Imagine you are young in Nigeria, and the world feels heavy. The electricity flickers, the prices in the market climb, jobs seem to hide from your CV, and every election cycle brings a storm of promises that often evaporate before the ballots are counted. In the middle of that exhaustion, a musician named Alex Ibeh—known to many as Kool’—stepped forward in Abuja at the investiture ceremony of youth ambassadors for the Independent National Electoral Commission. He was not there to perform or entertain. He was there to talk plainly to his generation, and he used one image that should linger in every young Nigerian’s mind: “You cannot clean a room thoroughly from the window; you must go inside.” That is his whole argument in one sentence. For years, many young people have treated politics like something happening behind a glass wall. They watch from social media, they argue with relatives, they post angry statuses, and they complain about how politicians have ruined the country. But they remain outside the room. Ibeh is not asking everyone to become a politician or to join a political party. He is asking them to become participants in the electoral process in whatever way they can: register to vote, show up on election day, serve as an observer, educate a neighbour, fight against voter intimidation, and demand answers from candidates before they win. He admitted that the situation looks bleak. “It might look bleak now, but things could get better with everyone’s participation. But standing afar and criticising or complaining would not make things happen.” That is an uncomfortable truth. It is easy to complain from a distance. It is much harder to walk into the room where decisions are made, to sit with imperfect people, to face frustrating procedures, and to try to fix things anyway. But Ibeh believes, and he wants young people to believe, that the mess is not permanent. The room can be cleaned, but only by those willing to pick up the broom and go inside.
Of course, there is a reason why so many young Nigerians greet any INEC-related message with suspicion. Past elections have left scars: technical failures, delays, allegations of manipulation, violence in some areas, and election results that were disputed and swallowed by courts. It is natural to ask why anyone should trust a system that has disappointed them again and again. Ibeh did not dodge that question. He acknowledged that working with the electoral commission is a thankless job. “No matter how you do it, it’s going to seem like you are here or you are there.” That is an honest admission from someone inside the process. INEC cannot operate in a way that pleases everyone; every decision will be scrutinised, politicised, and attacked. But he did not use that as an excuse. He said clearly that the mistrust is real, and that INEC needs to do a lot of work to win back the confidence of young people. Why does that matter? Because young people are not a small minority. They are the largest segment of the population. They are the future voters, the future leaders, the future witnesses. If they choose to stay away, then the system will be shaped only by those who show up—often the very politicians who benefit from a disengaged youth. Ibeh’s message is not that young people should blindly trust INEC. It is that trust cannot be rebuilt by pretending the institution is perfect, and it cannot be rebuilt from the outside either. Young people need to insert themselves into the process, ask difficult questions, observe the procedures, and hold everyone accountable. The relationship between the youth and the electoral system must be active, not passive. If the room is dirty, you cannot just stand at the window and complain about the smell. You have to go in and demand that the windows be opened, the floor be swept, and the furniture be rearranged in a way that serves everyone.
Then Ibeh turned to one of the strangest contradictions in Nigerian politics. Politicians tell young people that their votes will not count. Yet at the same time, those same politicians spend huge amounts of money buying votes during elections. They hand out cash, food, phones, and promises in exchange for the very votes they say are useless. Ibeh exposed this absurdity in one powerful line: “The same people who tell you that your votes will not count are the same people who are buying your votes.” Let that settle in your mind. If votes truly did not matter, why would anyone waste a naira on buying them? The fact that politicians are desperate enough to purchase votes proves that each vote has power. The problem is that some people have been convinced they are powerless, then pressured to sell the little power they have. Ibeh warned young people not to fall for that trick. He did not speak down to them. He spoke as someone who believes in their intelligence. “You need to be wiser and understand that you shouldn’t fall for their tricks. Whatever we want is in our hands, and we can make that change if we want.” This is a powerful reframing. A young person who takes a few thousand naira in exchange for a vote is not really getting a better life; they are giving away the only tool they have to demand a better life. The bribe is a trap disguised as a gift. Ibeh is not asking for some impossible kind of moral purity. He is simply saying that people should be smarter than the manipulation. The future of the country is not in the hands of politicians; it is in the hands of ordinary young people who decide whether to be rented out or to stand firm. It is not easy. Hunger and fear make people do things they regret. But if young Nigerians ever want to see a different kind of leadership, they have to begin by refusing to sell themselves cheaply. The buyer of your vote does not care about your future. He only cares about his own comfort.
Ibeh also addressed one of the most dangerous enemies of democracy today: misinformation. Social media is where many young people live. It is where they find news, share opinions, organise protests, and argue with strangers. But it is also a battlefield filled with fake videos, old photographs presented as new events, paid agents spreading confusion, and anonymous accounts designed to divide friends and families. During election season, the lie travels faster than the truth. A single WhatsApp forward can create panic. A heavily edited clip can portray a candidate in a false light. A trending hashtag can push an entire community toward anger before anyone confirms the story. Ibeh did not pretend that this problem can be solved overnight. “We can’t stop real and fake news on social media; it’s a worldwide issue,” he admitted. But he gave simple, practical advice: verify before you share. “When it comes to your country or anything important to you, it’s vital that you verify whatever information you get. Don’t just swallow whatever you hear or whatever is trending as popular opinion. It is important for you to do your own research.” This advice sounds basic, but in practice it is radical. It means pausing before you forward that shocking message. It means checking the source, looking for the original report, asking a question, allowing time for better information to emerge. It means refusing to become a tool for someone else’s agenda. Misinformation thrives on exhaustion. It is easiest to spread lies to people who are tired, frustrated, and desperate for someone to blame. The person who stops to verify is not being slow; that person is being a protector of the community. In a country where rumours have led to real violence, critical thinking is not just an academic skill. It is a form of citizenship. Ibeh is telling young people that they have the power to break the chain of poison. They do not have to swallow every trend. They can choose to be the calm voice that says, “Wait, let me check.” That choice alone can save lives and save the integrity of the election.
Beyond all the warnings, Ibeh also offered hope and made a commitment. He did not show up, receive a certificate, and disappear. He promised to use his platform, his music, his social media presence, and his personal relationships to carry the message of voter education to young people across Nigeria. He knows that change does not only happen in official halls. It happens in street corners, barbershops, marketplaces, churches, and mosques. He said, “It doesn’t have to be only when you’re on social media, when you meet people in conversations; everything drives home the point that, look, whatever we want is in our hands. We can make that change if we want.” This is what humanizing politics looks like. It is a public figure sitting with young people and listening to their frustrations, not merely telling them what to do. It is a musician understanding that a lyric can encourage civic participation just as easily as it can entertain. It is someone who is willing to be a bridge between the electoral commission and the community. Ibeh said he wants to bring the concerns of the people to INEC, and also explain INEC’s work to the people. That is crucial. Many young people do not understand how election materials are produced, how results are transmitted, or how to become an observer. The more they understand, the less vulnerable they are to fear and manipulation. Ibeh is not promising that the system is perfect. He is promising to be present, to listen, and to help close the distance between ordinary citizens and the institutions that serve them. In a world where leaders often seem distant, this kind of grounded commitment matters. It reminds young people that they have allies inside the system—people who are not just wearing an INEC badge, but who genuinely believe that the youth can change the direction of the country.
At its heart, Ibeh’s message is about the difference between watching and belonging. The metaphor of the room and the window is more than a beautiful phrase. It is a challenge to every young Nigerian who has ever felt betrayed by politics. You can stay outside and curse the people inside, but your curses will not clean the room. You can stand at the window and post about the mess, but your posts will not move the dirt. The only way to influence what happens inside is to enter the room. That means accepting that the process is flawed and deciding to be part of making it better anyway. It means showing up for voter registration, showing up for political debates, showing up to observe the counting, and showing up to defend the result through legal and peaceful means. It also means bringing along the people around you—the ones who have given up, the ones who believe that nothing will ever change, the ones who think that corruption is too deep. Ibeh’s answer is simple: “Whatever we want is in our hands.” That is not a naive slogan. It is a statement of responsibility. Nigeria will not be transformed by a single miracle election or a single saviour president. It will be transformed by millions of ordinary decisions made every day: to verify a piece of news before sharing it, to refuse a bribe even when money is tight, to encourage a friend to register, to show up at the polling unit on a Sunday morning, to stay awake through the counting, to smile less at lies and more at truth. The room is dirty. Everyone can see that. But Alex Ibeh, known as Kool’, is standing at the door of that room and calling his generation inside. He is not asking them to pretend that everything is clean. He is simply reminding them that the broom is already in their hands. The question is whether they will use it.