The Stolen Mandate of Prince Ezeabata Chibuzor: A Witness to the University of Abuja’s Political Travesty
Sinach
Published Date:
Apr 5, 2025
Last Updated:
It was a humid afternoon in April 2023 when I first crossed paths with Prince Ezeabata Chibuzor at the ICPC Inter-School Debate Competition. The air buzzed with the fervor of intellectual combat, and Prince, representing the University of Abuja, stood tall—eloquent, poised, and unrelenting. He clinched victory for our school, earning the title of Best Speaker, though I, in my brashness, confronted him at Giri Junction on our way back. “Second place isn’t enough,” I chided, half in jest, half in earnest. He bristled, his eyes flashing with a mix of irritation and pride. It wasn’t a rosy start, but beneath his reaction, I sensed a fire—a good guy with a fierce spirit. We exchanged contacts, and though I wasn’t entirely sold on him then, something about Prince lingered in my mind.
Fast forward to late 2023, when Prince messaged me with news that set my pulse racing: he was running for the presidency of the Student Union Government (SUG) at the University of Abuja. I didn’t hesitate. “You’re the best man for the job,” I told him, volunteering to be his campaign manager. I’d read his lessons from SUG, House of Cats: Politics in UniAbuja, where he graciously named me as his right-hand man—a role I took on not for glory, but because I believed in him. Prince wasn’t just a candidate; he was a movement—a final-year law student with a resume that dwarfed his peers. Founder of the Association of Creative Writers (ACW-UA), architect of the largest career event in our university’s history, and a decorated debater who’d represented Nigeria in East Africa. His credentials screamed leadership, his vision promised progress. Yet, despite all this, the powers that be at UniAbuja conspired to snuff out his mandate in a political heist reminiscent of Nigeria’s infamous June 12, 1993 election under General Sani Abacha.
Prince’s campaign was a masterclass in grassroots mobilization. From the Faculty of Law to Engineering, Education to Veterinary Medicine, his name echoed through lecture halls and hostels. His hashtags: #AWinForEverybody, #VoteForPrinceVoteForEverybody, #LetsWinTogether, weren’t just slogans; they were a clarion call for unity. I watched him tirelessly consult stakeholders, rally students, and strategize with a precision that belied his novice status in popular politics. He’d learned from past elections, he told me, and this time, he’d leave nothing to chance.
But the University of Abuja had other plans. Before 2022, SUG elections were a democratic affair—popular votes from students across all levels determined the executive council. Then came the suspension of SUG activities, followed by a seismic shift in 2022: the introduction of a parliamentary system. Now, faculties elected representatives to the Student Representative Assembly (SRA) based on their student population—three for faculties under 3,000, five for 3,000–5,000, and seven for over 5,000 plus hostel reps. The SRA then elected the executive council, including the president, from within its ranks. Votes were cast electronically via the university portal, a system ripe for manipulation under the right hands.
Prince adapted to this new structure with gusto. He aimed for the SRA from the Faculty of Law, a prerequisite to contesting the presidency, and built a coalition with two running mates—a male and a female—to secure the three slots allotted to Law. I threw myself into the campaign, amplifying his message, countering rivals like Yemi (who dared challenge Prince despite his own tainted record during the school fees hike), I clearly remember it was on the 30th of July that I gave him a savage response on the SUG group that crippled him campaign, and keeping the momentum alive. Prince was leading—his support was palpable, his victory seemed assured.
Then came the sabotage.
Prince’s House of Cats allegory wasn’t just poetic flair—it was prophecy. The Faculty of Law, his supposed stronghold, turned into a den of betrayal. His closest ally, played Judas. While Prince confided in them, they schemed with rivals, leaking strategies and sowing discord. I’d suspected something was off when a 200-level student suddenly emerged as a contender, I immediately called the LAWSAN stakeholders who told me plainly that my candidate wasn't loyal. Prince confronted the upstart, they feigned support, but the stench of treachery was unmistakable.
Worse still, the SRA—dominated by two factions led by returning members from Arts and Engineering—orchestrated a clandestine constitutional amendment. On July 29, 2023, whispers of this change reached Prince. The new rule: only returning SRA members could contest the presidency. It was a surgical strike to disqualify him, a newcomer with no prior SRA tenure. Prince fought back, filing petitions to the Dean of Student Affairs and the SUG’s judicial arm, the SJC, on August 1 and 3. I stood by him, ready to unleash hell—posting Yemi’s hypocrisy on the school WhatsApp group, watching his campaign crumble under the weight of his past.
But the system was rigged. On August 3, security hauled Prince in for eight hours, accusing him of inciting violence over a WhatsApp status I’d posted calling out the amendment. “Delete it,” he begged me over the phone, his voice strained. “They don’t want us.” I complied, but my blood boiled. The amendment, rushed through on the SRA’s last sitting, sealed Prince’s fate.
By Thursday, August 10, 2023, the weight of betrayal and exhaustion had crushed Prince’s spirit. He’d faced relentless opposition—His Faculty’s duplicity, the SRA’s amendment, security’s intimidation—and it finally broke him. That evening, he didn’t come online, a stark departure from his usual vigor. I sensed something was wrong and called him. When he picked up, his voice was a shadow of itself—hollow, defeated. “I’m tired, Ifesinachi,” he said. “I don’t care what happens tomorrow. I’ll stay home and sleep. There’s no point.” He felt the SRA election slipping away, and even if he won, the presidency was out of reach. “Whatever should happen, should happen,” he muttered, resigned to fate.
I couldn’t let him surrender. As his de facto campaign manager—a role I’d claimed unceremoniously after our chance meeting at Giri Junction—I’d seen his fire, his brilliance, his worth. “We are not backing down, Ezeabata!” I declared the moment he answered, my voice cutting through his despair. He chuckled weakly, calling my name three times—“Ifesinachi!!”—a flicker of life returning. But he pushed back, insisting he’d lost the will to fight. I wouldn’t hear it. “You’ve gone too far to quit now,” I pressed, my words firm and unequivocal. “Win the SRA first. You have to win the SRA.”
I reminded him of the journey—the loyalists he’d inspired, the awe he commanded, the legacy he’d built. “You may not get president now, but you’ve got what it takes for any office,” I said. Then I laid out a plan. I’d researched the SUG constitution and noticed a loophole: if Prince secured the vice presidency, we could rally the SRA to impeach the president within weeks. That night, I brokered a deal with Comrade YBB, a formidable presidential contender. “Support us for VP, and we’ll back you,” I proposed. YBB agreed, and Prince, stirred by my resolve, rose from his stupor. He made calls, whispered faint prayers, and slept, doubts about his faculty stakeholders’s loyalty now cemented but dismissed for the fight ahead.
Friday, August 11, 2023, was D-Day. I watched Prince rally Law students, urging them to vote for our trio. He was exhausted but resolute. I stepped in as his agent at the situation room when his initial rep bailed. The portal closed at 2 p.m., and early tallies showed Prince leading. “We’re winning,” I texted him, my heart pounding with hope. Then the gerrymandering began.
Threats forced Prince’s first agent out. I held the line, but the results were falsified before my eyes. Prince, who’d clearly topped the Faculty of Law’s vote, was edged out—his name absent from the top three. The portal, that faceless arbiter, had been tampered with, just as Abacha’s cronies annulled MKO Abiola’s victory on June 12. The official tally gave him less than 120 votes from a faculty of over 2,000—an insult to his campaign’s reach. Stakeholder’s betrayal, the SRA’s amendment, and the university’s complicity had triumphed. Prince lost the SRA slot, and with it, any shot at the presidency.
I left the situation room hollow, Prince’s defeat a bitter pill. WhatsApp buzzed with jeers—“Prince lost!”—as if his fall was a spectacle. Like Abiola, he’d won the people’s hearts, but the powers above stole his mandate. The university stifled the SUG with its parliamentary farce, ensuring the best—Prince Ezeabata Chibuzor—never took office. Envy, not merit, ruled the day.
Prince taught me resilience. “We don’t back down,” I’d told him the night before, and though we lost, his fight exposed the rot in UniAbuja’s politics. As a friend and his witness, I pen this not just to mourn a stolen victory, but to honor a titan who dared to dream big—and paid the price in a house of cats.
About the Author
Sinach
A les Avocat, living with the It Begins With Me Mantra and determined to dot all i's and cross all t's for a better Nigeria.
