“Possibly he cohabited with Miss Bloggs, but don’t mention it in front of his wife, let the sleeping dogs lie.” Gordon Jarvie’s ‘Dictionary of Idioms’ contains that example of a warning that has been with us since Geoffrey Chaucer’s 1385 epic poem, Troilus and Criseyde. When the storm is angry and howling, the wise stay safe. I thought every man has that wisdom until I heard Senate President Godswill Akpabio at the weekend in Abuja vowing to devour a bowl of very hot 20-year-old pounded yam. To him, the sleeping dog must stop sleeping.

For some people, one trouble at a time is not enough. I count Akpabio among such persons. The mouthful wahala from delectable Senator Natasha is not enough; voracious Akpabio must do Oliver Twist; he wants one more problem to solve. He threatened at the weekend to sue former acting Managing Director of the Niger Delta Development Commission (NDDC), Joy Nunieh, over her 2020 allegations of sexual harassment leveled against him. Where are Akpabio’s younger friends? They should read to him Harry Porter’s exasperation: “And quite honestly, I’ve had enough trouble for a lifetime.”

In July 2020, Nunieh alleged that she slapped Akpabio, who was the then Minister of Niger Delta Affairs, because he allegedly sexually harassed her:

 “Why did he not tell Nigerians that I slapped him in his guest house at Apo? I am the only Ogoni woman, the only Nigerian woman that has slapped him. I slapped him because of his plan B. Since he couldn’t get me to take that money, he thought that he could come up on me,” she told Arise TV at the time and proceeded to explain that sexual harassment was what she meant by “come up on me.”

For five years, Akpabio slumbered and snored. A slap from a lady called Natasha Akpoti-Uduaghan appears to have now woken up Nigeria’s number one lawmaker. Addressing the matter at the weekend, Akpabio announced his intention to take legal action against Nunieh. “My other sister, the one they sometimes refer to as Joy Nunieh, I will like to mention her name because she will be hearing from my lawyer anytime in the next one week. Crime never dies.”

When is trouble enough? And, does the right to seek judicial remedies exist forever? By July this year, it will be five years since Nunieh made her sensational slap statement. She uttered the claim, Akpabio pretended she said nothing significant. Akpabio is a lawyer. At the law school, his teachers taught him that rights of action are subject to specific time frames. The cause of action occurred in Abuja. The Limitation Act which applies in Abuja, what does it say on when a man is stopped from suing for defamation of character? Or does Akpabio want to approach this as a criminal offence which is not statute-barred, especially now that he is Nigeria’s very powerful number three citizen? In that case, it won’t be a case of “hearing from (his) lawyers”. It will be a case of the slapper hearing from the very duteous Nigeria police. We cannot wait.

What should be a leader’s reaction to attacks and allegations? The British House of Lords in 1987 delivered a controversial judgment backing the ban of Spycatcher, the memoirs of a former MI5 officer, Peter Wright. The Daily Mirror reacted with an upside down photo of the three law lords who decided the case in favour of Margaret Thatcher’s government. The picture came with the caption: ‘You Old Fools.’ Many thought that was insulting and contemptuous of the court. But, the Law Lord, Sydney William Templeman, did not think so. The lord noted that the caption contained three words ‘You’, ‘Old’ and ‘Fools’. The world might think the caption offensive but to my lord, they were not. Templeman said it was indeed true that he was an old man. He said being a fool or not was a matter of perception but he knew he was not a fool. He caused the matter to end right there.

Sir Alexander Cockburn was England’s Lord Chief Justice in 1879. He was incensed at scathing criticisms of one of his rulings. He thought the right course to take was to use his high office and his knowledge of the law to take down his critics. Cockburn did the very unusual: he published a 24-page pamphlet in rebuttal of the strictures and thoroughly abused his critics. But his pamphlet did not help him; his rebuttal attracted a string of counter-rebuttals. Records say that the Lord Chief Justice came out of that controversy diminished in social and intellectual standing. Roderick Munday who went over that case again in 1987, wrote that “this unedifying episode illustrates how even the holder of the highest office can make a spectacle of himself.” Munday’s conclusion is that “if ever a judge again feels disposed to respond to public strictures, he might first do well to ponder the experience of Cockburn C.J.”

A man in a hole is still digging. Senator Akpabio thinks an old and long-forgotten war is worth exhuming. He must combine it with the present and have both crushed.

Can I now examine how he is handling the present problem? Senator Natasha Akpoti-Uduaghan accused Akpabio of sexual harassment. Akpabio kept quiet for almost a week; when he spoke, it was as a judge in his own case. His wife and almost the whole of the Senate were the first to come out roaring. They said Akpabio did not do what he was accused of doing. They said the lady had assaulted the integrity of their presiding officer. They were very rancorous like passengers in a midair troubled plane.

One of the senators said Natasha should use the period of her suspension to learn the Senate rules. I found that quite ironic. It will be appropriate if that member and other members learn what the law says about a man judging his own case. Or, what did they think happened when Mr Akpabio appointed the jury, sat as the judge, read his judgment and convicted his accuser? If you are accused of harbouring unsightly intestines, why wouldn’t you use common sense to pack it well and far from public sneer. The convicted is already shouting fair hearing. A first-year law student knows that the Latin phrase, ‘Nemo Judex In Causa Sua’ means no one should be a judge in his own cause. It is a universal principle of fair hearing that in judicial and administrative proceedings, a judge or an administrator having personal or proprietary interest in the outcome of a proceeding must not exercise adjudicatory powers in the case in question. Was Akpabio set up to take that route? A smart Akpabio would have let his deputy handle that case. If he did, justice would have been seen to have been done. Or, could it be that Akpabio and his Senate believed that only weaklings without money and power bother about procedural fairness? And there are lawyers among them.

I do not know how they do it where Akpabio comes from but in my part of the country, no wise man is allowed to directly judge his own case. A man would be an original àgbà òsìkà to make himself judge over his enemies. Section 36 of our constitution is clear on this. And it is universal in its application. The US Supreme Court also carefully laid this out: “A fair trial in a fair tribunal is a basic requirement of due process. Fairness, of course, requires an absence of actual bias in the trial of cases… To this end, no man can be a judge in his own case and no man is permitted to try cases where he has an interest in the outcome.” In another case, the court held that “prejudice, in order to be disqualifying, must consist of a personal animosity toward one party or very strong feeling in favour of the other party.” In this case of Natasha, Chief Akpabio was actually the other party – the accused; and he was the judge.

The senate riotously mobbed the accuser out of the chamber. She will be in the cold for six months. This is not about who is saying the truth and who is lying. No one outside the two actors can say what the truth is. What is true is known to the supposedly harassed and the alleged harasser. But I think Akpabio, for whatever reasons, should not have bungled his case. He shouldn’t have sat over the matter with the catty visage of the lion, king of the jungle. What he did is what the English qualify with the word ‘impunity’. And I think he did so because in this country, anyone blessed with his kind of uncommon bigness is hefty enough to pocket the law.

At the weekend again, Akpabio went regional in search of defence. He thought his tribulations should wear the tunic of politics. He vowed that the South South region (where he comes from) would not surrender the senate presidency no matter the level of gang up against him. He said: “The Senate President of today is not representing himself alone. He is representing a people who are very crucial to the economic life wire of this country. So, when people gang up and conspire, I hear voices from Adamawa shouting, I hear voices from Kwara State shouting, I hear some young people from the southwest being used for something they don’t know, they don’t know the rules of the Senate, you can’t be a herbalist and start quoting the Bible, you won’t know what to quote.” Interesting. So, are Akpabio’s enemies from the South West, the North Central and the North East? Who are they? Those who want to be lame should be completely lame, the blind should be blind totally; half blinded people always plunge the world into wars. If I were Akpabio, I would be total in naming names. That is what real men do.

If you carry a pot of uncommon palm oil, run away from stone throwers. Has Akpabio ever heard the Yoruba story of Eku kékeré tó ní òun yóò ba isé àgbè jé (The small rat that says it will destroy the farmer’s work)? The story, with a little adjustment, is reproduced here as told by James Bọ̀dé Agbájé in his ‘Proverbs: A Strategy for Resolving Conflict in Yorùbá Society’:

“There was once a small rat on a farm who said to the farmer that he would destroy all the farmer’s work. The farmer answered the rat: ‘How can you destroy my work, you tiny idiot?’ When the maize on the farm matured, the rat went to see the farmer and told him again that he would destroy all the farmer’s work. The farmer just burst out laughing and told the rat: ‘You are joking. How will you destroy this huge maize farm?’ The rat said okay and departed. When the farmer was harvesting his maize, the rat revisited the farm and again promised the farmer that one day all his harvest would be destroyed. The farmer just ignored the rat and the rat went away. After the farmer had finished packing all his harvested crops in the aka (‘barn’), the rat managed to enter the barn unnoticed. He started eating part of the maize and left the wasted remnants covering the ground.

“The farmer knew what was happening and announced, ‘I know you are in there. You just hide yourself there.’ He was determined to deal ruthlessly with the small wicked rat. The rat heard the farmer and answered him. He told him that he had promised the farmer that his farm would be destroyed and the time had now come for the operation. The angry farmer thought he should just smoke out the stupid tiny rat. A little fire he made went out of hand. Within the twinkling of an eye, all the maize caught fire. Just then, the rat escaped and the whole place was burnt to ashes. Later, the rat went to the farmer and said to him that the deed was done. The rat boasted: ‘I promised to shatter your efforts and you underrated what I said. Haven’t I destroyed all the fruits of your labour now?’ The farmer was downcast and started to bite his fingers in regret. He said that if he had taken the proper precautions and had not underrated the stupid tiny rat, the whole situation could have been averted.” The powerful should be very careful; the ground is wet and slippery.

The autobiography is a most delicate, complex and indeed disruptive art form. It is the autobiographer’s authorial insistence to be heard in terms of his or her narrative addition to a historical discourse. In fact, it is the autobiographer’s narration of the historical event from his or her own perspective. And more often than not, when the autobiographer is a fundamental participant in the event, the complexities of that event and the circumstances surrounding it is multiplied. Only very few autobiographies enjoy global approval. And that is because the art form is seen as an ego trip. That sentiment is summed by the English biographer, Humphrey Carpenter: “Autobiography is probably the most respectable form of lying.” This is even made worse if the protagonists are critical individuals whose lives have affected national trajectories. General Ibrahim Badamasi Babangida (IBB) is one such critical protagonist, and his autobiography has arrived. 

A Journey in Service has since started generated lots of furors in all strata of the Nigerian public space, online and offline. Lots of opinions have tied IBB to several significant historical moments in Nigeria, especially the annulment of the June 12 elections, and the demise of MKO Abiola. What many have conveniently glossed over, and a case I have consistently made, is that personal narrative in the forms of autobiography and memoirs serve a unique function in terms of their historical import. If A Journey in Service had not been written, we will all be gasping within the yawning silence of the political and administrative gaps that ought to have been filled with whatever the autobiographer has to say. But now it has been written, and we can then commence the journey of unraveling how the narrative fits or fails to fit in with the existing accounts of Nigeria’s political development. 

This personal narrative has a critical import for me as a historian of Nigeria’s administrative and reform trajectories. The Babangida administration played a very fundamental role in articulating a significant portion of Nigeria’s administrative reform architecture. And so, that portion of the trajectory, and the entire institutional reform agenda of the Nigerian state, will not be complete without adding the voice and perspective of the key protagonist to the understanding of how the reform policy emerged. No matter what anyone thinks, the imperative of national history demands that such an account be added to the stock of what we already know, and to flesh out a better understanding of what we already know. The idea therefore is to see how the protagonist, no matter the groundswell of national opinion for or against him, fits into a larger picture of the political and administrative frameworks that enable us to see where the nation is coming from and where it is headed. This is a task every institutional reformer must long for without getting sidetracked by sentimental opinion that accords blame and sling mud. This is part of what makes IBB and A Journey in Service such a delight for me. Unfortunately, the head of the historic administration does not consider that irreducible reform agenda that distinguishes his administration so significantly as to celebrate its conception, elements and operation, as well as its limitations, in a significant autobiography. That responsibility has been passed to posterity. This piece rescues that fundamental omission.    

The pre-Babangida administrative reform narrative must always revert back to the 1974 Udoji Commission. That Commission is singular because it was the first to attempt an alignment between Nigeria’s reform efforts and the emerging managerial revolution in public administration across the globe. The Udoji Commission took its immediate inspiration from the Lord Fulton Committee of 1968 in Britain. The task of the Fulton Report was to inquire into the capability readiness of the British civil service to confront the modern British society and its technological complexity. Fulton’s most significant recommendation was the displacement of the cult of generalist amateur civil servants in an approaching administrative dispensation that requires a critical mass of new managers who possess the professionalism and specialist expertise to harness the talents needed to make the civil service economic, effective and efficient. 

By the time the Udoji Commission was inaugurated, Nigeria had also reached the critical juncture where it became imperative to ask whether the Weberian assumptions underlying the British administrative legacy were capable of tackling the urgent governance requirement of a postcolonial society. The wage impasse which the system had been confronting before independence, for the Commission, was a symptom of a deeper administrative malady represented by a bureaucratic culture that had arrested innovation and entrepreneurial creativity in the analysis and implementation of policies. Managerialism therefore provides the most timely and perfect means of making the civil service system align with the goals of national development. The Udoji Commission went on to leverage the global good practice of the time that calls for a new style public service that deploys new management techniques of Planning, Programming and Budgeting System (PPBS), Management by Objectives (MBO), the precursor of what is today called the performance management system, project management system, among others, that was totally alien to the Nigerian public service, at the time. The new management architecture that the envisioned management system would have institutionalized would obviously have been inadequate but would have laid a critical substructure that would have set Nigeria on the new productivity paradigm that assisted Malaysia, Singapore, the Asian Tigers and many other developing countries that are within Nigerian global ranking at the time. 

The most devastating blow that the civil service suffered were those created not by it but the governance tradition that militarism and “New Federalism” of the post-civil war years created where the rigorous analytical frame that governed development investment got replaced with the unreflective “with immediate effect” command and control governance tradition which created huge process, policy, capacity, performance and resource gaps. The Udoji Commission and its limitations, as well as the succeeding Phillips and Ayida Commissions, could be understood only within this military tradition of which IBB was a significant part. When he assumed office in 1985, one of the most immediate decisions was, according to his admission, the need to “strengthen the practice of the presidential system with clear economic, political, and social reforms to strengthen the nation as a constitutional democracy based on the presidential system.” Assuming the title of a “President” was therefore more than a mere nominal gesture to narcissism. Rather, he said, it was “a summation of our consensus on the need to preserve and strengthen the presidential system and make it work better for the nation.”

But a nominal title was not enough. A commitment to the presidential system, IBB insisted, defined the necessity of “structuring a reform programme around institutions to make it work.” And given the tension that already was prevalent in the heated polity, IBB surmised, the reforms that must make any significance must be as comprehensive as the administration could make it. And the first act of symbolic gesture was negative: the urgency of the need “to review the various draconian decrees, convictions, and pending cases that bordered on human rights violations.” The Exchange Control (anti-sabotage) Decree 7 and Decree 4 (Public Officers Protection Against False Accusation) had to be significantly reviewed. This was followed by the real positive task of reforming the economy and governance in ways that go beyond “knee-jerk populist reflexes.” 

The task, in governance and economic terms, was therefore to “Remove the government from the role of an enormous money changer to that of an enabler of the appropriate economic environment. We also needed to let the economy, in general, breathe more freely.” It was to liberalize the economy and make government an able enabler rather than occupying the ‘commanding heights of the economy.” Unfortunately for us all, IBB fails to dwell on what could have been a defining dimension of A Journey in Service, the civil service reform framework of the Babangida administration. This is shocking but revealing in itself. One possible reason is that the author subsumed the civil service reform under the broader political reforms: “Our political programme targeted the critical areas of political and socio-cultural restructuring highlighted by the Political Bureau report: the party system, the electoral process, including election administration, the federal structure, the civil service, and the problem of succession, including political leadership.” 

And yet, this fails to do justice to the significance of the Babangida administration and its inheritance of the Dotun Philips Commission from the Buhari-Idiagbon administration. The Phillips Study Team is significant because it had the task of re-organizing the operations of the civil service in terms of professionalism that will eventually align it with the managerial revolution recommended by Udoji. And that reform effort alone cements his administration’s significance in the annals of administrative history in Nigeria, and a fundamental contribution to the cumulation of reform knowledge in Nigeria. IBB already gave the significant intellectual basis of the restructuring that was an imperative: to achieve “national rebirth and future greatness,” there is a need for political and economic restructuring that free up the national space for transformation. And one way to do this, according to him, was cultivate intellectuals: “We needed the input of intellectuals to enlighten the business of government.” There was also the crucial need for the public service as the engine of government business. It beats me how IBB did not see that. 

The Dotun Philips Study Group was constituted by the Buhari-Idiagbon administration in 1985, with the objective of undertaking an interrogation of the structure, mode of operation and strategy of the civil service in the light of contemporary administrative situation, as well as finding means by which the eroded professionalism of the system could be restored. After the 1985 coup, Babangida inherited the study group and transformed it into a full-blown commission whose task was to keep up with the objective of aligning the spirit of managerialism and a professionalized civil service with the form and spirit of presidentialism. This was to be incorporated into the total package of the Civil Service Reforms through a Civil Service Reorganisation Decree No. 43 of 1988. Given the administration’s concern with the rigid Soviet-styled centralization of the economy and the need to open the economy up to market forces, it was only logical that the administration would adopt the critical managerial principle of letting managers manage by having greater control on critical resources. This possesses the capacity to inspire a wholesale decentralization of the HRM function to MDA. The policy choice here is between centralized resource governance for example where the civil service commission wields constitutional powers for recruitment, promotion and discipline exercised at top management levels by the Commission while delegating the powers to MDAs at middle to lower levels. 

The Philips reform was compromised essentially because (a) it took the issues involved in professionalism too far (for instance, by attempting to make a professional out of everybody within the civil service); and (b) its own unique managerial thrust was directed towards integrating the civil service into the presidential system of government, with one unintended consequence being that professionalization turned into politicization through an attempt, for instance, that turned an administrative post (permanent secretary) into a political one (director-general). And yet, this is not a failure because it was a logical reform complements to the short-circuited Udoji Commission recommendation of a public service founded on performance management, and its underlying managerial philosophy was significant in getting the Babangida administration its governance template for transforming national development. 

I insist that an administration is only as good as its reform agenda, both in design and implementation. The Babangida administration gave Nigeria’s reform trajectory one of the key moments in the protracted attempt to translate the gains and efficiencies of a managerial opportunity to a bureaucratic system. 

The Supreme Court’s recent ruling on the status of the 27 lawmakers loyal to former Governor Nyesom Wike has deepened public concern over Nigeria’s judiciary. The apex court ruled that there was no legal basis for Governor Siminalayi Fubara’s claim that the lawmakers defected from the Peoples Democratic Party (PDP) to the All Progressives Congress (APC). This verdict effectively restored the legislative authority of the lawmakers, further complicating Fubara’s control over the state government. However, the judgment is being widely perceived as favoring Wike’s camp, raising questions about judicial neutrality and reinforcing broader apprehensions about institutional credibility. If the courts are perceived as political tools rather than impartial arbiters, then the foundation of Nigeria’s democracy is at risk of crumbling under the weight of selective judicial obedience.

Double Standards in Obeying Court Orders

Who Decides Which Rulings Matter? If Nigeria’s Senate, under the leadership of Godswill Akpabio, can boldly disregard a Federal High Court order by suspending Senator Natasha Akpoti-Uduaghan despite a court ruling to the contrary, then how can Nigeria turn around and expect Governor Fubara to fully comply with a Supreme Court ruling he perceives as flawed? The inconsistency in judicial compliance at different levels of government creates a dangerous precedent where court orders are no longer universally binding, but instead selectively followed based on political convenience. If Fubara were to openly question or even delay compliance with the Supreme Court’s ruling, it would not be without justification, considering the growing evidence that judicial rulings in Nigeria may no longer carry the same weight they once did.

Rivers State Electoral Body Defies the Legislature: 

The Rivers State Independent Electoral Commission (RSIEC) has also joined the cycle of legal defiance. Following the Supreme Court ruling, the Rivers State House of Assembly issued a 48-hour ultimatum to Governor Fubara to re-present the 2025 budget and summoned the chairman of RSIEC, Justice Adulphus Enebeli (rtd), along with commissioners, to justify financial expenditures without an appropriation law since January 2024. In an act of outright defiance, both Governor Fubara and RSIEC have rejected the ultimatum, further fueling the constitutional standoff. RSIEC issued a Pre-Action Notice, challenging the legal authority of the Assembly to issue such an ultimatum and claiming it violates Section 36 of the 1999 Constitution, which guarantees fair hearing. The refusal of RSIEC to comply now raises serious concerns about whether judicial decisions and legislative authority hold any real weight if major political actors selectively choose which rulings to follow.

Judicial Favoritism? When the Law Serves Political Interests

If the judiciary is truly independent, then its rulings should be seen as sacrosanct, regardless of the parties involved. However, when some court orders are obeyed while others are openly flouted, the entire justice system is weakened, leaving room for anarchy and eroding public confidence. The judiciary must not only be impartial but must be seen to be impartial. A judicial system that tilts toward one political faction while aggressively enforcing rulings against another risks losing credibility in the eyes of the public. If the Certified True Copy (CTC) of the Supreme Court ruling now contains elements of defection that were never part of the original litigation, then the judiciary itself is under scrutiny for possible post-ruling modifications that serve political interests rather than legal precedent.

Fubara’s Imminent Political Battle: 

Governor Fubara is now in an increasingly precarious position. The Supreme Court ruling, which strengthens the authority of Wike’s lawmakers, emboldens them to further assert control over the state legislature. This ruling provides them with a legal foothold to renew impeachment threats and legislative challenges against Fubara. By narrowing his legal avenues to challenge the defected lawmakers, the ruling forces him to engage in careful political maneuvering. He must now either broaden his alliances to counterbalance Wike’s grip on the Assembly or seek a diplomatic resolution to maintain governance stability. However, given that the Senate has already openly defied a Federal High Court order, some argue that Fubara may feel justified in questioning or delaying compliance with the Supreme Court’s ruling.

The Supreme Court’s Role in Defection Cases: Has the Outcome Been Pre-Determined?

Furthermore, the Supreme Court’s involvement in defection cases has led to increased scrutiny on whether ongoing cases in lower courts have been effectively pre-determined. If the Supreme Court ruling includes preemptive decisions on defection that were not part of the case before it, it could signal that lower court rulings may already have a foregone conclusion, limiting any future legal challenges. This calls into question whether Nigeria’s judicial system is still a neutral venue for resolving disputes, or if it has become a tool for political leverage.

Erosion of Trust: 

What Happens When Citizens No Longer Believe in the Courts? The judiciary’s credibility is critical in maintaining democratic order, and the perception of judicial bias could exacerbate political tensions across Nigeria. Rivers State, which is already experiencing deep political divisions, is now at the heart of an institutional crisis. The selective adherence to judicial rulings raises questions about whether Nigeria is moving toward a lawful democracy or a system of rule by political decree. Public trust in the judiciary is essential, yet the growing sentiment is that some politicians and institutions are above the law while others are held strictly accountable.

The Unraveling of Nigeria’s Democracy: 

A Nation on the Precipice: In an era where political loyalty seemingly dictates legal outcomes, what happens when the people lose faith in the very institutions meant to uphold justice? If judicial orders are perceived as suggestions rather than mandates, then how does Nigeria maintain a functional democracy? With both the legislative and executive arms of government now engaged in selective compliance, the judiciary finds itself in an unprecedented crisis of legitimacy.

A Final Warning: If Court Rulings No Longer Bind, What Holds Nigeria Together?

Nigeria stands at a dangerous tipping point. The nation’s stability depends on the ability of its institutions to command respect and enforce accountability fairly and consistently. If the courts fail to uphold the principle of equal justice under the law, then democracy itself is at risk. The slow unraveling of trust in the judiciary is not just a legal or political issue—it is an existential threat to Nigeria’s ability to function as a state governed by law. If left unchecked, this erosion of trust will not only embolden further disobedience to legal authority but will set the stage for a future where governance is dictated by power rather than principles. If court rulings are no longer binding, then what remains to hold Nigeria together?

Vergangenheitsbewältigung (German: [fɛɐ̯ˈɡaŋənhaɪtsbəˌvɛltɪɡʊŋ], “struggle of overcoming the past” or “work of coping with the past”) is a German compound noun describing processes that, since the later 20th century, have become key in the study of post-1945 German literature, society, and culture. (“Overcoming the past”) is generally associated with Germany’s process of coming to terms with the history of National Socialism and the Holocaust.

Diego Maradona’s “Hand of God,” a moment of audacious deception and divine attribution, remains etched in the collective memory of football. It’s a story that transcended the boundaries of a simple sporting event, becoming a cultural touchstone, a symbol of cunning and controversy. The replay, the analysis, the debate – all contributed to the solidification of this moment into a piece of history, albeit a contested one. In Nigeria, we yearn for such clarity, such a tangible, debated, and ultimately understood narrative of our past.

IBB

Our historical landscape is cotton woven with threads of omission, selective memory, and a profound reluctance to confront the more painful chapters of our national story.

The systematic removal of history from secondary school curricula, a decision that effectively severed a generation from its roots, speaks volumes about our discomfort with our past. This deliberate erasure has created a void, a chasm where a shared understanding of our nation’s journey should reside.

The prioritization of foreign empires, like the Songhai, over the intricate and complex story of Nigerian history further compounds this issue. While these external narratives offer valuable perspectives, they cannot replace the fundamental need to understand our internal dynamics, our struggles, and our triumphs. The absence of a comprehensive exploration of the “Nigerian empire,” whatever form it may have taken, leaves a critical gap in our understanding of our own identity.

The Biafran War, a brutal and deeply divisive conflict, stands as a stark example of our reluctance to confront our past. The persistent refusal to commission a televised narrative, a project that could have served as a powerful tool for healing and reconciliation, underscores our collective unease. The parallels with “Hotel Rwanda” and “Sometimes in April,” films that dared to confront the horrors of genocide, are undeniable. By shying away from our painful truths, we perpetuate a cycle of misunderstanding and mistrust.

The Jos September 21 crisis, a more recent but equally devastating event, suffers from a similar lack of comprehensive documentation and public discourse. The absence of a clear, accessible narrative leaves the wounds of this tragedy festering, hindering the process of healing and reconciliation. Without a shared understanding of these events, we are condemned to repeat the mistakes of the past.

Equally troubling are the unresolved controversies that loom like specters over Nigeria’s political history. The 1986 assassination of Dele Giwa, founder of Newswatch magazine, via a letter bomb remains a festering wound. Despite evidence implicating state actors, the case languishes in obscurity, buried under layers of official obfuscation. Similarly, the 2001 murder of Bola Ige, then-Attorney General and Minister of Justice, remains shrouded in mystery. The unanswered question of who killed Bola Ige has become a metaphor for the culture of impunity that haunts Nigeria’s corridors of power. These are not mere cold cases; they are testaments to a state’s refusal to confront its shadows.

Ibrahim Badamasi Babangida, IBB

This opacity extends beyond individual tragedies. The Nigerian state’s insistence on classifying vast swathes of historical records—often under the guise of “national security”—denies citizens access to their own story. While democracies like the United States declassify documents after set periods, Nigeria’s archives remain locked, fueling speculation and conspiracy. What truths lie hidden in files marked confidential? What role did the state play in pivotal moments like the annulment of June 12 or the fuel subsidy protests? By clinging to secrecy, the state reduces history to a weapon, wielded to control narratives rather than enlighten the public.

Compounding this is the relegation of national discourse to the realm of myth and rumor. Without official records, history becomes a battleground of competing anecdotes. Was MKO Abiola’s death natural or engineered? What truly transpired during the Dimka coup? In the absence of facts, hearsay thrives. The danger is not merely academic; it erodes trust in institutions and fractures collective memory. When history is negotiable, manipulated by those in power, or concocted in the echo chambers of social media, society loses its anchor. A nation cannot mature when its past is a puzzle with missing pieces, assembled by guesswork and bias.

The silence of key figures, particularly those who played pivotal roles in shaping our nation’s destiny, exacerbates the problem. General Gowon, a man who stood at the helm of the nation during a tumultuous period, remains silent, his war memoirs unwritten. His perspective, his insights, and his reflections are invaluable, yet they remain locked away, depriving us of a crucial piece of our historical puzzle.

The recent launch of IBB’s autobiography, while a welcome addition to the sparse collection of personal narratives, underscores the challenges we face. In a nation starved of historical context, such accounts become not just personal reflections but de facto historical records. However, these accounts, by their very nature, are subjective, offering a single perspective on complex events. They cannot replace the rigorous, objective analysis of professional historians and the wealth of information contained in well-maintained archives.

Unlike nations with robust archival systems and transparent processes for declassifying historical documents, we rely heavily on “tales by moonlight,” anecdotal fragments that, while valuable, lack the rigor and objectivity of structured historical analysis. This reliance on oral traditions and personal accounts blurs the lines between public relations and historical record, allowing narratives to be shaped by personal agendas rather than a pursuit of truth.

The power of literature, as evidenced by Chinua Achebe’s Things Fall Apart,” lies in its ability to illuminate the human experience and offer insights into the past. However, literature alone cannot replace the foundational role of history. History is not constructed logically; it happens, it is recorded, and it is taught. Without that foundation, we are left with fragments, interpretations, and the ever-present danger of repeating the mistakes of the past.

Ibrahim Badamasi Babangida

We must reclaim our history. We must demand comprehensive education, open archives, and honest narratives. We must encourage those who shaped our nation to share their stories, not as PR exercises but as contributions to a collective understanding.

Only then can we move forward, not as a nation adrift, but as a people grounded in the truth of our shared journey. Only then can we ensure that the “Hand of God” of our past does not become a tool for manipulation but a lesson for a more informed and united future. We need to create a culture where history is valued, debated, and understood, not suppressed or manipulated.

This means investing in historical research, supporting archival institutions, and fostering a spirit of open dialogue about our past. It means ensuring that our children are taught the full, unvarnished truth about their nation’s history, both the triumphs and the tragedies. Only then can we build a future where the lessons of the past guide us toward a more just and equitable society.

I would end by stating painfully that we are in a coffin, where young Nigerians exhibit a profound disconnection from their historical heritage and cultural roots, reflecting a broader societal shift away from the collective memory and traditions that once defined their identity. This detachment not only undermines their sense of belonging but also diminishes their understanding of the cultural, social, and historical narratives that have shaped the nation. In an era dominated by globalization and digital modernity, the erosion of this connection to the past poses significant challenges to the preservation of Nigeria’s rich cultural legacy and the cultivation of a cohesive national identity. Do we remain in the coffin or resurrect—Only time will tell.