The Decadence: Our Students’ Apathy

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By Sekinat Abdulwakil

“The greatest danger to our future is apathy” Jane Goodall. 

Today, a troubling silence lingers where loud voices once rose. Student unions, once engines of activism and change, now struggle to stir even minimal interest and on whose shoulders does the blame camp?

Before elections, the campus transforms into a theatre. Candidates move like actors on a large stage; they prostrate and kneel in the hostels like the omoluabi that they pretend to be, they smile and say hello every time they see you, they shout slogans everywhere “Make the Union great again”. Their voices echo in every corridor: “Oh, this is why you should vote for me. I'm the best person for the job” For a brief moment, we believe them, we feel seen and definitely, feel important. But, by whose standards have they been selected “best” except theirs? 

 

But then the ballots are counted, the winners sworn in, and the theatre lights go dark, that once noisy stage is reduced to a soundless hum. The once-familiar faces disappear from our everyday spaces as their time has elapsed. The candidates who once called us “friends” and “fellow UItes” now carry titles and offices, hiding behind closed doors. What began with proximity ends with distance, what began with promises ends with silence.

And it is this silence that has taught students a bitter lesson: the next time, we may not bother voting at all then comes the birth of a mischievous tyrant, apathy. 

Apathy is not born overnight; it creeps in slowly, like rust on metal. At first, students are eager, hopeful, and expectant. They engage in debates, ask tough questions, and hold leaders accountable. But when promises collapse into empty gestures, when transparency gives way to secrecy, when charisma replaces competence, the crowd begins to thin.

By the next election cycle, the interest has already waned. The rallies look like rehearsals with no audience. The campaign jingles sound like tired echoes. What once felt like a collective duty now feels like a futile exercise. Students shrug their shoulders, saying: “What’s the point? Nothing changes anyway.”

The difference between election season and leadership season is striking. During campaigns, candidates make themselves unavoidable. They parade the hostels with exaggerated humility, organise tutorial classes, invade WhatsApp groups with endless broadcasts, and make promises that sound too sweet to be true. For a brief moment, they convince us that change is probably possible. But once in office, the same leaders vanish. Their new offices become fortresses, and students are no longer stakeholders but spectators. Promises once shouted through megaphones become faint whispers, if they are remembered at all.

Some leaders defend themselves. They say governance is harder than expected, that the pressure of juggling schoolwork with union demands is overwhelming. Others argue that students are impatient, expecting miracles overnight. But excuses cannot mask the deeper truth: many never saw leadership as service in the first place. For them, the office itself is the prize. The campaign was the effort; victory, the end. Once the seat is secured, there is little motivation to continue listening, walking among students, or keeping promises.

Then there is the lure of power. Leaders who once begged for votes often find themselves more accountable to administrators than to the students who carried them into office. It is easier to sit in boardrooms than to face the messy, persistent complaints of students. And so, one by one, they withdraw from the people they once courted.

Speak with students in the halls, and their verdict is already clear: “I voted last year, but I’ve not seen anything.” or “These leaders only remember us when they need our votes.”

This is how decadence takes root, not with a loud crash, but with a quiet withdrawal.

It is easy to point fingers. Some blame the leaders who, after elections, vanish behind tinted windows and polished desks. Others blame the students who, disillusioned, prefer TikTok to town halls. Perhaps the truth lies somewhere in between.

Leadership without accountability is like a play without an audience, it loses its essence. But citizenship without participation is equally dangerous. When students no longer care enough to question, to protest, to demand better, the little that is left of leadership collapses. A union cannot thrive on charisma alone. Nor can a student body survive on passivity. Both need each other: leaders who listen, and students who speak.

Some may argue: “So what? It’s just campus politics.” But this is a dangerous dismissal. The habits we form here are the habits we carry into the larger society.

If we learn indifference here, we will practice indifference outside. If we learn that leadership is about lofty promises with no follow-through, we will reproduce the same cycle in our communities, states, and even our nation.

Apathy on campus is not a trivial matter, it is a rehearsal for national decadence. When the so-called “leaders of tomorrow” stop caring today, what future is left to lead?

These voices are not isolated. They are multiplying. If nothing changes, the next election season will reveal the consequences. Posters will be printed, but few will stop to read them. Rallies will be called, but the chairs will remain empty. Promises will be shouted, but they will echo in silence.

When students refuse to vote, it will not be because they are lazy. It will be because they remember. They will remember how leaders vanished after victory, and they will conclude that voting is a wasted effort.

Some may dismiss this as a passing phase, but the danger is real. When apathy takes root, politics becomes an exclusive game for the few rather than a collective responsibility for all. A vote is never just ink on a finger, it is faith in the future. But every time a leader betrays their promises, that faith is stolen. And when faith is stolen often enough, students will guard their votes by withholding them.

Democracy does not die when people shout too loudly. It dies when people stop believing their voices matter. That is the decadence we now face, and apathy is its cruel offspring. If student politics continues on this road, we risk raising a generation that has lost its faith in leadership before it has even left the campus. But if students and leaders alike rediscover the meaning of responsibility, accountability, and service, perhaps the tide can still turn.

The question remains: will we remain silent spectators in the theatre of our own decline, or will we rise to reclaim our voices?