the same actors who were on opposite sides in 2015 or 2019 now sit in the same rooms, drafting communiqués to rescue democracy and prevent a slide into one-party dominance. The pattern is familiar: individual ambitions temporarily subordinated to the larger work of defeating an incumbent.

Yet there is a critical difference. There is no Buhari-like figure who naturally commands a cross-regional, cross-class coalition of faith and frustration. The opposition space is more fragmented, with strong personalities each carrying loyal bases and substantial baggage. Coalescing is harder when nobody can automatically play the role of first among equals. If 2015 showed how powerful a united opposition can be, 2027 may test whether such unity is still possible without a prominent anchor.

Running through all of this is the question of northern political sentiment. In 2015, mainstream northern politicians and a significant portion of the northern electorate felt deeply aggrieved. They believed the region was under-represented in key appointments, unfairly targeted in media narratives, and above all, abandoned to an escalating insurgency. Whether entirely fair or not, that sense of injustice translated into electoral behaviour. Many northern states swung heavily against the incumbent, and the “northern mood” became a decisive factor.

Today, a new variation of that narrative is emerging. Many northern political actors argue that the region is again bearing disproportionate costs—in blood, in disrupted education, and in disrupted agriculture—without seeing commensurate benefits in appointments, major infrastructure, or economic opportunities. They speak of targeted insecurity, stalled development projects, and a federal character principle observed more in rhetoric than in reality. In private conversations and public commentary, one hears echoes of 2015: “the North is being shortchanged.”

Finally, there is the external lens—most visibly, the United States. In 2015, relations between Abuja and the Obama administration were noticeably cool. Disputes over arms sales, human rights, and anti-corruption efforts morphed into a narrative at home that Washington was quietly rooting against the incumbent. Whether or not that was entirely true, it became part of the political folklore of the era.

Today, under President Trump’s second administration, there are again signs of friction. Statements about religious freedom, security failures, and governance standards have been sharper. Threats of sanctions and public criticism of Nigeria’s handling of internal crises have created the impression, in some circles, of a White House that is, at best, impatient with Abuja and, at worst, openly hostile. For Nigerian voters already mistrustful of external interference, this reinforces a familiar storyline: that crucial elections at home are being watched—and perhaps influenced—from abroad.

So, are we dealing with a coincidence or a pattern?

Coincidences are random alignments; patterns suggest underlying structure. When the same five elements—worsening insecurity, economic crisis, opposition coalescence, northern alienation, and fraught US relations—reappear in the build-up to another pivotal election, it is hard to argue that this is mere chance. What we may be seeing is the predictable outcome of deeper, unresolved issues: an economy still tethered to a volatile commodity; state institutions too weak to provide security or justice at scale; political parties built as electoral vehicles rather than policy platforms; and a foreign policy that reacts to pressure rather than shapes partnership.

If those structures remain essentially unchanged, then every election cycle will produce some version of the same script, with different actors playing slightly different roles.

What, then, does this foretell for 2027?

If the current trajectories hold—if banditry and insurgency remain rampant, if hunger and unemployment continue to gnaw away at social stability, if northern grievances are left to fester, and if the opposition manages to cobble together a minimally coherent coalition—2027 could well resemble 2015 in one crucial respect: an incumbent facing a broad, emotionally charged, and regionally diverse rejection at the polls.

But there are also reasons to be cautious about neat historical parallels. The electorate has changed. A younger generation, radicalised by #EndSARS and years of economic disappointment, is more sceptical of both establishment and “old opposition” figures. Trust in electoral institutions has been damaged in new ways, feeding a dangerous belief that votes do not count. Social media amplifies both accountability and disinformation at speeds unimaginable a decade ago. All of this means that even if the ingredients look familiar, the eventual dish may taste very different.

The most sobering possibility is that while 2015 delivered alternation in power, 2027 might provide something more ambiguous: either change without deep reform, or deepening apathy masked by the rituals of an election. The real risk is not just that one party loses and another wins; it is that ordinary Nigerians, having seen the same patterns recur, quietly conclude that democracy itself is incapable of altering the fundamentals of their lives.

If 2015 was Nigeria’s proof that incumbents can fall, 2027 may be the test of whether we can do more than rotate the faces at the top while repeating the same underlying mistakes. The patterns are already visible. What we make of them, in the quiet decisions of today and the loud choices of election day, will determine whether 2027 becomes a turning point—or just another rhyme in a poem we are too tired, or too timid, to rewrite.

•Dakuku Peterside is the author of 2 new best-selling books, Leading in a Storm and Beneath the Surface.