A democracy is tested not only by how it conducts elections on polling day, but by whether citizens and political actors can freely compete, organise, persuade and be heard long before ballots are cast. That is why recent reports that the Enugu State Structures for Signage and Advertisement Agency-commonly referenced in public discourse as ENSAA/ENSSAA-has fixed a mandatory N150 million campaign fee for political advertising and signage should concern every stakeholder in our constitutional order, regardless of party affiliation.

According to multiple published accounts, the agency says the ₦150 million permit would cover not only classic out-of-home materials like banners and billboards, but also a wide range of campaign activities and items such as branded vehicles, T-shirts/caps, handbills, buntings, street campaigns and even rallies, with non-compliance attracting removal of materials and legal sanctions; payment is to a state government account, and the agency further insists only ARCON-licensed practitioners may erect/manage billboards or campaign structures. If accurately implemented as described, this policy is not a mere administrative adjustment. It is a major structural intervention into political participation—one that risks becoming a de facto financial gatekeeping device over political speech.

On the surface, government may argue that this is simply regulation: a legitimate attempt to control visual pollution, prevent unlawful structures, protect public safety, and ensure the cleanliness and aesthetics of public spaces. Those objectives are not only permissible; they are necessary in a modern society. However, the true test of any regulatory policy, especially in an election season, is not what it says it intends, but what it effectively does. A blanket fee of N150 million in the context of political campaigning raises serious questions about constitutional rights, legal competence, proportionality, fairness, practicality, and the overall health of democratic competition. A court is almost certain to be asked: can a state agency, via a single fee, effectively criminalise core campaign activities?

Political campaigns are fundamentally about speech: the ability of parties and candidates to communicate ideas, debate records, mobilise supporters and persuade undecided voters. The Constitution guarantees freedom of expression and the right to impart ideas, as well as freedom of association and assembly, including political association. While these rights are not absolute, restrictions must be “reasonably justifiable in a democratic society” and must be directed at legitimate public interests such as public order and safety. In plain terms, the law demands that restrictions be necessary, proportionate, and non-discriminatory. Regulation must not become a disguised instrument for exclusion.

This is where a N150 million campaign fee immediately becomes problematic. It is one thing to require permits for physical structures (billboards, hoardings, mounted signage) that may endanger road users if poorly installed or that may clutter public spaces if uncontrolled. It is another thing entirely to impose a massive, uniform cost that functions as a financial gate to political visibility. In a country where political participation is already distorted by money, the danger is not theoretical: a fee of this magnitude is capable of shrinking political competition to only those who can pay, entrenching incumbency advantage, and pushing smaller parties, youth candidates, reform movements, and grassroots challengers out of meaningful contention.

Even if the policy is framed as “neutral,” its real-world effect can still be discriminatory. A flat fee does not weigh actual impact; it punishes unevenly. For a well-funded party, N150 million may be a painful but manageable administrative expense. For a modest party, a first-time candidate, or a coalition running on small donations, N150 million is not regulation, it is near-prohibition. When the price of participation becomes that high, the result is not orderliness; it is a narrowing of choice for the voter and a quiet undermining of pluralism.

The constitutional concerns deepen if, as has been widely described, the permit regime is cast broadly, covering not just fixed structures but campaign activity in general, and potentially extending to items and activities that are plainly part of political mobilisation. Once regulation of “signage” begins to swallow “campaigning,” the policy starts resembling a prior restraint: an administrative permission requirement imposed on political participation itself. Nigerian courts have historically been cautious about such schemes, particularly where officials or agencies wield broad discretion to permit or deny civic or political activity. Election seasons are not the time to normalise a precedent in which campaign visibility is conditioned on the payment of a huge sum to the state.

There is also a serious competence-and-federalism dimension that cannot be ignored. Under the Constitution’s Fourth Schedule, local governments have functions that include the control and regulation of outdoor advertising and hoarding. Further, the Taxes and Levies (Approved List for Collection) Act recognises “signboard and advertisement permit fees” as levies collectable by local governments. These provisions raise an immediate legal question: What is the statutory pathway by which a state agency imposes a single, statewide campaign fee of N150 million payable into a state account? In order words, if “signboard and advertisement permit fees” are designated as local government levies, on what legal basis is a state agency imposing a single statewide ₦150 million fee payable to a state account for campaign advertising?

If the regulatory architecture is not carefully grounded in valid state legislation and harmonised with the constitutional and statutory allocation of functions and levies, the policy becomes vulnerable to challenge as ultra vires, as an impermissible takeover of local government revenue heads, or as a trigger for multiple taxation and enforcement conflicts.
The issue is not merely which tier of government can charge fees, but whether the fee itself is structured as a legitimate cost-recovery instrument or as a revenue mechanism detached from actual regulatory burdens. A credible permit regime usually reveals its logic: a published schedule tied to measurable factors such as size, location, duration, and number of structures; clear costs for inspection, compliance monitoring, and cleanup; and predictable, neutral criteria for enforcement. A blanket N150 million fee, particularly if it covers a wide sweep of campaign-related activity, invites the impression of an election-season toll gate rather than a transparent regulatory framework.

Another layer of legal complexity concerns the broader regulation of advertising in Nigeria. The Advertising Regulatory Council of Nigeria (ARCON) is the apex regulatory authority for advertising and marketing communications, and it has publicly insisted that some state signage agencies have exceeded their jurisdiction when they purport to demand submission and approval of political adverts “before exposure.” Whatever one’s view of regulatory boundaries, what is clear is that the more a state signage policy moves beyond physical structures and into controlling political advertising access and campaign communications, the more it risks conflict with the national framework and the principles of federal regulatory coherence. A state may reasonably manage the safety and placement of physical signage, but it must not slide into a system that effectively licenses political communication in a manner inconsistent with constitutional protections and national standards.

Nigeria’s courts have long been wary of licensing schemes that operate like prior restraints on civic participation. A classic example is Inspector-General of Police v ANPP (Court of Appeal, 2007), where the court upheld the position that requiring “permits” for rallies/processions—especially where officials have wide discretion—offends democratic norms and constitutional freedoms.

Why does that matter here? Because the reported Enugu permit is described as covering rallies and street campaigns—activities that go beyond “signage control” and sit squarely within constitutionally protected political participation. If an advertising/signage agency can condition rallies and broad campaign activity on payment of ₦150 million, the country risks normalising a pay-to-participate model of politics.
Even if government can regulate the manner of outdoor advertising, it must avoid sliding into permission-based control of campaigning itself.

From a purely practical standpoint, the justification for N150 million remains difficult to defend without transparent costing. What exactly does N150 million buy? How many structures does it cover? Over what duration? Which locations? What enforcement activities does it fund? Does it include post-election cleanup? Is there a refundable bond component? Are there exemptions or reduced rates for smaller parties or candidates contesting lower offices? Without clear answers, the fee looks arbitrary, and arbitrariness is the enemy of the rule of law. No credible cost-benefit analysis has been published showing that regulating visual pollution requires extracting ₦150 million per participant. The suspicion that the fee is designed more for revenue or exclusion than genuine environmental management is difficult to dismiss.

Comparisons to other jurisdictions further highlight the outlier nature of the number. Across Nigeria, outdoor advertising regulation typically uses itemised charges and rate cards (i.e., fees calibrated to size, placement, and duration) rather than a single, massive, flat campaign fee. Where some states have introduced political advertising permits, publicly reported figures and structures have often been lower or more graduated, and in some instances linked to specific categories like billboards and branded vehicles. A N150 million blanket fee, especially if applied per party or per candidate in a broad and undifferentiated way, risks becoming one of the highest-if not the highest-barriers of its kind, with consequences that will ripple beyond Enugu into the national conversation about the monetisation of democratic space.
The political ramifications are not hard to predict. When campaign visibility becomes expensive, politics becomes more transactional. Candidates become more dependent on wealthy patrons. Parties shift resources from grassroots engagement to elite fundraising. Citizens begin to feel that leadership is pre-purchased rather than earned. Worst of all, enforcement itself becomes a new battlefield: if compliance policing is selective-or even perceived to be selective-public trust in electoral fairness suffers. In an era of rising cynicism and voter apathy, policies that appear to handicap opposition campaigning are not just controversial; they are destabilising.

None of this is to argue for a lawless campaign season where banners are indiscriminately mounted on bridges, road medians and public facilities, or where unsafe structures threaten lives. Regulation is appropriate. The point is that regulation must be constitutionally faithful and democratically sensible. There is a path that protects both public order and political freedom: narrow the scope strictly to physical outdoor structures; publish a transparent, itemised fee schedule tied to objective factors; introduce a refundable cleanup bond rather than a punitive entry cost; harmonise clearly with local government roles and existing legal frameworks; coordinate with national advertising regulators where necessary; and guarantee neutral, even-handed enforcement with clear appeals processes.

The core question Nigerians should ask is simple: does this policy regulate signage, or does it regulate democracy? When the cost of being seen and heard in an election becomes N150 million, the risk is that the state-whether intentionally or not-creates a system where only the wealthy can compete meaningfully. Democracy cannot be auctioned. If Enugu’s objective is truly aesthetics and orderliness, then it should show the legal basis, publish the cost logic, redesign the framework for proportionality, and ensure that political participation remains a right-not a luxury product with a price tag.

El-shaddai Ikeh, Esq is a Nigerian lawyer, governance professional, and public-interest advocate with over a decade of experience across litigation, corporate law, banking and finance.