SENATOR NA’ALLAH, TWO SIDES OF A COIN: Keeping the Window Open, Leaving the Door to Dialogue Ajar

Nigerians Cannot Say They Are Safe in the Hands of the Present Political Party – Na’Allah

There are politicians whose words need little decoding because they say precisely what they mean; there are others whose political language is so carefully guarded that even their most elaborate statements reveal very little. Distinguished Senator Bala Ibn Na’Allah belongs to neither category. His is a more interesting political language—one in which humour can conceal seriousness, candour can coexist with restraint, and an apparently casual remark can carry a meaning far more consequential than the laughter accompanying it.

Those who know Na’Allah closely will readily attest to his fondness for making a caricature of almost everything under the sun. But taking Na’Allah’s jokes lightly can be done only at one’s own risk. He can make the most serious subject appear ordinary, assume the posture of an uncomplicated man and leave his interlocutor wondering whether he has been entertained, instructed or quietly tested.

Yet beneath that apparently uncomplicated exterior is a man shaped by two demanding professions—law and aviation—and a veteran politician whose years in public life have taught him that not every battle requires a raised voice and not every message needs to be delivered as a declaration.

That is why I watched his recent interview with particular interest. Indeed, what struck me most was not merely the substance of his answers, but the composure, dexterity and candour with which he delivered them. He was speaking with remarkable restraint, a carefully measured performance of a man speaking simultaneously to two centres of political power: the Kebbi State political establishment, over what he regarded as the flawed handling of the senatorial primaries, which denied him the party’s Senatorial ticket.

As he narrated, his supporters reportedly contributed money to persuade him to return to the Senate. According to his account, however, he was informed that the governor had already settled on another candidate before the primary could take place. Despite the disappointment, Na’Allah did not defect from the APC.

He also spoke to the national political establishment, including the Presidency, over the direction of the country and the responsibilities of those governing it.

What was remarkable was not that he spoke; politicians speak every day. It was how he spoke—without bitterness towards those who had disappointed him, without servility towards those who presently wield power, without surrendering the loyalty he continues to profess to the political party he helped to build. He did not sound like a wounded politician seeking revenge, nor like a dependent politician seeking favour. This rare combination of candour, composure and political dexterity deserves more than passing notice.

For every serious political observer, there was much to decode in that conversation. Na’Allah was speaking to the APC, the political party of which he was not merely an early member but one of its founding fathers. By his own account, he participated in the formative processes that brought the party together. He therefore speaks about the APC with the peculiar authority of a man who regards himself not merely as a member, but as part of its political ancestry.

Na’Allah was unequivocal about one thing: he does not regard elective office as the ultimate purpose of his political life. “I am not in politics for elective offices,” he said. Yet, listening to the interview, one could see that what wounded him was not merely the loss of a particular contest, but the manner in which he believes the political process surrounding that contest was handled.

When he lost his Senate seat in 2023, he remained in the party. He was subsequently offered an appointment, which he declined, saying that having served as a senator and Deputy Senate Leader, he could not see the wisdom of returning to a subordinate ministerial role. His response was revealing: he was not merely rejecting an appointment; he was making a statement about political dignity.

There is political logic in that argument. But there is also another side to it.

I do not entirely agree with Na’Allah that leaving a political party after a serious disagreement with its conduct should necessarily be regarded as defeatist or evidence that one is merely pursuing office. A politician may remain because he believes the party is worth preserving; another may leave because, in his considered judgement, it has departed too far from the principles upon which he joined it. Where a politician believes that a party has violated democratic norms, disregarded legal or institutional obligations or abandoned its own principles, departure can be a political choice rooted in principle rather than ambition.

Na’Allah repeatedly insisted that he remains an APC man, yet he was equally clear that he could not compel his people to remain politically where they no longer wished to remain. “I’m APC,” he said. “If for whatever reason, my people believe that APC is not the party they want to do, that is nothing I can do.”

There is a distinction between party loyalty and electoral ownership. A politician may remain a member of a party without assuming ownership of the political choices of every person who has historically supported him. Membership is personal; electoral choice belongs to the voter.

Yet that position raises a legitimate question. If a politician of Na’Allah’s standing remains in a party but declines to persuade or mobilise his political constituency in its favour, what, in practical political terms, is the meaning of that continued membership? For a politician with a substantial following, loyalty ordinarily carries some measure of advocacy, persuasion and mobilisation.

If those are deliberately withheld, leaving only one’s formal membership, the effect can become difficult to distinguish from opposition.

This would not necessarily amount to sabotage without evidence of an intention to weaken or damage the organisation. Yet the question is legitimate because deliberate non-mobilisation can, in certain circumstances, produce an effect similar to active opposition.

There was another point on which I found myself disagreeing with Na’Allah, particularly because of his legal background. In discussing the 2023 senatorial contest, he maintained that he “did not lose an election.” That is his contention and he is entitled to hold it. But once the electoral process has produced a declared result and the judicial process has subsequently affirmed that outcome, I believe a public figure of his legal stature should show greater deference to that determination, even while retaining his personal conviction that the process did not reflect what he believed actually happened.

The distinction is important. One may disagree with a judgement without denying the authority of the institution that delivered it.

On the national question, he was remarkably direct. Asked about the state of the country, he said:

“Up till now, if you want to be honest, you want to be sincere, Nigerians have not found it convenient, comfortable to go to bed and sleep and say that their country is in safe hands in the hands of the present political arrangement. That is a fact nobody can dispute.”

For a politician of the ruling party to speak that plainly while still insisting that he remains APC is no small thing. It is perhaps the clearest illustration of the two sides of the Na’Allah coin: loyalty without servility, candour without confrontation, and political calculation without surrendering his capacity to tell those in power what he believes they need to hear.

His question about 2027 was equally revealing: “What happens if INEC says Tinubu has won? And what happens if INEC says he has not won?” The question is deliberately left unanswered, inviting politicians to contemplate not only victory but the consequences of defeat, and not merely the moment of declaration but the day after.

It was less a prediction than a reminder that electoral outcomes must ultimately be confronted and managed within the constitutional order, regardless of personal expectations.

The same disposition was evident in his discussion of the G36 initiative, which he described as a platform through which the 36 states and the Federal Capital Territory could discuss the country's challenges from the standpoint of national interest rather than partisan calculation. His message was clear: “We must look at them dispassionately, not as politicians, not as anybody who has any interest, but the interest of the Federal Republic of Nigeria.”

Na’Allah was speaking about the APC, but also beyond it. He was speaking about his political disappointment in Kebbi, but also about the larger political condition of Nigeria. He was defending his decision to remain where he had invested years of political labour, while refusing to claim that his followers must make the same choice.

On one side of the coin is loyalty, Na’Allah, unequivocally, says “I’m in APC.” On the other side is democratic restraint: my people may decide otherwise.

For those who know Bala Ibn Na’Allah, there is therefore little surprise in the measured ambiguity of his present position. He has neither surrendered his past nor mortgaged his future; he remains an APC man without becoming a prisoner of the party, remains loyal without surrendering his judgement, and recognises the right of his people to make their own political choices.

Perhaps that is one of the more difficult lessons of political experience: knowing when to speak plainly without becoming reckless, when to disagree without becoming destructive, when to preserve a bridge without surrendering one's convictions, and when to leave a door open without pretending to know who may eventually walk through it.

That is the Bala Ibn Na’Allah I recognised in this interview: patient enough to wait, experienced enough to understand, diplomatic enough to avoid burning bridges, and politically astute enough to know that sometimes the most consequential message is not the one delivered with a raised voice, but the one delivered calmly enough for those who need to hear it to understand.