By Abdullahi O Haruna Haruspice
Although politics is often associated with self-interest, certain politicians still manage to distinguish themselves by their sense of honour, loyalty, and conscience. There are, despite the chaos of public life, men whose word still counts. And then there are those who remind us why trust has become the rarest currency in our political economy.
Sam Abenemi was the running mate to Yakubu Murtala Ajaka in the fiercely contested 2023 gubernatorial race in Kogi under the Social Democratic Party (SDP). The party didn’t just participate—it mounted a formidable challenge. It rattled the ruling APC so intensely that the machinery of incumbency was visibly strained. By every measure, it was the toughest governorship race Kogi had witnessed since the return of democracy. The turbulence didn’t end with the ballots; it travelled to the Supreme Court, leaving behind a judicial reference point that will be cited for years.
Yet, in the months that followed, those who once marched, shouted, strategized, and swore loyalty to Muri began to vanish like fog at sunrise. One after another, they slipped into the APC—uninvited, unashamed, and apparently unbothered by the contradictions of their own politics. In Nigeria, defections have become part of the tragic comedy of our democracy, but even this cynical norm has limits. And Sam Abenemi crossed it.
His defection is not politics; it is a failure of character. You don’t abandon a cause you spent months sweating for. You don’t walk away from a man who elevated you, who picked you from many to share a ticket, a dream, and a political risk. Even if one’s ideological romance with the SDP has ended, conscience demands something more honourable—a conversation, a closure, or at the barest minimum, respect for the man with whom you faced the storm.
I am not a member of the SDP, but I recognize a political sacrilege when I see one. What Sam did today belongs to the long, infamous gallery of betrayals that have shaped political history.
Just as John Tyler abandoned the Whig Party and the very president—William Henry Harrison—with whom he shared a ticket, upending their collective mandate.
Just as Vice President Thomas Jefferson spent more time undermining President John Adams than supporting the administration he was elected to serve.
Just as Lenin’s close allies turned on him in exile, or Trotsky faced betrayal from the very revolutionaries he helped empower.
Just as Uhuru Kenyatta and William Ruto turned from political brothers-in-arms into bitter rivals once power shifted in Kenya.
Just as Mahinda Rajapaksa in Sri Lanka was betrayed by his trusted minister Maithripala Sirisena, who defected and ran against him.
Just as Jacob Zuma experienced mass defections by his closest allies when the winds of South African politics changed direction.
Even in classical literature and political mythology, the betrayal of one’s closest ally remains the darkest of sins. It is why the world still remembers not just Caesar’s assassins, but the one who stood closest—Brutus. And yes, while Macbeth carries its own warnings about ambition, the ghost that haunts political treachery is more Shakespearean Caesar than Scottish tragedy: Et tu, Sam?
Politics may excuse many things—strategy, compromise, even inconsistency. But betrayal by a running mate is different. A running mate is not just a political accessory; he is a co-dreamer, a co-traveler, a co-owner of victory or defeat. When such a person defects casually, without remorse or explanation, it signals not strategic repositioning but moral hollowness.
Sam’s choice is not a realignment— it is a rupture. And as with all ruptures of conscience, history has a way of remembering who stood firm and who traded honour for convenience.
In the end, this is no longer about SDP or APC; it is about the kettle called conscience, and the uncomfortable reflections it forces on those who peer into it.
Covectiously musing