The 2027 general election in Nigeria will not only be decided at polling units; it will be fought in WhatsApp groups, on X, on TikTok, and in the comments section of every live news broadcast. As campaigns heat up, so too will the flood of claims, clips, and “breaking news” alerts that mix truth with fiction. Voters will see messages that seem sincere, cards that bear official logos, and videos of well-known faces doing or saying things that never happened. Fact-checkers and misinformation researchers have already begun mapping the terrain, warning that the coming cycle will be more polluted than ever with false narratives designed to shape choices, weaken trust in institutions, or simply frighten people away from voting. The good news is that most of these misleading stories follow familiar patterns. By learning to recognise the recurring structures behind them, ordinary Nigerians can protect themselves, their families, and their communities from being used as instruments of manipulation. This is not a call to paranoia, but to paying attention: the question is not whether misinformation will show up, but whether we will know what we are looking at when it does.
Some of the most potent election-season stories play on faith and loyalty. Nigerians are deeply religious, and the idea that a revered pastor or influential Islamic cleric has endorsed a candidate carries tremendous weight. In 2023, for instance, viral articles and graphics claimed that the Emir of Kano, Sanusi Lamido Sanusi, had endorsed Peter Obi. The claim was false, but it spread because it felt believable: if a respected religious figure had made such a statement, people reasoned, it must matter. Similar tricks have been played on Christian audiences, including a debunked story that Pastor E.A. Adeboye had staged a protest against former President Goodluck Jonathan. As the 2027 elections approach, expect more of the same: fabricated statements, repackaged old videos, and carefully edited clips that make it seem as though a spiritual leader is backing a candidate they have never mentioned. Alongside these are false announcements that INEC has postponed, cancelled, or rescheduled elections. These often look official, complete with commission logos and solemn press-release language. In October 2026, INEC had to publicly disown a fraudulent notice about governorship candidates in six states. Such stories are dangerous because they create confusion and make voters feel that everything is chaotic or rigged. There is also the familiar trick of claiming that a candidate has withdrawn and endorsed an opponent. A fake report once claimed Agboola Ajayi had dropped out of an Ondo State gubernatorial race, and in September 2026, fact-checkers had to debunk a similar story about Peter Obi leaving his political coalition. Before accepting any of this, look for the candidate’s own words from an official channel, because manipulation often hides in a screenshot that looks like a headline.
Another set of myths attacks the machinery of democracy and the simple rules of voting. The Bimodal Voter Accreditation System, known as BVAS, is an easy target because technical problems, long queues, and malfunctioning devices can make people suspicious. When accreditation is slow, rumours begin that the system has been hacked, or remotely disabled, or that election officials are using the glitch to manipulate results. But delay is not proof of conspiracy. BVAS can fail because of poor network coverage, dead batteries, or human error, and INEC has insisted that its safeguards make successful hacking extremely difficult. Voters also need to remember that the rules for casting a ballot are not flexible, no matter what a social media post says. The 2026 Electoral Act is clear: to vote, you must present your Permanent Voter Card and undergo biometric accreditation. A national identification number, driver’s licence, or temporary voter slip is not a substitute. These false shortcuts may seem harmless, but they can send unprepared voters to polling stations where they will be turned away, or discourage them from trying at all. Meanwhile, fake election results are another hazard. During voting and counting, fabricated result sheets, manipulated graphics, and unofficial tallies circulate as if they were official. Fact-checkers have investigated claims of over-voting in Kogi State that were built around suspicious numbers allegedly from INEC’s result portal. Not every card with “INEC” written on it comes from INEC. The most reliable source of information on election night is the official commission itself, not a friend of a friend who has a friend at a collation centre.
There are also recurring myths about how elections are actually won and who has the power to overturn them. A particularly stubborn one involves the Federal Capital Territory, Abuja. Some people believe that a presidential candidate must win at least 25 per cent of the votes in the FCT to be declared president. This has been argued and rejected in court. What the constitution requires is that the winner receive the highest total votes and also secure one-quarter of the votes in at least two-thirds of the states and the FCT, considered as part of the wider federal structure. In 2023, the Supreme Court upheld the rejection of the separate-FCT-threshold argument. Yet the myth keeps returning, perhaps because it makes for a dramatic slogan. Similarly, claims that foreign governments or international observer missions have annulled an election are guaranteed attention-grabbing. After a disputed vote, a statement attributed to an embassy, the African Union, or the European Union may surface saying the election has been invalidated. Observers can criticise, recommend, and document, but they have no legal authority to cancel a Nigerian election. That power rests firmly and finally with Nigeria’s own electoral and judicial institutions. Finally, false claims about ethnicity can be deeply damaging. Stories that a particular ethnic group is banned from voting in a state, or that certain language speakers will be turned away at the polling booth, are lies. Nigerian citizenship and legal registration determine eligibility, not community identity. Such messages are designed to intimidate and divide, and they must be treated with the suspicion they deserve.
The newest and most frightening layer is artificial intelligence. AI tools have made it possible to create convincing fake images, videos, audio clips, and documents in minutes, often with nothing more than a smartphone. But manipulation does not always need cutting-edge technology; old video footage with a misleading caption, or a doctored photograph that looks almost perfect, can do just as much damage. Fact-checkers have already debunked fake images showing Peter Obi visiting President Bola Tinubu after the 2023 election and another showing Obi conversing with Seyi Tinubu. None of those images were real. Disinformation researcher Olayinka Sheu has warned that in 2023, people could often spot manipulated content by visible inconsistencies like unnatural facial movements, distorted images, or odd audio. By 2027, that will be much harder. Compression on platforms like WhatsApp, Telegram, and TikTok makes inconsistencies even harder to see, because the image quality is already degraded by the time it reaches you. Rejoice Taddy, another disinformation researcher, suggests a practical approach: look at the content itself, how it spreads, and who is spreading it. She advises checking suspicious press statements and INEC graphics for mismatched fonts, misplaced logos, spelling errors, unusual dates, and pasted signatures. But she also admits that these signs are not conclusive. A genuine document can have typos, and a sophisticated fake can look perfect. The only safe habit is to seek independent corroboration. If a shocking story is true, reliable news organisations will eventually confirm it. If every source is a random account with no history, you have probably found the lie.
Understanding why misinformation spreads is just as important as spotting it. Most people do not share false stories because they are malicious; they share them because the story arrived from someone they trust. A message from a family group, a respected church leader, or a close friend feels more credible than an official statement from a distant institution. Taddy points out that low institutional trust makes debunking even harder. When INEC denies a rumour, some people hear that denial as confirmation that something is being hidden. And because these myths return every election cycle, they begin to feel familiar, and familiarity can feel like truth. The same false claim about a candidate withdrawing, a religious endorsement, or a hacked voting machine gets recycled every four years, and each repetition makes it sound more credible. There are warning signs of coordinated campaigns: identical messages appearing across many accounts at the same time, emotional demands to share immediately, freshly created profiles, generic pictures, and clusters of accounts repeating the same talking points. None of these prove conspiracy on their own, but they are reasons to be cautious. What should a responsible citizen do? Pause before sharing. Look for the original statement from the candidate, the party, or INEC. Compare any official-looking graphic with the commission’s actual website. Ask a trusted fact-checker or news source. Most importantly, recognise that anger and excitement are exactly what misinformation wants you to feel. When a story makes you want to forward it instantly, that is precisely the moment to stop, breathe, and verify. In a democracy, the ballot is precious, and so is the mind of the voter. Protecting both is the quiet, daily work that makes elections meaningful.