Dear Diary,
Today I saw a video.
Now, seeing strange things in Nigerian politics is no longer an event, it is practically a weather condition, but this one caught my attention.
In the video, a group of people appeared to be distributing Permanent Voter Cards – PVCs, to individuals who, from all appearances, did not seem to be the actual owners of those cards.
Maybe there is context I am missing.
Maybe there is an explanation.
Maybe there is a twenty-seven-page document somewhere explaining why this is perfectly normal.
But from where I was sitting, it looked strange, and when something looks strange in Nigeria, experience has taught me to ask questions. Many questions, because the moment citizens stop asking questions, nonsense starts feeling normal.
So let us begin with a simple one.
Who exactly owns a PVC?
The answer seems obvious.
The person whose name is on it.
The person whose biometric information is attached to it.
The person who registered for it.
Simple, at least that is how the system is supposed to work.
The PVC is not a party membership card.
It is not a campaign souvenir.
It is not a loyalty reward.
It is a citizen’s voting credential issued by INEC and tied to that specific voter. The law places the design, printing and issuance of PVCs under the control of INEC, and collection is supposed to be by the voter personally rather than by proxy.
So why do some citizens spend months trying to collect theirs while other people appear to have access to stacks of them?
That is the part my brain keeps tripping over. Because if you have ever tried to get a PVC, you know the journey can sometimes resemble a pilgrimage.
Register.
Wait.
Check.
Wait again.
Come back later.
Check again.
Travel.
Queue.
Come back tomorrow.
Come back next week.
Discover your card is not available.
Repeat process.
At some point, some people simply surrender. Not because they do not want to vote, but because life is already stressful enough, and that, Diary, may be one of the greatest tragedies in our democracy.
Not voter apathy, but voter exhaustion. There is a difference.
Apathy says: “I don’t care.”
Exhaustion says: “I tried.”
And Nigeria has a remarkable ability to exhaust even its most determined citizens.
What fascinates me is that everybody suddenly becomes passionate about PVCs when elections approach.
Political parties want PVCs.
Candidates want PVCs.
Analysts want PVCs.
Activists want PVCs.
Everybody wants PVCs.
Yet the actual citizen trying to obtain one often feels like an afterthought. Which is strange because without the citizen, the PVC is just laminated plastic. Its power comes from the voter.
Perhaps that is why the PVC matters so much. It is one of the few moments in Nigerian society where a billionaire and a mechanic technically possess the same political value.
One vote.
One card.
One voice.
At least in theory, and maybe that is why so many battles are fought around it, because control the vote and you influence the future.
Control participation and you influence outcomes.
Discourage participation and you influence outcomes too.
The PVC is not really a card, it is leverage.
This brings me back to the video. Whenever stories emerge about PVCs ending up in the wrong hands, citizens should be concerned.
Not because panic is useful as panic rarely solves anything, but because trust is the oxygen of elections. Once people lose trust in the process, they begin losing faith in the outcome, and once citizens lose faith in outcomes, democracy begins developing dangerous cracks.
Now let me be fair, some of the problem is administrative, and some of it is logistical. Nigeria is a very large country, and managing voter registration for millions of people is not a small task. I understand that, but understanding difficulty does not remove responsibility.
If voting is important, then obtaining the means to vote should not feel like applying for citizenship on another planet. The process should be easier, faster, more transparent, and more accessible.
Personally, I think we should be discussing solutions more seriously.
What if collection systems were modernized?
What if citizens could track their PVC status more efficiently?
What if collection centres became more accessible?
What if voter education was continuous rather than seasonal?
What if civic participation was treated with the same urgency politicians display during campaigns?
Interesting possibilities.
Even more interesting is the role citizens themselves must play, because democracy is one of those things people claim to value until it becomes inconvenient.
We complain about leadership.
Then ignore registration.
We complain about policies.
Then skip elections.
We complain about outcomes.
Then abandon participation.
Again, not everybody, but enough people to matter.
The truth is that a PVC sitting uncollected cannot change anything.
A vote not cast cannot influence anything.
A citizen who disengages leaves the decision to someone else.
And somebody will always be happy to make decisions on your behalf.
Always.
Perhaps that is why this issue bothers me, because every abandoned PVC represents a surrendered voice.
Every discouraged voter represents weakened citizenship.
Every questionable handling of voter cards weakens trust, and trust, unlike PVCs, cannot simply be reprinted. It takes years to build and moments to destroy.
Anyway, Diary…
The older I get, the more I realize that democracy is not protected only on election day. It is protected during registration, protected during collection, protected during participation, and protected whenever citizens insist that their voice belongs to them and nobody else.
This brings me back to my original question.
Who exactly owns these PVCs?
The answer should be obvious.
The citizens.
The challenge is making sure everybody remembers that.
– Ria
I’ve said my piece.
The diary can carry the consequences.