THE LAST VOT
A Nigerian Political Novel of the PVC, Power, Youth and the 2027 Election
By
PINAIBA BOLOUERE FIRSTLADY
Published by
GLOBAL EGBERI MEDIA INTERNATIONAL LTD
First Edition — 2026
—
COPYRIGHT
© 2026 Pinaiba Bolouere Firstlady
All rights reserved.
Published by Global Egberi Media International Ltd.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without prior written permission from the publisher, except for brief quotations used for criticism, review, scholarship or research.
This book is a work of political fiction. The characters, dialogue, organisations, places and events are fictionalised for literary purposes. References to contemporary Nigerian political issues are used as part of the novel’s civic and social commentary. Nothing in this fictional narrative should be interpreted as an allegation against any person, political party or organisation.
First Edition, 2026.
Author: Pinaiba Bolouere Firstlady
Publisher: Global Egberi Media International Ltd.
—
DEDICATION
To the Nigerian people.
To the market woman who rises before dawn.
To the fisherman who challenges the river for survival.
To the farmer who feeds the nation.
To the teacher who educates the next generation.
To the student who dreams of a better country.
To the young Nigerian who refuses to believe that his or her voice is useless.
And to every citizen who understands that democracy requires participation.
May we never surrender the power to determine our future.
—
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Nigeria is a nation of enormous possibilities. It is also a nation whose democratic journey continues to challenge its citizens to become active participants in determining the direction of their country.
The Last Vote is a work of political fiction inspired by contemporary conversations surrounding Nigeria’s 2027 general elections and the importance of citizens participating in the electoral process.
At the centre of this story is the Permanent Voter Card—the PVC.
The PVC is presented in this novel not merely as a piece of plastic, but as a symbol of civic responsibility, political participation and the right of citizens to make their voices count.
The novel asks important questions.
What happens when citizens stop participating?
What happens when young people believe their votes do not matter?
What happens when politicians discover that apathy is more powerful than opposition?
And what happens when ordinary citizens finally decide that the future of their communities cannot be left entirely in the hands of politicians?
This novel is not a campaign for any political party or candidate.
It is a call for citizens to seek credible information, participate peacefully, understand their civic responsibilities and make informed choices.
The story belongs to Nigeria.
The characters belong to fiction.
But the questions belong to all of us.
— Pinaiba Bolouere Firstlady
—
PROLOGUE
THE ANNOUNCEMENT
The announcement came on a hot afternoon.
Across Nigeria, radios were playing.
Television stations were broadcasting.
Social media platforms were filled with arguments, predictions and political commentary.
In Ofunama Creek, a small community surrounded by waterways and thick vegetation, people gathered around a battery-powered radio inside Mama Pere’s provision shop.
The voice of the newscaster was calm.
There was nothing dramatic about it.
Yet the words carried a warning.
Citizens were being urged to ensure that they collected their Permanent Voter Cards ahead of the 2027 general elections.
Mama Pere turned down the volume.
“Again?”
Her son, Tare, looked up from his phone.
“Again what?”
“They are telling everybody to collect their PVC.”
Tare laughed.
“And what will PVC do?”
Mama Pere stared at him.
“You young people always laugh until you discover that politics has entered your house.”
Tare smiled.
“Mama, politics is already in everybody’s house.”
She pointed at him.
“Then you should pay attention.”
Tare returned to his phone.
He was twenty-seven years old and had never considered himself a political person.
Politics, in his opinion, belonged to politicians.
Politicians belonged to Abuja.
Abuja belonged to people with expensive cars, big houses and long convoys.
Ordinary people like him had other problems.
There was rent.
There was fuel.
There was food.
There were unpaid bills.
What did one vote matter?
That was what he believed.
Until the night the lights went out.
And then the water stopped.
And then his younger sister became ill.
And then the hospital demanded money his family did not have.
And then Tare discovered something he had never understood.
Politics was not somewhere far away.
Politics was the road outside his house.
It was the hospital.
It was the school.
It was electricity.
It was the price of food.
It was security.
It was the future.
And, eventually, it was the little card inside his wallet.
His PVC.
He would later call it:
The Last Vote.
But at that moment, he simply laughed.
He did not know that powerful men were already preparing for the election.
He did not know that some politicians were counting votes before voters had even arrived.
He did not know that young people like him were being targeted with money, misinformation and fear.
And he certainly did not know that by the time the election arrived, he would have to make the most important decision of his life.
The radio came back on.
“Citizens are encouraged to participate actively in the democratic process…”
Mama Pere looked at her son.
“Tare.”
“Yes, Mama?”
“Go and find your PVC.”
He laughed again.
But this time, she did not.
Neither did she smile.
“Go and find it,” she repeated.
“Because one day, you will discover that the people who tell you your vote does not matter are usually the people who are afraid of what your vote can do.”
Tare looked at his mother.
For the first time, he had no answer.
—
CHAPTER ONE
THE COUNTRY THAT COMPLAINED
Nigeria had become a country of complaints.
Everybody complained.
The traders complained about prices.
The drivers complained about fuel.
The students complained about schools.
The teachers complained about salaries.
The farmers complained about insecurity.
The workers complained about taxes.
The young complained about unemployment.
The old complained about the young.
And politicians complained about the previous government.
But beneath all the complaints was a dangerous silence.
People had begun to believe that nothing could change.
In Ofunama Creek, that belief was particularly strong.
The community had once been prosperous.
Its waterways provided fish.
Its farms produced food.
Its people were known for resilience.
But years of neglect had transformed the community.
The main road had become almost impassable.
The health centre lacked basic equipment.
The secondary school needed teachers.
Electricity was unreliable.
Young people were leaving.
Some went to Lagos.
Some went to Port Harcourt.
Some went abroad.
Others simply disappeared into the struggle of daily survival.
Tare watched all of this and blamed everyone.
He blamed the government.
He blamed politicians.
He blamed the system.
He blamed his circumstances.
But he never blamed himself.
One evening, his childhood friend Keme came to visit.
Keme was different.
She had studied political science and worked with a small civic organisation.
She had spent months travelling through communities encouraging people to participate in the electoral process.
Tare laughed when she told him.
“You are wasting your time.”
“Why?”
“Because politicians will do what politicians always do.”
“And citizens will do what citizens always do?”
“What?”
“Complain.”
Tare became silent.
Keme smiled.
“That is the problem.”
“What problem?”
“We want good government without accepting the responsibility of citizenship.”
Tare shook his head.
“I am just one person.”
“So am I.”
“You think one vote can change everything?”
“No.”
That answer surprised him.
Keme continued.
“One vote does not magically solve a nation’s problems. But democracy is built from individual citizens making collective decisions.”
She pointed toward his pocket.
“Do you have your PVC?”
Tare looked away.
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
“I have not seen it in years.”
Keme sighed.
“That is exactly what I mean.”
“What?”
“You are complaining about leadership while you are not even paying attention to the instrument through which you participate in choosing leaders.”
Tare said nothing.
Keme stood.
“Find your PVC.”
“Why?”
“Because 2027 is coming.”
She walked toward the door.
“And this time, don’t allow somebody else to decide your future while you are busy complaining about it.”
Tare watched her leave.
Later that night, he opened an old wooden box.
Inside were receipts, photographs, expired documents and letters.
At the bottom was a small plastic card.
He picked it up.
His name was printed on it.
His photograph was there.
He stared at it for several seconds.
For years, he had thought of it as nothing more than an identification card.
Now, suddenly, it looked different.
It looked like responsibility.
—
CHAPTER TWO
THE MEN BEHIND THE CURTAIN
Far away from ofunama Creek, inside an air-conditioned conference room, five men sat around a polished table.
On the wall was a large map of the country.
Red marks covered several constituencies.
Blue marks covered others.
A man known only as Chairman sat at the head of the table.
He had spent thirty years in politics.
He had survived military governments.
He had survived civilian governments.
He had survived scandals.
He had survived elections.
His greatest political talent was not winning elections.
It was understanding people.
“What’s the situation?” he asked.
A younger man opened a folder.
“Voter interest is increasing.”
The Chairman frowned.
“How much?”
“Especially among young people.”
“Problem.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because young people are becoming more organised.”
The Chairman leaned back.
“Are they supporting the opposition?”
“Not necessarily.”
“Then why are you worried?”
The younger man hesitated.
“Because they are beginning to ask questions.”
The Chairman smiled.
“Questions are not votes.”
“Sometimes they become votes.”
Silence filled the room.
The Chairman tapped his fingers on the table.
“Then keep them distracted.”
“How?”
“Give them entertainment.”
The younger man nodded.
“Social media?”
“Yes.”
“Money?”
“Yes.”
“Propaganda?”
“Yes.”
“Fear?”
The Chairman looked at him.
“Especially fear.”
Another man spoke.
“What about the PVC campaign?”
The Chairman’s expression changed.
“What about it?”
“More citizens are collecting their cards.”
“Then we need to make sure they remain confused.”
The room became silent.
The Chairman looked at the map.
“Politics is not about who deserves power,” he said.
“It is about who controls the process through which power is obtained.”
Nobody challenged him.
Outside the building, the city was glowing beneath the evening sky.
Inside, plans were being made.
The people had not yet voted.
But the politicians were already fighting over the outcome.
—
CHAPTER THREE
THE WOMAN WITH THE MEGAPHONE
Her name was Adesewa.
She was thirty-two years old.
She owned no political office.
She had no convoy.
She had no party structure.
She had no powerful uncle in government.
She had something more dangerous.
Courage.
Every Saturday morning, she stood in public places and spoke to citizens.
“Know your rights!”
“Verify your information!”
“Collect your PVC!”
“Do not sell your vote!”
“Do not allow anybody to intimidate you!”
Some people listened.
Others laughed.
Some called her a troublemaker.
One afternoon, Tare approached her after a community meeting.
“Why are you doing this?”
She looked at him.
“Doing what?”
“Running around telling people about elections.”
“Because somebody has to.”
“Do you think politicians will listen?”
“I am not speaking to politicians.”
“Who are you speaking to?”
She pointed at the crowd.
“The owners of the country.”
Tare laughed.
“The owners?”
“Yes.”
“Who are they?”
“The citizens.”
She paused.
“Politicians are temporary occupants of public offices. Citizens are permanent.”
That sentence stayed with Tare.
For the first time, he understood that democracy was not supposed to be a spectator sport.
The following week, he joined her campaign.
He did not know that the decision would make him a target.
—
CHAPTER FOUR
THE MISSING PVC
Tare searched everywhere.
He searched his room.
He searched the wooden box.
He searched the old documents his father had left behind.
Nothing.
“I told you,” Keme said. “You cannot afford to be careless about something this important.”
“It must be somewhere.”
“Then find it.”
They searched for two days.
On the third day, Tare remembered an old jacket.
It was hanging behind the bedroom door.
He reached into the pocket.
His fingers touched plastic.
He froze.
Slowly, he pulled it out.
His PVC.
He stared at it.
Keme smiled.
“There it is.”
Tare nodded.
“I nearly forgot I had it.”
“That is how people lose their voice.”
He looked at her.
“Do you really believe the election can make a difference?”
Keme answered carefully.
“I believe citizens should never surrender their right to participate simply because they are disappointed.”
Tare placed the card inside his wallet.
“Then I will participate.”
Keme smiled.
“Good.”
Neither of them noticed the man watching them from across the road.
—
CHAPTER FIVE
THE PRICE OF A VOTE
The first envelope arrived at night.
Inside was money.
There was no name.
No letter.
Only cash.
Tare knew what it meant.
The next day, another envelope arrived.
This time, there was a message.
“Support the right people.”
Tare stared at it.
His younger sister needed school fees.
His mother needed medicine.
The roof needed repairs.
The money could solve several immediate problems.
He sat for a long time.
Then he remembered Adesewa’s words.
“A vote is not merchandise.”
He returned the envelope.
That decision cost him.
It also changed him.
He realised that political corruption did not begin only in government offices.
Sometimes it began in ordinary homes.
Sometimes it began with a small envelope.
Sometimes it began when desperation persuaded a citizen to sell tomorrow for the price of today.
—
CHAPTER SIX
THE POLITICAL MACHINE
Chief Bako was a master organiser.
He understood villages.
He understood wards.
He understood local leaders.
He knew which community wanted a road.
Which youth leader wanted a job.
Which elder wanted recognition.
Which group wanted money.
His campaign machine was enormous.
Cars moved through villages.
Posters appeared overnight.
Meetings were organised.
Gifts were distributed.
Promises multiplied.
But something was different this year.
Young people were asking questions.
They wanted evidence.
They wanted accountability.
They wanted to know what had happened to previous promises.
Chief Bako was not accustomed to being questioned.
“Who is organising these youths?” he asked.
His assistant answered.
“Nobody in particular.”
Chief Bako frowned.
“Then that is more dangerous.”
“Why?”
“Because you can negotiate with a leader.”
He looked toward the window.
“But how do you negotiate with a generation?”
—
CHAPTER SEVEN
THE CHILDREN OF DEMOCRACY
The youth meeting began with twenty people.
By the end of the month, there were hundreds.
They called themselves The People’s Voice.
They were not a political party.
They did not endorse candidates.
Their message was simple:
Know. Participate. Verify. Vote.
Tare became one of the organisers.
Adesewa trained volunteers.
Keme handled community education.
Daniel, a journalist, began attending their meetings.
One evening he asked Adesewa:
“Do you think they can really make a difference?”
She smiled.
“Every major change begins with people who believe they can make a difference.”
Daniel switched on his recorder.
“Then what are you fighting for?”
Adesewa looked around the room.
“Not victory.”
“What then?”
“Participation.”
—
CHAPTER EIGHT
THE JOURNALIST
Daniel had spent years covering politics.
He knew the language of politicians.
He knew how promises were manufactured.
He knew how rumours became headlines.
But this election felt different.
He began investigating campaign finances, political networks and misinformation.
What he found disturbed him.
Anonymous accounts were spreading false claims.
Old videos were being presented as new events.
Fake quotations were circulating.
Communities were being encouraged to distrust one another.
Daniel realised the battle was no longer only over votes.
It was over truth.
He wrote an article titled:
“Before You Believe It, Verify It.”
The article spread widely.
Then the threats began.
—
CHAPTER NINE
THE FIRST THREAT
Adesewa received the first threatening message at midnight.
Stop talking.
She deleted it.
The second arrived ten minutes later.
You don’t know who you are fighting.
She showed it to Tare.
He became angry.
“We should report this.”
“We will.”
“You should stop.”
Adesewa stared at him.
“Stop what?”
“The campaign.”
She shook her head.
“If fear can silence citizens before an election, what will happen after the election?”
Tare had no answer.
She continued.
“We must remain peaceful. We must obey the law. But peaceful does not mean silent.”
—
CHAPTER TEN
THE CAMPAIGN OF LIES
The lie appeared online at 6:15 a.m.
By 9:00 a.m., thousands had seen it.
By noon, people were arguing about it.
By evening, some believed it was true.
Keme gathered the volunteers.
“This is how misinformation works.”
She displayed the post.
“Look at the source.”
Nobody knew it.
“Look at the date.”
It was old.
“Look at the photograph.”
It belonged to another event.
She turned to the room.
“Do not become instruments of somebody else’s political strategy.”
The message spread:
VERIFY BEFORE YOU SHARE.
For the first time, the People’s Voice understood that protecting democracy also meant protecting truth.
—
CHAPTER ELEVEN
MONEY ON THE TABLE
Chief Bako called Tare to a private meeting.
Tare almost refused.
But he went.
The politician sat behind a large desk.
“You are a promising young man.”
Tare said nothing.
“I hear you are influential among the youths.”
“I speak to people.”
“Exactly.”
Chief Bako opened a drawer.
An envelope appeared.
Tare stared at it.
“You could use this.”
“For what?”
“Anything.”
Tare pushed it back.
“I don’t sell my vote.”
Chief Bako smiled.
“I am not asking you to sell your vote.”
“What are you asking?”
“Only that you stop interfering.”
Tare stood.
“That sounds like the same thing.”
He walked out.
Chief Bako watched him leave.
For the first time in many years, the politician looked worried.
—
CHAPTER TWELVE
WHEN THE COMMUNITY DIVIDED
Politics entered the homes.
Friends stopped speaking.
Brothers argued.
Neighbours accused one another.
Old ethnic tensions resurfaced.
Religious rumours circulated.
The community was beginning to fracture.
Mama Pere called a meeting.
She stood before the crowd.
“I have lived long enough to see what happens when politics turns neighbours into enemies.”
The crowd became quiet.
“Politicians will leave after the election.”
She looked around.
“We will remain.”
Her voice became firm.
“Do not destroy your community for somebody who will forget your name after collecting your vote.”
The crowd applauded.
The message spread.
Election ends. Community remains.
—
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
THE YOUNG PEOPLE RISE
The youth march began at sunrise.
There were students.
Traders.
Teachers.
Mechanics.
Artisans.
Professionals.
They carried no weapons.
They carried placards.
MY VOTE IS MY RESPONSIBILITY.
NO TO VIOLENCE.
VERIFY INFORMATION.
LET THE PEOPLE CHOOSE.
The march attracted national attention.
Daniel covered it.
Adesewa addressed the crowd.
“This is not a march for one politician!”
The crowd responded.
“No!”
“It is not a march for one party!”
“No!”
“It is a march for citizens!”
“Yes!”
Tare looked at the crowd.
He remembered the day he had laughed at the idea that one vote mattered.
Now he understood.
One person could inspire another.
Another could inspire ten.
Ten could inspire a hundred.
A hundred could inspire thousands.
That was how a citizen movement began.
—
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
THE SECRET MEETING
The political operators met again.
This time, the mood was different.
“The youths are organised.”
“The misinformation campaign is failing.”
“Citizens are paying attention.”
Chief Bako listened.
Finally, he spoke.
“Then we change strategy.”
“How?”
“We create fear.”
A younger adviser shook his head.
“That could backfire.”
Chief Bako stared at him.
“Politics is not for people who are afraid of consequences.”
The adviser remained silent.
But somewhere inside the political machine, one person decided to leak the information.
Daniel received the message the following morning.
—
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
THE TRUTH COMES OUT
Daniel published the story.
He did not accuse individuals without evidence.
He presented documents.
He explained the network.
He showed how misinformation was being coordinated.
The public reacted.
The political establishment denied everything.
But citizens were asking questions.
For once, the questions were louder than the propaganda.
The story became a national conversation.
Daniel received another threat.
This time he did not delete it.
He saved it.
Then he said:
“If journalists stop asking questions, democracy becomes blind.”
—
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
THE NIGHT BEFORE
The night before the election was unusually quiet.
The streets emptied early.
People stayed indoors.
Families discussed the next day.
Tare sat with his mother.
She looked at him.
“Are you afraid?”
“A little.”
“Good.”
He smiled.
“Good?”
“Fear reminds you that something matters.”
She handed him his wallet.
“Your PVC.”
He took it.
“I have it.”
“Keep it safe.”
He nodded.
She looked at him.
“Tomorrow, don’t vote because somebody threatens you.”
He nodded.
“Don’t vote because somebody gives you money.”
He nodded.
“Don’t vote because somebody tells you to hate another Nigerian.”
He nodded again.
“Vote according to your conscience and the information available to you.”
Tare smiled.
“Yes, Mama.”
Outside, the town slept.
Tomorrow would decide much.
—
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
ELECTION MORNING
The sun rose slowly.
People began moving toward polling locations.
Some were nervous.
Some were excited.
Some were suspicious.
But they came.
Tare arrived early.
Keme was already there.
Adesewa was helping people understand the process.
Daniel was observing.
Mama Pere arrived later.
Tare looked at her.
“You came.”
She smiled.
“I told you I would.”
The queue grew.
For once, the community looked united.
Rich.
Poor.
Young.
Old.
Men.
Women.
Different backgrounds.
Different beliefs.
One process.
One country.
One responsibility.
—
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
THE LONGEST MORNING
Problems emerged.
There were delays.
Some people could not immediately understand the procedures.
Rumours spread.
A disagreement nearly became a fight.
Adesewa stepped forward.
“Everybody calm down!”
Keme supported her.
“We are not here to fight.”
The crowd settled.
The process continued.
Tare realised something important.
Democracy was not perfect.
It required patience.
It required vigilance.
It required citizens who were willing to protect the process peacefully.
—
CHAPTER NINETEEN
THE LAST VOTE
It was Mama Pere’s turn.
She entered.
She completed the process.
When she emerged, Tare asked:
“How do you feel?”
She smiled.
“Free.”
“Free?”
“Yes.”
She touched her chest.
“I have done my part.”
Later, Tare stood before the voting process.
He remembered the envelope.
The threats.
The lies.
The meetings.
The arguments.
His mother’s words.
Keme’s persistence.
Adesewa’s courage.
Daniel’s journalism.
He made his choice according to his conscience.
When he left, he felt different.
He had finally understood what citizenship meant.
CHAPTER TWENTY
THE NIGHT OF WAITING
The results did not come immediately.
People waited.
Some celebrated too early.
Others panicked.
Social media became chaotic.
Fake results circulated.
Daniel warned everyone:
“Wait for official information.”
The People’s Voice repeated the message.
DO NOT SPREAD UNVERIFIED RESULTS.
The night became long.
Very long.
Then the official process began to produce results.
One after another.
Community after community.
Ward after ward.
The country waited.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
THE PEOPLE’S VERDICT
When the final results were announced, nobody got everything they wanted.
That was the nature of democracy.
Some celebrated.
Some were disappointed.
Some questioned the outcome.
But something had changed.
Citizens had participated.
Young people had shown up.
Communities had resisted violence.
People had demanded information.
The political establishment had discovered that citizens were paying attention.
Chief Bako sat alone in his office.
His political machine had not completely failed.
But it had not controlled the people either.
He looked at the election figures.
Then he smiled bitterly.
“The people have become difficult.”
His assistant asked:
“Is that bad?”
Chief Bako looked out the window.
“No.”
He paused.
“It means they are awake.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
AFTER THE BALLOTS
The election was over.
But the work had not ended.
Tare returned to the community.
The road was still bad.
The hospital still needed improvement.
The school still needed teachers.
Electricity was still unreliable.
Someone asked:
“So what did the election change?”
Tare thought for a moment.
“It changed us.”
“How?”
“We learned that voting is not the end of citizenship.”
He looked at the others.
“It is the beginning.”
The people formed community groups.
They began monitoring public projects.
They attended council meetings.
They asked questions.
They demanded accountability.
They learned that citizens could not simply vote and disappear.
Democracy required attention between elections.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
THE MORNING AFTER
Months passed.
Some promises were fulfilled.
Others were not.
Some politicians disappeared.
Others returned to their communities.
But the people had changed.
When another official arrived with a promise, the community asked:
“When?”
“How?”
“With what funds?”
“Who will supervise it?”
“What is the timeline?”
The days of unquestioned promises were ending.
Mama Pere watched from her doorway.
She smiled.
Her son had become a different man.
One evening, Tare sat beside her.
“Mama.”
“Yes?”
“Do you remember when I said one vote could not change anything?”
She laughed.
“I remember.”
“I was wrong.”
She nodded.
“Yes.”
“But I also learned something else.”
“What?”
“One vote alone is not enough.”
Mama Pere smiled.
“Now you understand.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
A NEW BEGINNING
Adesewa opened a small civic education centre.
Keme became one of its coordinators.
Daniel continued his journalism.
Tare began speaking to young people.
His message was simple.
“Do not wait until election season to become citizens.”
He told them to learn.
To ask questions.
To verify information.
To understand their rights and responsibilities.
To participate peacefully.
To reject political violence.
To refuse to sell their future.
One young man asked him:
“Can Nigeria really change?”
Tare smiled.
“I don’t know.”
The boy looked disappointed.
“But I know this,” Tare continued.
“If good people surrender, nothing changes.”
He pointed toward the crowd.
“And if citizens remain engaged, change remains possible.”
The crowd applauded.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
THE CARD IN HIS HAND
Years later, Tare still kept his PVC safely.
The card had become old.
Its edges were worn.
But he kept it.
One afternoon, a young boy found it in his drawer.
“What is this?”
Tare smiled.
“That?”
“Yes.”
“That is a reminder.”
“Of what?”
Tare looked toward the window.
“Of a time when I thought my voice did not matter.”
The boy examined the card.
“Did it matter?”
Tare smiled.
“More than I knew.”
The boy looked confused.
Tare explained.
“You see, democracy is not magic.”
“It does not guarantee perfect leaders.”
“It does not immediately repair every road.”
“It does not end every problem.”
“But it gives citizens a peaceful way to participate in deciding who should govern them.”
He took the card from the boy.
“Never treat your civic responsibility as something somebody else should handle for you.”
The boy nodded.
“Will you vote again?”
Tare laughed.
“Of course.”
“Why?”
He looked at the card one more time.
“Because the country is ours.”
He placed the card back inside the drawer.
Outside, the sun was setting.
Children were playing in the street.
The community was not perfect.
Nigeria was not perfect.
But somewhere in the heart of Ogbia Creek, a generation had learned something important.
A citizen’s voice could be ignored.
It could be manipulated.
It could be bought.
It could even be surrendered.
But it could also be used.
And when millions of citizens chose to use their voices responsibly, peacefully and wisely, democracy became more than a word.
It became a living thing.
Tare closed the drawer.
The card remained inside.
Waiting for another election.
Waiting for another generation.
Waiting for another citizen to understand its meaning.
And the final lesson remained:
The future does not belong only to those who seek power.
It belongs to those who decide what to do with theirs.
EPILOGUE
THE VOICE OF THE PEOPLE
The story of Ogbia Creek was only one story.
Across Nigeria, millions of citizens were facing their own questions.
Some had become politically active.
Some were still undecided.
Some had lost faith.
Some had regained it.
But the lesson was universal.
Democracy cannot survive on election day alone.
It survives through citizens who remain informed.
Through citizens who ask questions.
Through citizens who reject violence.
Through citizens who refuse to spread lies.
Through citizens who understand that their vote is personal.
And through citizens who understand that leadership must be followed by accountability.
The PVC is not a magic wand.
It cannot solve every problem.
But participation matters.
A country cannot be changed by complaints alone.
Citizens must participate.
They must organise peacefully.
They must demand accountability.
They must protect truth.
They must respect one another.
And when election time comes, they must make informed choices.
Because the most important question is not:
“Who will win?”
The deeper question is:
“What kind of country do we want to build?”
That question belongs to every Nigerian.
And the answer begins with each citizen.
END
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Pinaiba Bolouere Firstlady is the author of The Last Vote, a work of Nigerian political fiction exploring democracy, civic participation, youth engagement and the responsibilities of citizenship.
Through this novel, the author invites readers to look beyond political campaigns and consider the role ordinary citizens play in shaping the future of their communities and country.
The Last Vote is written as both a work of fiction and a civic reflection on the importance of informed, peaceful and responsible participation in democratic life.
ABOUT THE PUBLISHER
GLOBAL EGBERI MEDIA INTERNATIONAL LTD
Global Egberi Media International Ltd is presented as the publishing platform for this edition.
The publisher’s role is to provide a platform for literary, social, cultural and civic works that contribute to public conversation and encourage informed engagement with issues affecting society.
Title: The Last Vote
Author: Pinaiba Bolouere Firstlady
Publisher: Global Egberi Media International Ltd
Edition: First Edition
Year: 2026
About the Author
