By: A G Abubakar

A new conversation appears to be gathering momentum in Nigeria: Should religious leaders—Christian and Muslim clerics alike—come forward and actively seek political power? The question is neither strange nor unconstitutional. Indeed, it is as old as organised religion and political authority itself. Throughout history, religious figures have played political, social and even military roles.

It is true that the patriarchs of the Abrahamic religious traditions—Judaism, Christianity and Islam—namely Moses (Musa, A.S.), Jesus (Isa, A.S.) and Muhammad (PBUH), played both spiritual and political roles in discharging their messages to mankind. It is also true that, despite bearing divine messages, they still faced persecution at the hands of tyrants and adversaries such as Pharaoh, Emperor Tiberius/Pontius Pilate, and Abu Jahl/Abu Lahab, respectively. Fortunately, they all prevailed and bequeathed valuable lessons.

In the 20th century, religious leaders were also at the forefront of movements for social justice and political emancipation. The various strands of Liberation Theology, particularly in Latin America, demonstrated how religious convictions could be mobilised against poverty, dictatorship, oppression and social injustice. Figures such as the Brazilian Archbishop Dom Hélder Câmara, the Peruvian priest Gustavo Gutiérrez, and Archbishop Óscar Romero of El Salvador became symbols of the intersection between faith and social activism.

Within Africa, people such as Desmond Tutu played a key role in the liberation struggle of South Africa, while Bishop John Onaiyekan of Nigeria played an important role in the promotion of the public good. Most of them maintained their evangelical lanes, away from elective political positions.

There is therefore nothing inherently undemocratic about a cleric becoming a politician. The more important question is: Does aspiring to be like the religious patriarchs without their divine powers necessarily equip a person to govern a complex, plural and secular constitutional democracy such as Nigeria? What additional capacities do clerics possess that set them apart politically? That is where the debate becomes more complicated. Under Nigeria’s 1999 Constitution, there is no general prohibition against a cleric contesting for political office because of his or her profession or religious calling.

Consequently, a Nigerian cleric has every democratic right to vote, campaign, belong to a political party and seek elective office, provided the constitutional and statutory requirements are met. The debate, therefore, should not be framed around whether clerics have a right to participate in politics. They do.

Those advocating a greater political role for religious leaders often point to countries such as Saudi Arabia and Iran. The comparisons, however, require considerable caution, bearing in mind that local environmental factors and political systems are of essence.

Saudi Arabia is not a conventional constitutional democracy. It is an absolute monarchy, formally governed under the Basic Law of Governance, promulgated in 1992. It’s explicitly based on Islamic Sharia, where Article 1 declares the Qur’an as the official constitution. The King combines extensive executive authority with a political system deeply influenced by Islamic traditions and institutions. The religious scholars serve as interpreters of the laws and also provide spiritual guidance under some form of Ulama and Umara partnership.

Saudi Arabia is also not simply an economy sustained by clerics or religious governance. It has leveraged its oil resources; Vision 2030 reform; small population of less than 40 million; and tourism to build a $1 trillion nominal GDP.

The religious economy is also significant. Millions of Muslims travel to Saudi Arabia annually for Hajj and Umrah, generating substantial economic activity. But the country’s development is principally financed by its vast hydrocarbon resources and the investment of decades of oil revenues—not merely by religious leadership. Saudi Arabia’s experience, therefore, cannot simply be transplanted to Nigeria.

Iran presents another, and perhaps more intriguing, example. Following the 1979 Islamic Revolution, Iran became an Islamic Republic in which religious authority is constitutionally embedded in the political structure. Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini became the Supreme Leader, and the doctrine of Velayat-e Faqih—the guardianship of the Islamic jurist—became a central organising principle.

Despite decades of international sanctions, Iran has maintained universities, research institutions, a substantial industrial base, domestic pharmaceutical production, an extensive energy system, and significant capabilities in aerospace, missiles, drones and other defence technologies.

Its scientific and technological achievements are products of scientists, engineers, universities, industrialists, administrators and technocrats operating within a political system shaped by religion.

This distinction is important. The fact that Iran has religious political leadership does not establish that religious leadership caused Iran’s scientific or economic achievements.

This brings us to the more uncomfortable question. If Nigerian religious leaders are to seek political power, what developmental model do they bring with them? Nigeria has millions of highly respected Christian and Muslim clerics. They command enormous followership. Their sermons influence attitudes, voting behaviour, family decisions and social relationships. Some possess considerable organisational and financial networks.

Yet religious influence has not always translated into a corresponding capacity for solving Nigeria’s developmental problems. Despite being described as the second most prayerful nation on earth, Nigeria remains a country of more than 230 million people, with enormous deficits in education, healthcare, infrastructure, electricity, employment, security and human capital. The efficacy of these “prayers” has not translated into the emergence of good leadership and governance. Something must really be amiss.

The question is therefore straightforward: If our religious leaders have not sufficiently mobilised their enormous influence to address these problems outside government, why should we assume that putting them inside government would automatically solve them?

There is another problem. Across Nigeria, both Christian and Muslim communities sometimes explain fundamentally socioeconomic problems primarily through spiritual or religious lenses.

A poor man may be encouraged to pray for prosperity when what he urgently needs is a job, vocational training, access to credit or a functioning market. A woman battling cancer may be encouraged to seek spiritual intervention when she also needs early diagnosis, and oncology services.

A young person who cannot find employment may be told that his breakthrough is around the corner when what he requires is education, technical skills and access to productive opportunities. Marriage problems, business failures, unemployment, poverty and social insecurity are sometimes treated principally as spiritual afflictions. Prayer is important to believers. But prayer cannot substitute for public policy.

A society cannot pray its way out of a collapsed education system without rebuilding its schools. It cannot exorcise unemployment without creating productive enterprises. It cannot defeat cancer without hospitals, laboratories, doctors and medicines. And it cannot eliminate insecurity without intelligence, policing, military capability, justice and economic opportunity.

The same concern applies to the Muslim community. The promotion of mass weddings, for instance, may provide short-term social relief, but it cannot substitute for a comprehensive strategy addressing poverty, education, employment, reproductive health and family welfare.

Likewise, the Almajiri system, in its traditional form, cannot be romanticised simply because it has religious roots. Any system that leaves millions of children without adequate literacy, numeracy, vocational competence and civic education cannot provide the foundation for a modern economy. The real challenge is not whether these children are religious. It is whether they are being prepared to become productive, dignified and self-reliant citizens.

There is an even deeper problem. When governance fails, societies naturally search for explanations. Unfortunately, religious and ethnic identities can become convenient substitutes for examining the institutional causes of failure.

But bad roads are not caused by Christianity or Islam. Poor electricity is not caused by ethnicity. Youth unemployment is not caused by tribe. Corruption is not the exclusive property of one religion. The collapse of public schools is not a theological problem.

Insecurity is not solved by accusing an entire religious or ethnic community. These are fundamentally governance, institutional, economic and security problems. That is where their greatest political opportunity may actually lie.

Nigeria’s political history also provides useful evidence. Several religious figures have occupied major elective offices. In Taraba State, Reverend Jolly Nyame, a Christian cleric, served as governor from 1999 to 2007.

In Benue State, Reverend Moses Adasu, a Catholic priest, served as governor from January 1992 to November 1993 during the transition programme of the Babangida era.

In Zamfara State, Ahmed Yerima, a politician with leaning towards strong Islamic credentials, served as governor from 1999 to 2007 and became particularly associated with the implementation of Sharia law in the state beginning in 1999.

In Jigawa State, Badaru Abubakar served as governor from 2015 to 2023; his administration was also strongly identified with his self-professed Islamic inclinations. On the contrary, Taraba, Benue, Zamfara and Jigawa have not fared better than others. Even Sheikh Pantami’s tenure at NITDA and subsequently as a Minister of Communications and Digital Economy has not set him apart. He ended up being just regular. The differences have not really been clear.

These examples do not establish that religious people cannot govern. Neither do they demonstrate that clerics are necessarily better governors, judging by their legacies. What they show is that religious identity or clerical background, by itself, does not produce dramatically different developmental outcomes. The ultimate test of a governor is not only how often he quotes scripture, wears religious attire, attends religious gatherings or invokes God, but service delivery.

Perhaps the most useful lesson for Nigerian religious leaders is not that they should become politicians, but that they should become agents of knowledge, productivity and social transformation. Look at countries such as Turkey, Malaysia and the United Arab Emirates. Their development cannot simply be attributed to the presence of Muslim political leaders. Their progress has been driven by a combination of education, science, technology, infrastructure, entrepreneurship, industrial policy, competent administration and strategic investment.

The UAE, particularly Dubai, provides an extraordinary example of how a Muslim society can transform itself through trade, logistics, aviation, tourism, finance, technology and infrastructure. Malaysia demonstrated how investment in education, manufacturing, technology and human capital could transform a predominantly Muslim society. Turkey’s modern development story likewise contains lessons in industrialisation, education, infrastructure and state capacity.

The same principle applies to Christian communities. Christian-majority countries such as Australia, Brazil (2nd most populous Christian nation on earth after the USA), and many European countries demonstrate that religious faith can coexist with science, technology, modern institutions and economic development. The lesson for Nigerian Christians should be that churche infrastructures can become powerful institutions for education, healthcare, vocational training, entrepreneurship, social welfare, and civic responsibility. Prayers should go beyond asking for success to acquiring the capacity to create it.

They should preach education and scientific curiosity.

They should preach hard work and entrepreneurship.

They should preach integrity and respect for the law and public institutions.

They should preach responsible parenthood.

They should preach the dignity of labour and peaceful coexistence.

They should challenge corruption and demand accountability from elected officials.

And, above all, they should encourage their followers to use their God-given intellectual and material capacities to improve their circumstances. This is not a departure from religion. It may actually be one of its most practical expressions. It is ungodly to keep defending and rationalising evils of deprivations and inequity in society for self-serving reasons.

The Muslim world has a rich history of scholarship that Nigerian Muslims can rediscover—not merely through theological studies, but through the achievements of scientists and scholars such as Ibn al-Haytham, Al-Khwarizmi, Ibn Sina and Al-Biruni Similarly, Christian communities can draw inspiration from the long traditions of Christian engagement with education, science, medicine, and social welfare. The challenge is for religious leaders to become more effective advocates for these ideals and good governance.

Imagine every major mosque and church demanding that governments publish budgets and account for expenditure. Imagine religious institutions systematically monitoring school attendance. Imagine clerics campaigning against child marriage, out-of-school children, and drug abuse.

Imagine religious leaders insisting that elected representatives account for their stewardship. Imagine them telling their followers that voting is a responsibility and that selling a vote for money is morally indefensible. Imagine them demanding competence rather than merely religious or ethnic representation. That would be politics of a much higher order.

This is perhaps why the immediate task for Nigerian religious leaders should not necessarily be to capture political power. It should be to prepare themselves, their institutions, and their followers for responsible citizenship and competent leadership. Before asking for the presidency, governorship or other high offices, they should demonstrate their capacity to transform the institutions already under their influence, including accepting the responsibility to reform the Almajiri system, encourage child education, advocate youth self-reliance and curb divisive preaching.

These are unique privileges clerics already possess—advantages that go beyond the usual claims of knowledge, competence, capacity, and a workable philosophy for delivering results expected of anyone seeking elective office. For now, they have more than enough on their plate: guidance, moral leadership, and advocacy. It is more honorable to face them than throwing their hats (turbans/rawani and clerical collars) into the messy political ring.
A.G.Abubakar
agbarewa@gmail.com