In Nigeria, a woman venturing into politics must navigate a landscape where survival skills matter more than political expertise. Natasha Akpoti-Uduaghan’s campaign struggles in Kogi and her ongoing fight with the senate president illustrate some of the immense barriers women face. Securing a primary election victory demands endorsements—often through political godfathers, financial networks, or party allegiance. Marital status also plays a role in political legitimacy, as seen in Remi Tinubu’s rise, where her association with a prominent figure reinforced her credibility. Yet, even with these advantages, women remain subject to relentless personal attacks, with their age, experience, and domestic roles constantly questioned. As Ayisha Osori exposes in Love Does Not Win Elections, Nigeria’s political system thrives on patronage, requiring women to align themselves with existing male-dominated power structures to gain a foothold.
In 2014, Osori’s attempt to navigate the People’s Democratic Party’s primary elections inspired a moment of clarity. Her defeat was emblematic of a system designed to exclude women. She later chronicled this experience in her book, laying bare the entrenched gender bias within Nigeria’s electoral process.
Consider the numbers: In the Senate, female representation has followed a downward trend—from a peak of nine women in the 6th National Assembly (2007–2011) to just four in the current 10th Assembly, a decline from seven in the previous cycle. The House of Representatives fares no better, with only 17 women among 360 lawmakers. Beyond the legislature, no woman has been fully elected governor in Nigeria, and the highest executive offices remain firmly in the hands of men. Women are relegated to secondary roles—deputy governors, political placeholders, and tokens rather than real power brokers. At present, six women serve as deputy governors, but these positions offer little in the way of genuine authority or upward mobility. Rather than a stepping stone to leadership, they serve as yet another mechanism of exclusion.
Globally, as of 2024, a CRS study shows that women hold just 27% of legislative seats worldwide. This underrepresentation is even more pronounced in higher-level positions, where barriers to entry are steeper and opportunities scarcer. Several factors contribute to this persistent gender gap. Feminist Research on Gender Equality and Empowerment identifies three key obstacles: gender disparities in political ambition, voter bias, and party bias—all of which favor men. In Nigeria, however, an additional layer of gender exclusion exists: cultural bias, which, for this article, is defined as deep-seated societal norms and traditions that further limit women’s participation in governance, reinforcing the notion that politics is a man’s domain.
Respect for elders is deeply ingrained in Nigerian culture. While meant to signify guidance and correction, this tradition has evolved into a powerful tool of control in politics. Within the National Assembly, the deference to seniority mutates into a rigid hierarchy where age and gender become weapons of exclusion. The effects of cultural bias are insidious. Age shaming and infantilization are routinely deployed to undermine female politicians, reducing their achievements to mere footnotes.
This entrenched misogyny plays out in ways both legislative and physical, systematically silencing women who dare to challenge the status quo. In 2016, Dino Melaye publicly threatened Senator Remi Tinubu with violence on the Senate floor. In 2019, Natasha Akpoti-Uduaghan’s gubernatorial campaign in Kogi State was met with physical assault. In 2022, Senator Biodun Olujimi’s Gender and Equal Opportunity Bill was rejected in the Senate House. This pattern of exclusion is deliberate and cyclical, repeating itself across different political eras and figures. The threat of violence, legislative roadblocks, and cultural weaponization are all part of a broader strategy to remind women of their “place” in Nigerian politics. Furthermore, sexist insults and slut-shaming serve as additional lines of defense in the battle to maintain male dominance in politics. As Ayisha Osori exposes in Love Does Not Win Elections, these are calculated strategies designed to discourage and discredit women from the political sphere.
The latest chapter in this saga is Senator Natasha Akpoti-Uduaghan’s fight against Senate President Godswill Akpabio. In an interview with Arise News, she revealed that on December 8, 2024, during a visit to Senate President Godswill Akpabio’s home in Uyo, he allegedly suggested they “spend a good time together.” Since then, Senator Akpoti-Uduaghan claimed her motions have been repeatedly blocked, culminating in a moment of open hostility when Akpabio ordered her out of a plenary session. In response, she has filed a defamation lawsuit against him, including serious allegations of sexual misconduct.
This is not the first time Godswill Akpabio has faced such accusations—yet, as always, the matter seems destined to be swept under the rug. Rather than addressing the situation, the three other female senators and his wife have rallied to his defense, insisting Senator Akpoti-Uduaghan’s actions do not follow the rules, exposing the entrenched culture of silence and complicity.
Senator Biodun Olujimi urged Senator Akpoti-Uduaghan to withdraw her case, warning, “We don’t want women to look emotionally unstable.” Senator Ireti Kingibe, the Senate’s representative on women’s affairs, offered particularly disappointing remarks. She infantilized Akpoti-Uduaghan, stating that she was “old enough to be her mother” and dismissing the controversy with the phrase, “Silence is golden.”
The irony is none of the female senators have been silent, they have actively defended the Senate President, leaving Senator Akpoti-Uduaghan to fend for herself. Kingibe further insisted that Senator Akpoti-Uduaghan should have consulted the other women privately before speaking out, treating the matter as if it were a family dispute rather than a case of institutional misconduct. The absurdity deepens when one realizes that Kingibe wasn’t even present on the day of the alleged incident.
Meanwhile, Senator Florence Ita-Giwa delivered perhaps the most bewildering take, stating, “By the time you contest elections and get to the Senate, you have passed that stage of your life of being sexually harassed.” She added that, in the Senate, “You are there as a person, not a man or a woman.”
It’s difficult to even parse what this means, nor does it deserve serious analysis. What is clear, however, is that the Nigerian political elite, including women in positions of influence, continue to uphold a system where misogyny thrives, victims are dismissed, and power protects itself at all costs. As if the situation weren’t already dire, Akwa Ibom women took to the streets in protest—not against the Senate President, but against Senator Natasha. Their leading statement? “We, as Nigerian women, are meant to respect our husbands.” Does this imply that by being in the Senate, Akpabio is somehow Senator Akpoti-Uduaghan’s secondary husband?
The protesters carried placards demanding an apology, accusing her of violating tradition, and urging her to “leave our son alone.” It’s far easier to believe these women were paid to stage this charade than to accept the possibility that they did it out of genuine conviction. Yet, regardless of their motives, their actions illustrate how deeply entrenched misogyny is, even among its direct victims. The court case hasn’t even begun, but in the court of public opinion, Akpabio has won without having to say a word.
Most Nigerian women who reach positions of power often adopt conservative stances that align with their male counterparts, effectively maintaining the status quo rather than challenging it. Consider Remi Tinubu, who disappointingly responded to Senator Akpoti-Uduaghan’s harassment complaint by suggesting women should avoid putting themselves in situations where men could harass them—a stark departure from her previous principled stand against Dino Melaye’s misconduct.
Senator Akpoti-Uduaghan’s journey deserves contextualization. As a lawyer and politician committed to exposing corruption, she has consistently faced obstacles. During her senatorial campaign in Kogi State, opponents dug five large gullies in her community the day before the election, deliberately preventing constituents from reaching polling stations. Though initially declared the loser, she persisted through legal channels until the Court of Appeal rightfully recognized her victory on October 31, 2023, overturning the February 2023 election results.
This victory followed her 2019 gubernatorial campaign against Yahaya Bello, during which she endured public humiliation (being called derogatory names like Ashawo) and had her home in Lokoja targeted by politically-motivated arson.
Most recently, on March 6, 2025, the Senate suspended Senator Akpoti-Uduaghan for six months, citing violations of Articles 11(1) and 11(2) related to a seating dispute from February 21. However, deeper analysis suggests this punishment stems from her allegations against the Senate President. The suspension itself appears constitutionally questionable, as the law explicitly limits such actions to a maximum of 14 days.
The barriers to women’s political participation, lack of ambition, voter bias, and party bias can all be tackled with targeted solutions. Political ambition can be nurtured by establishing training programs at the grassroots level, equipping women with the knowledge, skills, and networks to build sustainable political careers. Voter bias can be addressed through widespread voter education, ensuring the electorate is informed rather than swayed by deep-seated prejudices. Party bias can be countered by creating political platforms where women are not just participants but leaders. But how do we dismantle cultural bias, a force so deeply woven into the fabric of Nigerian society? Perhaps it’s too late to change the mindset of the older generation, but the future isn’t lost. Nigeria needs powerful women in politics, women who refuse to be intimidated, silenced, or reduced to symbols of compliance. Yet, how can that happen when even the few women who break into the system remain shackled by the very bias that threatens their impact?
Ayisha Osori, author of Love Does Not Win Elections, could have been one of those powerful women. But she was never even given the chance to win her party’s primaries. How many more Osoris and Akpoti-Uduaghans must we witness before we recognize that the change we need is foundational?
This is not one of those articles that offers a neat, hopeful solution—because even I don’t have one. The gender gap, which should be gradually closing, seems instead to be widening, cementing itself even deeper into the country’s political fabric. Women are still branded as too emotional, too nurturing, too domestic, as though their rightful place is confined to the kitchen. And so, even when they face sexual harassment, political sabotage, and systemic exclusion, they are expected to endure in silence.
But silence has never created change.
Before Senator Natasha Akpoti-Uduaghan’s microphone was cut and she was escorted from the chamber, her final words were: “This injustice will not be sustained.” The senator stands against a culture that thrives on erasure, intimidation, and control. And while she may stand alone in the Senate chamber, she does not stand alone in this fight. If this article does nothing else, I hope it serves as a testament to the fact that what she’s doing matters, that her defiance is necessary, and that history is never rewritten by those who remain obedient. Change is not given; it is taken. And the women of Nigeria, whether in politics, activism, or everyday life, must decide whether to accept the rules of a game rigged against them or to shatter them entirely.
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