The crowd outside the electoral commission's office was thicker than expected. Journalists jostled for camera angles, party agents whispered into phones, and vendors hawked everything from bottled water to roasted plantain, as though democracy itself was a market day.
When Abdul Ghaffar stepped out of the black Kia borrowed from a friend, the tension shifted. The murmurs quieted, eyes turned. His nomination for the parliamentary by-election had been trending for a week, but seeing him arrive to file in person made the threat real.
He wore no party colors. Just a crisp white shirt, navy trousers, and a small green badge that read:
"We the People."
It wasn't a slogan. It was the name of the movement that had grown around him—young, scattered, unregistered, and powerful enough to scare the system.
As he walked into the building, an old politician in red party colors called out loudly, "You no go go far, my son! This thing no be youth camp!"
Abdul didn't break stride. "That's what they told the first man who ran with a vision."
The crowd laughed nervously.
Inside the commission's office, the returning officer looked tired. She had been watching the circus all week—rich candidates arriving with convoy, dancers, and praise-singing squads. Abdul arrived with two friends and a pen.
"You're the independent?" she asked.
"No, madam. I'm with the people."
She blinked. Then, almost against her will, smiled.
The process was quick. Papers were signed. Fees were paid. Fingerprints taken. And then it was official:
Abdul Ghaffar was now a parliamentary candidate.
But by evening, his posters were being torn down in certain areas. An unmarked van was spotted trailing him as he drove home. Two of his campaign volunteers were arrested for "causing obstruction" during a street cleanup. It had begun.
His opponents—both the Red Party and the Blue Party—launched attacks in full force. The Red candidate called him "an arrogant child." The Blue Party's candidate, a former TV actor turned politician, referred to him as "a social media clown who thinks hashtags build nations."
But Abdul didn't bite. He focused on the ground.
Door to door. Town to town. He skipped rallies and held community forums under trees and in school halls. He answered hard questions. He apologized when he didn't know. He took notes.
At night, he recorded fireside-style video logs. Simple, low-budget, honest.
"Politics is not about wearing suits and shouting in English," he said in one video. "It's about understanding why Auntie Afia's shop keeps flooding every rainy season, and actually fixing it—not photographing it."
The youth flocked to him. So did the elderly who had long lost faith. But so did the enemies.
Three nights before the election, Isaac burst into Abdul's room holding his phone.
"Bro! Your name no dey the ballot preview!"
Abdul froze. "What do you mean?"
Isaac flipped the screen. The official sample ballot had been released. It listed the Red candidate. The Blue candidate. Two fringe party candidates.
No Abdul Ghaffar.
He called the commission. Switched from polite to angry in five minutes.
"Administrative error," the officer said flatly. "We're working on it."
"Working on it? The election is in three days!"
"Sir, please don't raise your voice."
By morning, hashtags like #WhereIsGhaffar and #BallotManipulation were trending. International observers started sniffing around. The Electoral Commission released a revised version hours later—his name was restored.
It was a scare tactic. One of many.
Election day came like a thunderstorm.
People queued from dawn. Abdul's supporters arrived in shirts they printed themselves, carrying their own pens in case ballots were tampered with. Elders brought stools and shade canopies. Market women cooked jollof for volunteers. Teachers organized first-time voters.
But by afternoon, violence erupted at a polling station.
A known party thug, wearing no colors but armed with a stick, began smashing ballot boxes, accusing the polling staff of "favoritism." Stones were thrown. Police fired warning shots. A young boy was hit in the leg by a stray baton.
Abdul arrived minutes later. He walked straight into the chaos and stood in front of the armed officers.
"No guns here," he said. "Not today. Not for a vote."
The crowd calmed slowly. A woman wept. A polling agent bled from a cut on his head.
By sunset, voting resumed.
At midnight, results began trickling in. The Red candidate won his stronghold. The Blue candidate held a few urban centers. But as rural votes came in, something became clear.
Abdul was leading.
It was narrow. Wildly narrow. But real.
At 3:47 a.m., the final count was declared.
Abdul Ghaffar: 18,702 votes.
Red Party: 17,912 votes.
Blue Party: 14,008 votes.
He had won.
No godfather. No party machine. No convoy. Just boots, belief, and ballot papers.
As his team erupted in tears and joy, Abdul sat still for a moment. He didn't cry. He didn't laugh.
He whispered, "Now they'll really come for me."
Then he stood up and walked into the crowd.
Because no matter how it felt, this was not the peak.
It was only the beginning of a much steeper climb.