By Amir Abdulazeez
During the early and mid-months of 2002, I would often visit an uncle (now deceased) who generously provided me with newspapers before he had even read them himself. On one such visit, I picked up a copy of the Daily Trust, a relatively new publication at the time, and while flipping through its pages, I read the delightful news that not only made me happy but also propelled me into a brief career in partisan politics. Retired General Muhammadu Buhari had decided to join democratic politics and announced his entry into the All Nigerian Peoples Party (ANPP).
At the time, the Obasanjo-led administration was widely perceived as underperforming, failing to address Nigeria’s mounting challenges sincerely. The PDP had morphed into a formidable political giant, while the ANPP was weakening steadily; other newly registered parties existed only in the briefcases of their founders. Buhari’s decision to enter politics at that time represented the single most decisive move that changed the Nigerian democratic landscape over the last 25 years. Youths, pensioners, activists, comrades, veterans and even fence-sitters found a new rallying point, and almost everyone else joined the new messiah.
Although many harboured reservations about Buhari, especially those whose interests had been hurt during his military regime or the post-1999 established elite who saw him as a threat, I was among the countless young Nigerians who adored Buhari to a fault. My admiration for him was so intense that another uncle once felt compelled to caution me. It was just before the 2003 presidential election when he walked into my room, saw a large framed portrait of Buhari on my wall, smiled, and advised me to moderate my obsession.
My love for Buhari began about 30 years ago. The establishment of the Petroleum Trust Fund (PTF) by General Sani Abacha’s administration in 1994 coincided with our early years in secondary school. By the time the Fund was a year old in 1995, the name of Muhammadu Buhari was on the lips of virtually all Nigerians. In my estimation, then, he was the only tangible positive aspect of the Abacha government. In fact, he appeared to be more popular than Abacha himself; a hypothesis that reportedly inspired Obasanjo to scrap the Fund in 1999 to avoid ‘running a government inside a government’.
I vividly recall a day in 1995 or 1996 when I accompanied my father to a bookshop. The PTF low-price edition of every book we went to buy was available at a 50% or so discount without any compromise in quality. While paying the money, I could see the smile on my father’s face reflecting deep satisfaction and appreciation for the work of the PTF. That was the first time in my life that I truly felt and understood the direct impact of government on the people. In pharmacies, PTF drugs were sold at subsidised rates. There was no propaganda, rhetoric, cosmetics, or media packaging; the work of Buhari’s PTF was there for everyone to see and touch. I was fortunate as a young lad to join elders on travels across the country from 1995 to 1997. I got tired of seeing the PTF road projects that I once asked: “Why won’t this Buhari return as president to fix Nigeria?”
Muhammadu Buhari, a constant figure in Nigerian political discourse since 1983, is no longer with us. Few anticipated his death, as the brief illness he suffered in London seemed either a rumour or a routine medical trip. Ironically, many of his detractors had “killed” him multiple times in the past; some of them dying before he did. In 2014, former Ekiti State Governor Ayo Fayose ran a notorious advertisement predicting that Buhari wouldn’t last in office for months if elected. Yet he won, served for eight years, and died just months short of turning 83.
Buhari lived a long, dedicated, and enduring life of service and commitment to Nigeria, spanning about six decades in both military and civilian capacities. Save perhaps for Obasanjo, there’s no Nigerian, dead or alive, who matches his array of public portfolios. His personal reputation for discipline, honesty, integrity, and austerity endured throughout his public life. He stood as a symbol of principled and stoic leadership, leaving behind a legacy that will continue to resonate for generations.
Just before his death, the debate of who made him president in 2015 resurfaced with an exchange of tantrums between some pro-Tinubu and pro-Buhari gladiators. While I found the debate outdated, my position remains that Buhari ought to have become president 12 years earlier. For the avoidance of doubt, Muhammadu Buhari did not lose the 2003 presidential elections; it was brutally rigged to return Obasanjo for a second term. That year’s election ranks among the most fraudulent in modern global history. In 2007, the presidential election results were allegedly fabricated, so we can’t even call that an election, let alone determine who won or lost.
Despite my immense love for Buhari, I was left with no choice but to join his critics after 2015. Less than a year in, it became clear that his government lacked the vision and effectiveness many had hoped for. In 2015, I queued until about 10:00 p.m. to vote for him, believing he was Nigeria’s last chance. By 2018, I was disappointed and called for him to serve just one term. I argued then that if he couldn’t lead like Nelson Mandela, he could at least exit like Mandela. By 2021, while in his second term, I was so disillusioned that I openly advocated for his impeachment.
It remains a mystery how our much beloved, tested, and trusted (his campaign slogan in 2003) Buhari failed to meet expectations so short. Some blamed his arrogant and underperforming appointees; others cited a fractured and directionless party. But ultimately, he bore the responsibility. His inability or unwillingness to discipline ineffective ministers eroded his credibility. In 2022, during the eight-month strike by university lecturers, I contacted one of his aides (a relative), who confirmed that it was Buhari’s ministers, not Buhari himself, who opposed paying the lecturers. Another indicator that he wasn’t really in charge.
In the midst of the storm, Buhari’s administration achieved several landmark milestones in infrastructure, social welfare, and the fight against terrorism. He delivered the elusive Second Niger Bridge, the Lagos-Ibadan and Abuja-Kaduna railways and upgraded numerous critical road networks. His government implemented the Treasury Single Account (TSA), which significantly improved public financial transparency and curbed leakages. Buhari’s war against Boko Haram yielded mixed results but succeeded in reclaiming substantial territory from insurgents. He introduced arguably the largest Social Investment Program in the history of Africa, targeting millions of beneficiaries through initiatives such as N-Power, Trader Moni, Survival Fund, Anchor Borrowers Scheme, and conditional cash transfers.
Nigerians are free to hold divergent views on Buhari. But there should be decency in how we express those views. No one is without flaws; we all have our good and bad sides. One day, we too shall pass, and others will speak of us. Buhari had both triumphs and failings; some reaped benefits, others suffered losses. If you can pray for him, please do. If not, be measured in your words.
The past few days have witnessed a flurry of deaths, a sobering reminder that life is fleeting and death is inevitable. Today’s giants will one day lie lifeless. When Garba Shehu broke the news of Buhari’s death, I immediately made up my mind to put up a tribute. A few minutes after the announcement, I visited his Wikipedia page to verify some information about the general. To my surprise, the information about his death had already been updated: “Muhammadu Buhari (1942-2025)”—so swiftly? I said to myself. Baba is gone. May Allah forgive and grant him Jannatul-Firdaus.
