When “Amala Politics” Dies and “Emi Lo Kan Rises”: What Happens to the People?

For decades, the Southwest, Nigeria has set the tone for Nigeria’s political culture. From the ideological activism of the First Republic to the street-level pragmatism of the Fourth, the region often introduces the models that other parts of the country adopt or adapt. It’s no surprise, then, that as the dynamics of power shift in Nigeria, the story of that transformation begins again in the Southwest.

For years, politics in the region was synonymous with “Amala Politics”, a grassroots, hyper-localised form of political engagement rooted in patronage, loyalty, and a transactional relationship with the masses. Popularised by figures like the late Ibadan High Chief Lamidi Adedibu, this brand of politics wasn’t merely about sharing food and favours. It was a philosophy of power built on visibility, accessibility, and ever-present interaction with the people, even if that presence often bypassed genuine electoral integrity.

However, in recent years, a new political order has emerged, marked by the slogan “Emi Lo Kan” — “It’s my turn.” What began as a personal assertion has since evolved into a broader ethos, one where ambition is less about serving the streets of Ibadan or Osogbo with bowls of amala, and more about strategic entitlement, elite consensus, and political inheritance. So, is Nigeria witnessing political evolution, or merely watching its elite change costumes?

To understand the current shift, we must first understand what “Amala Politics” truly represented. It wasn’t just a catchy phrase; it was the street name for a deeply entrenched patron-client system, where loyalty was exchanged for tangible rewards, sometimes literally a plate of amala.

Leaders like Baba Adedibu didn’t need media consultants or social media trends. Their power pulsed through marketplaces, motor parks, mosques, and town halls. If you wanted to see your politician, you didn’t need to book an appointment, you just needed to show up at his Molete mansion. Loyalty was rewarded visibly: money, contracts, connections, even cooked meals. To critics, it was crude and corrupt. To many of his followers, it was empowering, proof that power could still “touch the people”.

However, it wasn’t pure. The politics of that era was regularly marred by rigged elections, thuggery, and orchestrated violence. Votes were often manufactured, not cast. Yet, the system was “inclusive” in a raw, chaotic sense. You didn’t need a pedigree or a foreign degree to rise, you needed charisma, local influence, and the ability to “deliver your ward.” People like Baba Rashidi Ladoja, and many of Adedibu’s protégés, rose through these ranks not because of elite connections but because they mastered the terrain. The streets created politicians. For better or worse, the power structure allowed ordinary people to rise.

Today, the “Emi Lo Kan” moment may have crystallised during President Bola Tinubu’s 2023 presidential campaign, but the ideology had been in motion long before. It represents a quiet shift from earned loyalty to assumed entitlement, where leadership is seen as a reward for waiting one’s turn, rather than winning one’s people.

This isn’t the death of godfatherism; it’s its mutation. Today’s political kingmakers are no longer motor park strongmen, but refined technocrats and strategic elite networks. The loyalty expected is no longer transactional but institutional, loyalty to zoning formulas, regional calculations, or sometimes religious balancing.

We now see politicians staking claims to power not through the noise of the grassroots but through the quiet consensus of the elite. In Lagos, succession is tightly controlled, a refined dynasty with little room for disruption. The rise of Babajide Sanwo-Olu wasn’t born of street agitation but of strategic political endorsement. In this model, you don’t just “run,” you must be “anointed.”

The same trend is visible across the country. In Rivers State, Nyesom Wike’s clash with his handpicked successor Sim Fubara reflected the tensions within this new structure, where political inheritance doesn’t always guarantee obedience. In Kano, Rabiu Kwankwaso’s grip over NNPP is increasingly challenged by internal fractures. Across Nigeria, politics is becoming more elite-driven, less open to outsiders.

Even more, both Amala Politics and Emi Lo Kan extend beyond the traditional realm of political parties, infiltrating the very heritage of Nigeria’s societal structures, including religion. Religious leaders, most especially Christian leaders once revered as moral compasses and spiritual guides, have increasingly become ambassadors of these political ideologies. Whether it’s the patronage-driven, grassroots Amala Politics, where the clergy often align with power brokers to ensure their own material and political gains, or the more elitist Emi Lo Kan that thrives on strategic positioning and entitlement, religion has been co-opted into this transactional system. Instead of standing as a moral counterbalance to power. This complicates the notion of spiritual purity, as the sanctity of the pulpit is too often mingled with the dirtiness of political calculations, relegating religious institutions to mere instruments in the game of power. The once-revered role of the “holy spirit” has been muted, overshadowed by a spirit of partisanship that seeks more personal gain than divine guidance.

Yet, on the surface, “Emi Lo Kan Politics” feels cleaner. It uses less violence and more media. It promises stability and structure. But beneath that order is a troubling elitism: a politics that excludes more than it includes. Yes, it’s more refined than throwing amala at crowds in Molete, but has it deepened democracy or merely concealed its decay? In the Amala era, even a political thug could become a councillor. Today, even a Harvard graduate might be shut out without the right surname or sponsor. So what are we choosing between, chaos and control? Populism and pedigree?

While the Amala era was loud and disorderly, it gave room for the underdog. In today’s order, merit is often irrelevant unless it is endorsed by those in power. The streets no longer make politicians, they merely watch as they are made. Now, this isn’t just a story about the Southwest. The Emi Lo Kan ethos now echoes across the country. In the North, East, and Niger Delta, the phrase “it’s our turn” is now a currency. Everyone waits for their moment. But who determines the queue?

Voter turnout is dropping. Cynicism is rising. Many citizens no longer believe elections are won through votes but through pre-arranged settlements. Not because they were bribed with amala, but because the process feels hollow, like a drama with a pre-written ending.

And here lies the irony: we left one system because it was too noisy, only to adopt one that is far too silent. So what kind of politics do we really want? One that feeds the people just to pacify them, or one that excludes them for the sake of elite harmony? If Amala Politics was too populist and performative, “Emi Lo Kan Politics” risks becoming too disconnected and dynastic. Between the chaos of the streets and the chessboard of the elite, who truly holds power, and who is left behind? Because in this version of democracy, where loyalty means silence and merit means inheritance, the real question is no longer “who is next?” It’s: where is the place of the people?

Ogungbile Emmanuel Oludotun writes via thedreamchaser65@gmail.com