Does 2026 still exist?

The hottest places in hell are reserved for those who, in times of great moral crisis, maintain their neutrality.”

DANTE Alighieri’s words echo with haunting relevance in today’s Nigeria. For while the calendar reads 2025, the national psyche has already leapt ahead to 2027. The airwaves, the headlines, the corridors of power – all are saturated with the noise of the next election. But in this fevered rush toward the ballot box, one cannot help but ask: does 2026 still exist? This is not a rhetorical flourish. It is a moral indictment. Because when a nation forgets the years between elections, it forgets its people. It forgets the roads that remain cratered, the hospitals that have become consulting clinics, the schools that now resemble abandoned warehouses. It forgets the farmer in Zamfara who cannot reach his market, the teacher in Abia who hasn’t been paid in months, the mother in Makurdi who must choose between medicine and food. It forgets that governance is not a campaign – it is a covenant, a social contract. In 2023, Nigeria made a bold fiscal move: the removal of fuel subsidies. It was a decision long overdue, one that promised to free up trillions of naira for investment in infrastructure, education, healthcare, and social protection.

The Federation Accounts Allocation Committee (FAAC) began disbursing significantly higher revenues to states – some receiving up to 40% more than in previous years. And yet, the dividends of this sacrifice remain invisible to the average Nigerian. Where are the new hospitals? The upgraded schools? The rural roads? The mass transit systems? Instead, we see new convoys, lavish birthday celebrations, and foreign trips disguised as “investment summits.” The people tightened their belts, but the political class loosened theirs. Even more troubling is the continued emasculation of local governments. Constitutionally recognized as the third tier of governance, LGAs are meant to be the frontline of service delivery. But in practice, they have become administrative shells – starved of funds, stripped ofathɓ  autonomy, and subordinated to the whims of state governors. The Joint Accounts Allocation Committee (JAAC), a mechanism originally designed for fiscal coordination, has become a siphon. Funds meant for grassroots development are intercepted, diverted, or simply vanish without trace. President Tinubu’s 2024 legal challenge to enforce LG autonomy was a rare moment of federal courage. But the resistance it met from governors across party lines revealed a bipartisan consensus: that power must remain centralised, even if the people suffer.

Meanwhile, the economy groans under the weight of inflation, unemployment, and stagnation. As of early 2025, inflation hovers near 30%. The price of garri has doubled. Rice is now a luxury. Youth unemployment exceeds 42%, with millions of graduates trapped in a cycle of underemployment, gig work, and despair. The so-called “empowerment” programmes – distributing sewing machines, wheelbarrows, and token cash – are not solutions. They are spectacles. They insult the intelligence of a generation that wants opportunity, not charity. Real empowerment requires structural reform: access to credit, investment in SMEs, vocational training, and a coherent industrial policy. But these require vision, patience, and a commitment to the long game – qualities in short supply when every decision is filtered through the lens of 2027.

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And then there is the spectre of insecurity. From Sokoto to Anambra, Plateau to Oyo and Benue, the map of Nigeria is dotted with grief. Banditry, kidnapping, cult violence, herder-farmer clashes, and urban gang wars have become normalized. The security architecture, bloated yet brittle, reacts rather than prevents. Governors collect security votes – unbudgeted, unaudited, and unaccountable – yet the killings continue. Farmers abandon their fields. Children are kidnapped from schools. Highways become death traps. And still, the silence from state houses is deafening. Where is the outrage? Where is the plan? Human capital development, once touted as the cornerstone of national progress, has been relegated to the margins. Nigeria ranks among the lowest globally on the Human Capital Index. Over 20 million children are out of school. Maternal mortality remains among the highest in the world. Mental health is ignored. Yet, state budgets continue to prioritize “entertainment,” “hospitality,” and “miscellaneous” over education and health. A governor’s birthday can cost more than a state’s immunization program. This is not governance. It is grotesque theatre.

Perhaps most alarming is the moral decay that now permeates our politics. Area boys are no longer feared – they are courted. Cult groups are no longer underground – they are on campaign posters. Known thugs are appointed as “youth ambassadors” and “special advisers.” Violence is not just tolerated – it is incentivized. What message does this send to the child in school? That merit is irrelevant? That decency is weakness? That power belongs to the loudest, not the wisest? We are witnessing the death of dignity in public life.In  its place, a culture of impunity, ostentation, and performative populism. Leaders distribute handouts with one hand while signing contracts for bulletproof SUVs with the other. They preach sacrifice while flying private. They quote Mandela while silencing dissent. They invoke God while ignoring the poor. So again, we ask: does 2026 exist? Does it exist in the plans of our governors? In their budgets? In their speeches? Or has it been erased – sacrificed on the altar of ambition of governor who want to be senators or of senator and house of representative members who want to be governors or minister?  The answer lies not in only Abuja, but in the states. It is the governors who control land, schools, hospitals, and local security. It is they who receive the bulk of FAAC allocations. It is they who appoint commissioners, sign contracts, and shape the daily lives of citizens. And yet, many behave as if they are mere spectators – waiting for the next presidential cycle to determine their fate.

This abdication must end. The states are not colonies. They are sovereign entities within a federation. Their leaders must lead – not campaign, not posture, not deflect – but lead. We need governors who will publish their subsidy savings and show us where the money went. We need governors who will implement full LG autonomy, not just in word but in deed. We need governors who will invest in teachers, nurses, and engineers—not praise singers and protocol officers. We need governors who will treat insecurity as a policy challenge, not a political inconvenience. We need governors who will govern. And we, the people, must demand it. We must stop clapping for mediocrity. 

We must stop celebrating crumbs.  We must stop confusing access with accountability. The road to 2027 must pass through 2026. And 2026 must be a year of reckoning – not just for politicians, but for all of us.

Because if we do not reclaim the in-between years, we will remain a nation forever in campaign mode – always voting, never governing; always hoping, never building. The road not taken still lies before us. But it will not wait forever. Let us walk it – while we still can. And so we ask again – with urgency, not cynicism – does 2026 still exist? Or has it become a ghost year in our national calendar, eclipsed by the shadow puppetry of governors in waiting, citizens in want? We have mistaken motion for movement, volume for vision, election cycles for governance. But in our blind dash toward 2027, we are torching the bridges of progress that can only be built in the in-between. We are becoming a nation that hibernates between votes, where leaders lose their appetite for service until the next ballot beckons. Yet we cannot afford this silence. The in-between years matter – not as filler, but as foundation. They are the years when roads should rise, classrooms be filled, hospitals equipped, and human dignity reclaimed. If we continue to pretend otherwise, we might soon find that time stands still, and not just metaphorically. That our democracy becomes a treadmill – furious motion, no direction.

Still, there is a path untaken. A route where governance is not suspended in anticipation of power, where the present is not a mere prelude to politicking. It is the road not taken, but it remains open – barely. Let us return to it. Not with lament alone, but with insistence. Because beyond 2027, there lies the question that should haunt us all: what did we make of 2026?

•Somorin writes from the Department of Mass Communication, Crescent University, Abeokuta.