By Erim Erim Egodo
Across Nigeria, constitutional democracy has become a phrase we repeat often, but rarely practice. From official statements to political colloquia, we celebrate our democratic credentials—but beneath the surface lies a system in which one arm of government reigns supreme while others are reduced to ceremonial significance. At the heart of this distortion lies the legislature.
A truly constitutional democracy is grounded on the doctrine of separation of powers, where each branch of government—the executive, the legislature, and the judiciary—operates with autonomy, providing checks and balances to safeguard the people’s will. But in Nigeria, the legislature, which ought to represent the conscience of the nation, has too often become an extension of the executive. This distortion exists not just at the federal level, but within our state governments as well.
The role of the legislature in lawmaking and oversight is fundamental to the health of any democracy. Yet in many cases, laws are passed not as instruments of reform or public interest, but as routine affirmations of executive policy. Oversight functions—where they exist—are often shallow, lacking the political will to hold power accountable.
One glaring example of the erosion of legislative independence is the continued failure to implement the legislative autonomy bill, which has already been signed into law at the national level. State assemblies across the country have either stalled or ignored its enforcement—an action that speaks volumes about how far we are from actualizing institutional balance.
Even at the federal level, the Nigerian Senate has become emblematic of this democratic deficiency. Where we expect robust debate and principled resistance to executive excesses, we often find silence, acquiescence, or rehearsed approval. The image of a “rubber stamp” Senate is not just a metaphor—it reflects a painful truth about the impotence of legislative authority in contemporary Nigeria.
What we are witnessing is not constitutional democracy, but conditional democracy—a system in which the will of the executive often determines the limits of lawmaking and interpretation. In such an environment, democracy becomes performative, not transformative. Institutions are reduced to rituals, and public service gives way to political survival.
And so, when political leaders gather under themes such as “Lawmaking and Constitutional Democracy: The Nigerian Experience,” we must ask whether these events are platforms for honest reflection or ceremonies of self-congratulation. It is easy to speak eloquently about democratic principles; it is far harder to practice them, especially when power is at stake.
This is not to dismiss the value of such gatherings. Dialogue is essential. But for these discussions to mean anything, they must be rooted in truthful introspection and a sincere commitment to reform. Lawmakers must rediscover their purpose—not as enablers of the executive, but as defenders of the Constitution and servants of the people.
To move forward, Nigeria must recommit to a democracy that is constitutional not just in name, but in structure, spirit, and substance. That means legislative houses must assert their autonomy, revive the culture of debate, and embrace the discomfort of accountability. It also means the judiciary must rise beyond fear or favour, and the executive must relinquish its addiction to overreach.
The promise of Nigeria’s democracy will not be fulfilled by rhetoric. It will be fulfilled when institutions work, when power is limited, and when lawmaking becomes a sacred trust—guided by principle, not patronage.
Until then, we must continue to speak, write, and demand. Not as cynics, but as citizens. Because silence, too, is a form of complicity.
Egodo, a public affairs commentator and civic advocate, writes from Yala Nkum, Ikom Local Government Area, Cross River State.
Email: eegodo@gmail.com