January 26, 2026
By Ahmed Abdulkadir
In my last article, I examined the constitutional roles of legislators and made it clear that executing projects is not part of their mandate. Yet, beyond constituency projects, another practice has quietly become entrenched in Nigeria’s political culture: the expectation that legislators should secure employment for members of their constituencies.
Across the country, it is now common to see senators, members of the House of Representatives, and state lawmakers proudly publish lists of “constituents employed” through their efforts. These lists are circulated at town halls, on social media, and during campaigns—presented as evidence of performance in office. But, as with constituency projects, a critical question arises: is securing employment actually part of a legislator’s job?
The answer, again, is no.
Under Nigeria’s Constitution, legislators are empowered to make laws, represent their constituents, and exercise oversight over the executive arm of government. They do not have the authority to recruit civil servants, appoint staff into ministries or agencies, or allocate employment slots. Recruitment into the public service is the responsibility of the executive, carried out through civil service commissions, service rules, and merit-based processes.
In best practice democracies, lawmakers may write recommendation letters—no more than that. They do not control recruitment pipelines, and they certainly do not “share slots.”
Despite the clear constitutional boundaries, Nigeria has evolved a parallel political reality. Legislators are routinely pressured by constituents to “bring jobs,” especially in a context of mass unemployment, shrinking opportunities, and weak social safety nets. Over time, this pressure has reshaped expectations of representation.
In response, many legislators now spend significant time lobbying Ministries, Departments and Agencies (MDAs) for employment slots, often framing this as “fair representation” or “constituency balance.” In some cases, MDAs themselves proactively offer slots to influential legislators—not as an act of generosity, but as a strategic move to soften oversight, avoid summons, or reduce budgetary scrutiny.
This practice effectively turns employment into a bargaining chip between the legislature and the executive.
The implications are serious. When lawmakers trade rigorous oversight for recruitment favours, public accountability is undermined. An MDA that has “settled” key legislators with employment slots is less likely to face tough questioning on budget performance, project delivery, or allegations of mismanagement.
This is corruption in its subtle form—not always involving cash exchanges, but the abuse of public processes for private or political advantage. It compromises merit, weakens institutions, and entrenches patronage as a substitute for governance.
Worse still, some unscrupulous legislators reportedly go further by monetising these slots, selling them to the highest bidders under the guise of political assistance. In such cases, the victims are not just qualified job seekers who lack connections, but the entire civil service, which becomes populated through influence rather than competence.
When employment becomes a political reward, professionalism suffers. Civil servants recruited through patronage often feel accountable not to the system, but to the politician who “brought them in.” This weakens discipline, distorts loyalty, and corrodes efficiency across government institutions.
It also deepens inequality. Children of the poor, the unconnected, and the politically invisible are locked out, while access to opportunity depends increasingly on proximity to power.
Against this backdrop, it is important to highlight a notable departure from this entrenched practice. One of the earliest governance signals sent by Governor Dikko Umaru Radda upon assuming office in Katsina State was his refusal to share employment slots with legislators—a practice that had become routine before his administration.
Despite pressure and political expectations, Governor Radda resisted the temptation to politicise recruitment. His early appointments of permanent secretaries were conducted strictly on merit, following established civil service procedures. Similarly, the recruitment of over 7,000 teachers across the state was carried out transparently, without allocating slots to lawmakers or political office holders.
This approach was not without political cost, but it reaffirmed a critical principle: public employment is not political patronage; it is a public trust.
Just as legislators are not meant to be contractors, they are not employment brokers. Their true value lies in the quality of laws they make, the strength of their oversight, and their ability to advocate policies that create sustainable jobs—not distribute scarce slots.
When lawmakers focus on influencing recruitment, they abandon their constitutional role and weaken the very institutions meant to serve the public fairly. In the long run, this harms both governance and democracy.
Nigeria’s challenge, therefore, is not merely to criticise these practices, but to reset expectations—among citizens, politicians, and institutions alike. Representation should be about shaping systems that work, not manipulating systems to favour a few.
The real measure of legislative performance is not how many names appear on an employment list, but how effectively a legislator strengthens accountability, improves policy outcomes, and helps build a society where access to opportunity is based on merit, not connections.
