On the Frontline With Boma
It is often said that when a child washes his hands well, he earns the right to eat with kings. In politics, however, there is another version of that wisdom: political survival is often sustained by the principle of give and take.
This is where the story of the 100 vehicles distributed by the member representing Bungudu/Maru Federal Constituency of Zamfara State in the House of Representatives, Hon. Abdulmalik Zubairu Zanna Bungudu, becomes interesting.
Recently, the lawmaker distributed 100 vehicles to constituents alongside computers, generators, motorcycles, transformers and sewing machines. The gesture has generated considerable interest, particularly because it comes as Nigeria inches closer to the 2027 general elections. Reports of the event said the vehicles were intended, among other things, to strengthen the activities of APC supporters ahead of the elections.
But beyond the photographs, applause, political handshakes and grateful beneficiaries lies a bigger question: what exactly should constituents expect from the person they send to the National Assembly?
When I first read the report, I stopped.
“One hundred vehicles at this time?”
That was my immediate reaction.
How much would such an intervention cost? Where did the resources come from? Is this a personal gesture, a constituency empowerment programme, a political mobilisation strategy, or a combination of all three?
These are legitimate questions in a democracy.
To be clear, there is nothing inherently wrong with a lawmaker helping his constituents. Indeed, in a country where poverty has become an everyday reality for millions, any intervention that genuinely improves lives deserves recognition.
And Bungudu should be commended for the scale of the gesture if the beneficiaries are indeed receiving assets that will improve their livelihoods.
But democracy requires something more than applause. It requires questions.
And that is where the conversation should begin.
The official structure of Nigeria’s National Assembly is worth recalling. There are 109 senators and 360 members of the House of Representatives, making 469 federal legislators altogether. The Senate represents senatorial districts, while each member of the House represents a federal constituency.
That means the lawmaker from Bungudu/Maru is not simply a dispenser of gifts. He is a legislator.
And what does a legislator actually do?
The answer is fundamental.
The primary constitutional responsibilities of the National Assembly include lawmaking, representation and oversight. The legislature debates public policy, makes and amends laws, scrutinises government spending, examines the performance of ministries and agencies and represents the interests and concerns of citizens.
A bill does not become law because a lawmaker distributes vehicles. A community does not become developed merely because sewing machines or motorcycles are handed out. Representation is much bigger than empowerment.
A good legislator should listen to constituents, understand their problems and translate those concerns into legislation, motions, committee interventions, budgetary advocacy and oversight.
The National Assembly’s committee system is particularly important. Committees examine bills, investigate issues, scrutinise government agencies and report their findings to the chambers. The Constitution also gives the legislature oversight powers to investigate the administration and expenditure of public funds and to expose corruption, inefficiency or waste within its legislative competence.
In simple language, a lawmaker should not only ask, “What can I give my people?”
He should also ask:
What law can I make that will make their lives better?
What government agency is failing them?
Why is their road still bad?
Why is there no electricity?
Why is the hospital without drugs?
Why are their schools producing children without employable skills?
Why are farmers unable to move their produce to market?
Why are young people becoming easy recruits for criminals and terrorists?
Those are legislative questions.
And perhaps that is where the distinction between empowerment and transformation becomes important.
Give a man a motorcycle and he may earn a living.
Give a woman a sewing machine and she may establish a small business.
Give a young person a computer and he may acquire digital skills.
Give a community a transformer and electricity supply may improve.
These are useful interventions.
But build the road that connects the farmer to the market, create the policy that makes electricity reliable, improve the school that educates the child and strengthen the security architecture that allows people to live and trade without fear—and you have moved from empowerment to structural transformation.
That is the difference.
Bungudu’s intervention therefore deserves two responses at the same time: commendation for what appears to be tangible assistance to constituents, and scrutiny about the larger purpose and sustainability of such interventions.
The two are not mutually exclusive.
In fact, responsible journalism must be able to say both.
The gain is obvious.
A beneficiary who receives a vehicle and uses it to earn an income may have a life-changing opportunity. A woman receiving a sewing machine may become economically independent. A young person with a computer may acquire a skill. A community receiving a transformer may experience improved electricity supply.
But then comes the pain.
Why should citizens have to wait for the eve of another election cycle before some of these interventions become visible?
Why should access to basic opportunities sometimes depend on the generosity of an individual politician?
And why should the quality of representation differ so dramatically from one constituency to another?
These questions are not directed at Bungudu alone. They are questions for the entire political class.
Across Nigeria, some constituents complain that their representatives disappear after elections and reappear when another election approaches. Others complain about poor infrastructure, youth unemployment, insecurity and lack of meaningful government presence.
There are lawmakers who have attracted important projects and interventions to their constituencies. There are others whose constituents struggle to point to tangible evidence of representation.
Then there is the darker side of Nigerian politics.
Sometimes the politician does not behave like the servant of the people because he does not believe he got the mandate from the people.
He believes he got it from the godfather.
He therefore owes allegiance upward rather than downward.
His political survival depends less on the voter and more on the political machinery that produced him.
That is when the constituent becomes an afterthought.
We must be careful, however, not to paint every politician with the same brush. There are legislators who genuinely work for their people. There are also constituents whose demands can be excessive—requests to fund weddings, build houses, settle personal debts and solve private family problems.
But the solution is not to abandon constituents.
The solution is to redefine representation.
A lawmaker cannot personally solve every problem in a federal constituency. Nor is he a governor, local government chairman, minister or contractor.
His responsibility is to use the powers available to him to influence policy, legislation, oversight, budgeting and government presence in his constituency.
This is especially important in a place like Zamfara.
Zamfara has for years faced the brutal consequences of banditry, kidnapping and other forms of insecurity. In such an environment, the question of representation takes on an even greater meaning.
Can a politician mobilise people politically in communities threatened by criminals?
Can citizens safely attend political gatherings?
Can farmers return to their farms?
Can children go to school without fear?
Can traders move goods freely?
Can government projects be implemented without becoming targets?
These questions are more fundamental than the number of vehicles distributed.
And then there is the politics.
Nobody should be surprised that politicians think about elections. Elections are the mechanism through which political power is renewed or lost.
The 2027 election is already casting a long shadow over political calculations.
So when 100 vehicles are distributed at a political gathering, and reports connect the gesture with mobilisation for 2027, Nigerians are entitled to ask whether the intervention is principally developmental, political or both.
There is nothing unusual about politicians seeking political support.
But democratic politics becomes problematic when assistance is transformed into an exchange: I give you something today; you give me your vote tomorrow.
That is where the principle of give and take can become dangerous.
A voter should not have to sell his conscience for a bag of rice, N200, a motorcycle, a sewing machine or even a vehicle.
The vote is not a thank-you note.
It is a constitutional instrument.
And this brings us back to the old saying about the child who washes his hands before eating with kings.
Yes, political participation requires relationships. Yes, politicians need support. Yes, constituents want dividends of democracy.
But democracy should not become a marketplace where citizenship is reduced to the highest bidder.
The real dividend of democracy is not merely what a politician gives an individual.
It is what government makes possible for everyone.
It is a functioning school.A working hospital,A motorable road,.Reliable electricity,Safe communities,Clean water,Jobs,Justice,
Accountability.,
And laws that protect citizens.
Therefore, as we applaud Bungudu’s 100 vehicles, let us also ask the harder questions.
Will these interventions continue after the election?
Are they distributed fairly across political affiliations?
What mechanisms exist to ensure that vulnerable people, persons with disabilities, women, young people and internally displaced persons are not excluded?
Are there measurable outcomes?
How many beneficiaries have become economically independent?
And, perhaps most importantly, what legislative footprint is the representative leaving behind?
How many meaningful laws has he helped shape?
How effectively has he represented his constituents’ concerns on the floor and in committees?
How has he used oversight to demand accountability?
What federal projects has he facilitated or attracted?
How often does he return to listen to the people—not to campaign, but to report back?
Those are the questions that should define representation.
Because the National Assembly should not become a distribution centre for political gifts.
It is a constitutional institution.
And its members are lawmakers before they are philanthropists.
So, yes, let us tap Bungudu on the back for giving his constituents vehicles and other items that may improve their economic circumstances.
But let us also keep our eyes open.
Let the beneficiaries enjoy the gain.
Let the politician enjoy the goodwill.
Let the APC enjoy its political mobilisation.
But let the people retain their right to ask questions.
For at the end of the day, the ultimate test of a lawmaker is not how much he distributes before an election, but how much he helps build that remains when the election is over.
That is the politics.
That is the intrigue.
That is the gain.
And, unfortunately, for millions of Nigerians, that is also the pain.
The Nigerian voter deserves more than political gifts.
He deserves representation.
And representation must not arrive only when politicians need votes.
That is the frontline.
On The Frontline With Boma is published by The Port Harcourt Telegraph Newspaper authored by the managing editor .
