To understand how this political deification came to be, we must acknowledge and appreciate the magnitude of constitutionally concentrated powers vested in the Nigerian president. The Nigerian president is one of the most powerful presidents in the world. A striking departure from many democratic systems that use strong checks and balances, the Nigerian president functions with immense executive latitude that allows him to function as the alpha and omega.

The president appoints the heads of every federal agency — including those to oversee his elections, control national security architecture, propose national budgets, and influence legislative processes through party dominance and political patronage. This is why it is not an eyesore or abnormality for the national assembly members to wear the signature cap of the president to plenary or sing solidarity songs for the president on the legislative floor. This structural supremacy, when combined with a culture of elite sycophancy, sometimes breeds a dangerous cult of personality.

Former President Muhammadu Buhari was the progenitor of this cultic reverence of a Nigerian president. An ex-military ruler turned civilian president, Buhari’s leadership style echoed the command-and-control ethos of barracks discipline. His name became a ritualistic invocation across public institutions. How fast can we forget the story of a driver in the villa who casually used the president’s name to swindle and allocate projects to himself? Roads, airports, universities, housing estates, and even boreholes were christened in honour of President Buhari. His officials rarely spoke without punctuating their statements with praise for “President Muhammadu Buhari.” The entire machinery of governance became a chorus of sycophants echoing his name like a mantra.

During that period, one could scarcely distinguish between governance and servitude. Ministers and public officials would rather attribute a pothole’s patching to the magnanimity and divine wisdom of Buhari than to the routine function of government. It was not just a presidency, it was a papacy, complete with incense burners and praise-singing acolytes. You would never find any government official, whether elected or appointed, stringing five sentences together without mentioning the name of the president at least once. These days, I’m unmotivated to attend events or functions where government officials are to speak because I’m fed up hearing “President Bola Ahmed Tinubu” or “the renewed hope Agenda” every ten seconds within their speech.

Under President Tinubu, this tradition has not only persisted but grown more elaborate. The president is now the omnipresent face of governance. His name is inserted in every policy pronouncement, every official address, every billboard, and every jingle on private or state-owned media. At a recent passing glance on Independence Avenue in Abuja, a banner for the upcoming National Sports Festival in Ogun state displayed Tinubu’s portrait as the centrepiece. The festival, a celebration of athletic excellence, had no athletes featured—only the president, as though he were the chief competitor.

This level of reverence would be farcical if not so tragic. The sycophancy distorts the moral compass of governance. Appointees and elected officials no longer consider themselves stewards of the public trust but disciples of presidential favour. Their performances are not evaluated by measurable public impact, but by how frequently and fervently they pledge loyalty to the president. Every success, no matter how minor or unrelated, is laid at the altar of the presidency. Every policy, whether effective or ill-conceived, is exalted as an emanation of the president’s wisdom.

This phenomenon is not limited to party loyalists. Even members of the so-called opposition are frequently caught in the same tide, genuflecting at the mention of the president. A fragile democracy can scarcely endure such one-dimensional veneration. It creates a hollow parliament, a feeble judiciary, and a citizenry that is conditioned to believe that the state begins and ends with one man.

The absurdity extends beyond symbolism. Take, for instance, the protocol of presidential convoys. When the president is scheduled to pass through, major roads are barricaded, often 30 minutes or more in advance. The entire city traffic is brought to a standstill. Ambulances carrying patients, citizens rushing to airports, students headed for exams—all must wait, indefinitely. In these moments, the country halts not for a cause or a crisis, but for a man. This is not a security protocol; it is ritualistic homage. It presupposes that the life and convenience of one citizen, albeit elected, supersede that of millions. As a resident in Abuja, I cannot recall how many times I have had to endure this cruelty and unwarranted inconvenience.

The implications are corrosive. This reverence is not gratuitous; it is transactional. Political actors amplify their loyalty to remain on the president’s good side, positioning themselves favorably for appointments, contracts, and access to state resources. In this ecosystem, national interest is peripheral. The primary currency is presidential pleasure.

Yet, the problem is not just institutional, but it is cultural. Many Nigerians, wearied by decades of dysfunctional governance, have internalised the myth of the strongman. The presidency is seen not as an office of accountability but as a messianic throne. This is why every new administration is greeted with hope bordering on fanaticism, and every departure is treated like a funeral of dreams. We have not only enthroned the president, we have sacralized him.

True democracy cannot thrive in a space where leaders are worshipped rather than scrutinised. Constructive dissent is a patriotic duty, not an act of betrayal. Institutions must be stronger than individuals, and policies must be evaluated on merit, not on the charisma of their originators.

It is now incumbent on us that we must unlearn the theology of presidential worship. Our presidents are not gods; they are men, fallible and finite. Our country’s future rests not in the echo of praise songs but in the courage to hold power accountable, to separate reverence from responsibility, and to remind ourselves that in a true republic, sovereignty resides not in a person but in the people. The president, like every other elected official, is there to serve and not to be worshipped. When they become gods for us to worship, then we have lost the plot.

Victor Terhemba is a dedicated development practitioner and democracy advocate with years of experience in advancing Democracy, Youth Participation, Civic Engagement, and Inclusive Governance in Nigeria. He can be reached via [email protected] or on X @Victor_Terhemba.

Views expressed by contributors are strictly personal and not of TheCable.