Brazil’s Bolsonaro and the Mirror Held Up to Nigeria
Beneath the Surface By Dakuku Peterside
Brazil is often described as the world’s second-largest African nation, and this is evident everywhere—in the rhythms that move a crowd, in the devotion of Candomblé (a religion with roots in West African Yoruba culture), and in the language that carries West African echoes across the oceans. Yet Brazil also shows how a country can celebrate the symbols of its Black heritage while turning away from the people who keep that heritage alive. The myth of “racial democracy” makes for a beautiful poster; the streets tell a different story. Brazilian society remains shaped by a system of social exclusion, where the darker-skinned segments of the population are controlled through force and systematically marginalized from public life. It is a paradox with familiar contours, and it invites Nigerians to look in a mirror we might prefer to avoid.
Into this landscape stepped Jair Bolsonaro, and with him a promise that the old, punishing certainties could be restored: discipline in the place of debate, loyalty in the place of law, force in the place of reform. This gave him the presidency of Brazil October 2018 election. He preached a politics of the clenched fist—shoot your way through crime, sneer your way past dissent, mock your way past the poor. Evangelical megachurches offered pulpits and media reach, reactionary elites found a champion who would roll back the tide of inclusion, and digital disinformation did the quiet work of turning neighbours into suspects.
But after his presidency and re-election shenanigans, Bolsonaro faces five allegations: attempting a coup, participating in an armed criminal group, attempting to violently dismantle the democratic rule of law, and two charges related to the destruction of state property. It felt, for a while, like a past Brazil had chosen to bury was climbing back upstairs and trying on the keys again. Electoral malfeasance and dogged hold on to power at all costs was demonstrated by Bolsonaro and his supporters. However, something else also happened, something less dramatic yet more consequential: democracy held on to transparency and free and fair election. Institutions remembered their purpose. Courts drew lines. Electoral authorities defended the count. Journalists and civic groups kept receipts. Elements of the state refused to be dragooned into overturning results. Democracy bent, which is what democracies do under stress; it did not snap. This resilience, this refusal to be broken, is a beacon of hope for Nigeria and all democracies facing similar challenges.
For Nigeria, the lesson lands with the weight of a warning and the texture of hope. Judicial independence is not an ornament for ceremonial days; it is the oxygen line that keeps constitutional life breathing when the room grows thin. A court that can try the powerful is a shock absorber against the worst political instincts, but only if its budget cannot be manipulated and its appointments cannot be influenced. We must learn, too, to speak about due process in a language that the street can understand, because accountability without public comprehension curdles into grievance and then into conspiracy. When political losers start to call judges’ enemies of the people, what stands between a nation and the cliff is trust, well-earned and plainly explained.
Elections are the other hinge. Confidence in the vote is not a device; it is a chain of events. Technology helps, but the moral force of the results comes from the links surrounding it: transparent tabulation, auditable trails, open data, and independent observers who are not treated as tolerated nuisances. Disputes should be resolved in courts that are fast, credible, and final—so that politics can grieve its losses and move on. The alternative is not only uncertainty; it is the creeping normalisation of threats, the flirtation with soldiers, the quiet logistics of mischief—fuel here, a convoy there, a rehearsal of “escort” that is not an escort at all. Transparency in governance is not just a buzzword; it’s a shield against uncertainty and a promise of a fair and just system.
Then there is the fog that settles over any democracy under stress: polarisation that turns rivals into traitors, and disinformation that makes the truth feel like just another opinion. Brazil’s lesson is that this is not merely a media problem, but a governance problem. You attack it with rules for transparent political advertising, with consequences for coordinated inauthentic behaviour, with independent fact-checking that has real reach and is not captured by anyone’s patronage. And you create habits of cross-party dialogue that feel tedious when times are calm, so they can be lifesaving when tempers rise.
Authoritarian shortcuts will always be marketed as a sign of courage. They are seductive because they are fast, and it is tempting to mistake speed for effectiveness. But the “tough” solutions that work are the dull ones: professional prosecutors with insulation from political pressure; procurement that is transparent rather than opaque; internal controls that actually bite; emergency powers with clear sunsets; and oversight that cannot be wished away. Populists ask us to trade law for resolve; the bill always arrives, and it is always expensive.
Civil–military relations deserve candour. Coups in this era rarely kick down doors at dawn; they creep. Statements first, then escorts, then the withholding of logistics, then a hint that someone knows better than the ballot. The line must be bright: soldiers defend the republic; they do not referee its politics. Parliamentary scrutiny, career penalties for anti-constitutional flirtations, civic education inside the ranks—these are the kinds of quiet investments that keep uniforms where they belong when tempers flare outside the barracks.
Legitimacy also lives or dies in the encounter between a citizen and a police officer. Use-of-force policies mean little if not enforced; body-worn cameras without independent oversight are expensive jewellery. Every unlawful killing that passes without consequence empties another cup of trust. Protecting minority rights and cultural expression is not an indulgence; it is fidelity to the promise written on our national paper.
Religion, finally, asks for a wise state. Evangelical blocs are organised, well-funded, and global. They are not going away, nor should they be treated as intruders in public life. The answer is principled engagement under a secular compact: transparent lobbying rules, curricula grounded in rights and critical thinking, equal protection for those most easily offered up to the fires of a culture war—women, LGBTQ citizens, dissenters. When policy is smuggled through pulpits, the constitution shrinks. Civic education is not just a tool; it’s a responsibility we all share to ensure a fair and just society.
Beyond the cautions, Brazil also offers a map of opportunity. We can insulate Africa–Brazil ties from ideology and electoral weather. Cultural exchanges that are more than a spectacle—shared archives of Yoruba–Candomblé history, residencies that travel, and festivals that return—can deepen the bridge. Universities can establish joint chairs in public health, agrotech, and energy transition, with scholarships protected from the fluctuations of politics. Trade can grow, anchored by transparency that prevents yesterday’s corruption from setting tomorrow’s terms. Security cooperation, where sensible, should borrow from best practice in de-escalation, not the choreography of militarised crowd control that both our societies must unlearn.
If we need a dashboard for danger at home, it is not hard to assemble. Watch budgets and tenures for signs of an axe hovering over courts and election bodies. Listen for the “stop the count” chant hiding in different words. Track the botnets and WhatsApp chains that turn rumours into rage. Read proposed laws for the quiet ambition to muzzle NGOs and journalists—especially those painted as “foreign-funded,” as if patriotism were a matter of bank accounts. Notice when lethal policing is shrugged off as the acceptable price of order. Notice when a religious bloc treats rights as negotiable. And build coalitions that can move when red lines are crossed—bar associations, media, student unions, labour, business—because institutions are only as brave as the people who stand up for them.
In the near term, lock in budgets for courts and the electoral commission by formula rather than favour. Force transparency in political advertising—who paid, how much, to whom—and open election data to the public eye. Establish an independent police oversight authority that not only recommends but also refers cases for prosecution. Over the next few years, scrub party finance with real-time disclosure and hard ceilings. Over the longer arc, complete the arduous work of professionalising police and prosecution; and remember the past by memorialising victims of unlawful state force, so that the future knows where the line is.
Reform becomes a press release if not enforced and measured. Count how long it takes to resolve election disputes and whether orders are enforced. Count the use-of-force incidents and how many lead to prosecution. Count the rights cases that are upheld when it is difficult, not only when it is easy. Numbers do not save democracies, but they help us know if we are saving them.
Brazil teaches a quiet moral. Democracy is not a feeling; it is a habit. When truth-telling, lawful constraint, and equal dignity are practised daily, they develop muscle memory. When they are neglected, strongmen step into the slack and sell us certainty. We do not have to learn these lessons in the heat of our own crisis. We can now build the scaffolding: courts that breathe freely, elections that persuade both winners and losers, security that protects as much as it deters, and a political culture that treats opponents as rivals, not enemies. The mirror across the Atlantic offers both a warning and a promise. What we do with the reflection is still up to us.
